Memorial to Zeke

For those of you (all three of you) who read this blog, you've noticed I haven't updated it lately. I just couldn't find the willpower and stamina to even enter the page as a URL. Since losing my baby boy Zeke, I just couldn't logon and see his delightful snow-covered face looking back at me.

My friends and family have been fantastic during the ordeal. And I have been so depressed, that my good husband recently stated he'd be willing to forego any plans for travel if acquiring a new dog would bring me back to my former state of happiness. However, I know that my husband has waited a long time to enjoy such adventures and, well, I don't think it would be very fair to the new pup.

It's not because Zeke was the perfect dog. Far from it. You can't have a perfect dog without a perfect human. We had our fair share of adventures. Like the time we had a pack of dogs attack us and a total stranger stopped and stuffed us in his car. He'd had trouble with the same pack. Or the time the cat attacked him while I was out walking with my sister. And although I had seen him kill many an animal, he didn't attack back. So I intervened. And then had to cancel our trip to Vegas and take rabies shots instead.

Did I mention he killed animals? That took some getting used to. Benji didn't kill animals. He saved them. But if it were small and furry, Zeke considered it fair game. I was horrified the first few times it happened. A mouse here, a rabbit there. But my husband explained his genetics programmed him to rid the property of vermin. He was doing what came naturally.

He learned a few things that weren't natural. Like the time he had to have both back knees operated on. (I still say the mastiff who'd attacked him earlier made him rip up his ACLs, but that's a different story.) So he had to learn to pee standing on his two front legs. He also did not like gravy or peanut butter, but he would eat grapefruit and watermelon. And the guys we hired to remodel the house, they taught him to beg. He was never the same after that. He thought all servicemen/delivery guys/constructor workers were the natural bringers of good things to eat. And so we had to visit them wherever we walked.

We walked a lot. I enjoyed most going along the trails around the reservoir. Our longest walk was five hours. Not because we were enjoying ourselves, but I was lost as hell and made the mistake of asking someone for directions. She sent us in the exact opposite way we needed to go. And since Zeke had no sense of direction (at least he never knew while in a car that we were almost home), we just kept going.

Although Zeke didn't like being in a car, we dragged him up and down the East Coast anyway. We had left him at the house during one trip south and the alarm went off because of a severe thunderstorm. The alarm activated, but never sent the call to the alarm company. We don't know how long he was trapped in the house listening to thunder and the alarm, but he was never the same again. And I vowed it wouldn't happen again. So we took him with us, from Sanibel, Florida to New Jersey. He didn't like to travel, but it was easy to keep him in hotel rooms since he rarely barked. If Zeke barked, I paid attention.

Like the time I was home sick and the BGE man was coming to the house to tell me they were going to turn off the power. I'd let Zeke out to play earlier. I'm sleeping on the couch, drooling, when Zeke starts barking like a mad dog. I jump up with spittle running down my chin and my hair in 45 different places and go running outside to tell the man to stop. Now, you'd think with me looking like the Joker and Zeke baring his teeth, this idiot would have stopped in his tracks. When I finally yelled, "He will bite you!" the guy stopped. Duh.

He was a good protector but not much of a fetcher. Balls were not his thing, but small and fuzzy toys that could be de-gutted and ravaged with aplomb were. He wasn't a snuggler and preferred his own bed to sharing one with us. He wanted to be petted when he wanted to be petted, and he only tolerated affection when he didn't want it. He was an independent little guy who loved digging holes and would even chew through tree roots to get to his quarry. He was nothing if not tenacious.

But even his tenacity couldn't save him in the end. Everyone told me that I would know when it was time. And they were right. I used to tell people that he was half blind and three quarters deaf. He developed diabetes and then Cushings. And with each visit to the vet, my husband knew the end was coming, but I kept believing one more pill or one more shot could save him. One more discovered diagnosis would let me keep my Zekiewekie just a little longer. Just one more night of sharing table scraps and one more walk, even if it was just to the end of the street and back. And he tried. His very last night, I asked him to walk all the way to the back of the house so I could take his photo by the blue and white tree. I made him wear a blue Santa hat. He never liked being dressed, but he did it because I asked it of him. I knew then he wasn't going to make it to Christmas, and it was going to be a very blue Christmas indeed.

The next morning, he couldn't control the shaking and shuddering of his own body. He wouldn't eat, not even ham -- his all-time favorite food. (We'd almost named him Hambone.) He went outside to lie under they dying branches of a plant just outside the door. I asked my husband to call the vet. Even though it was time, I just couldn't muster the courage to do it.

And such a call does take courage, an unmitigated selfless courage that means you are having to release and say goodbye to someone you love with all your heart and soul. Because it's best for them. Not for you, but for them. The vet said she and a tech could come to the house since Zeke had had more than enough trips to the vet his last two months of life.

She gave him a shot to stop the shaking and let us say our last goodbye. I ran my fingers through his fur, which had become much softer the last few weeks. It's a tactile sensation I still can feel when I dream of him. And then we said goodbye. Not "Bye, bye baby, I'll be right back." Or "Be a good boy, mommy will see you when she gets home from work." But a goodbye that tried desperately to relay all the love we felt for him. And then, he was gone.

I miss Zeke. We did a lot together. Sometimes he liked it, often he didn't. He liked our long walks. He liked that we shared lunch. He didn't like the costumes I made him wear each year for the Halloween card. He didn't like that I loved to kiss him. He loved when my husband played piano, but he would leave the room whenever I sang to him. I fell over him, dropped things on him, and dragged him with me wherever I could. So the memories are all over the place.

I've finally started my firsts without him. The first time I walked around the neighborhood without a leash tethered to someone. The first time I signed a card and didn't add his pawprint. The first time I washed his bowls and didn't put them back down on the floor. The first time I went to the store and didn't go to the pet section. They are all difficult.

I once had a neighbor who loved dogs but didn't own one. She would sometimes come to the end of the driveway and pet Zeke when we were out on our walk. One day I mustered the guts to ask her why she didn't own a dog if she liked them. I thought she would mention the inconvenience or the fur or the vet costs. Instead, she answered, "They don't mean to, but in the end, they always break your heart." Now I know what she means.