Biography: Marley and Me

(2005, John Grogan)

The biography of a simple man who clearly loves his dog and presumably his wife and kids too, is told clearly and without subtlety or style. It abounds with very common relatable perspectives and some decent moments of useful insight.

We had to know how it was going to end but that didn't sway the tears from falling. So familiar is that final drama to myself and a multitude of other dog lovers.

I thought much of Blue, my own special companion who departed a few years ago and of a dear friend who lost his canine pal, Simon, just days ago at too early an age. I read the last few chapters with Blue's old training collar wrapped around my hand and now find myself unwilling to let it go. I think I shall have to sneak it into my wardrobe somehow.

The book has been edited into different versions including teen and adult. Definitely go with the mature version.

Sinking in

I don't think it has "sunk in" yet.

Or maybe it's just starting to. It doesn't quite feel like reality yet. That she's gone. None of it went as planned.

I couldn't be reached this afternoon. I was playing a half-day's hooky from work to be with a close friend who's enduring girl-troubles of the most serious kind. The kind where the girl is a cohabitant and his bed may soon - at short notice - cease being his. He's been taking stock of which friends and family have guest rooms or a decent couch at their disposal. We hit the road in a big way and cruised some dear old familiar landscapes along with one of our favorite lunch venues and one of our favorite old dessert venues too.

Meanwhile Blue, the miracle dog was running out of miracles. She was facing the veterinarian yet again and being diagnosed with cancer.

"There's nothing we can do."

She appeared to be suffering, I'm told. It's her fifteenth year. The decision was a no-brainer.

So it was done without me. A blessing that I didn't have to endure it but a huge bag of guilt and regret too. It's tough to put aside the massive illogical sentimentality that surrounds it all.

"They're like one of the family," everyone says to me. Everyone. As if they've held a secret meeting to strategize my handling.

I'm not sure 'family' is the right word. I don't suspect a dog has any concept of 'family' but sure as hell there's a bond. Sure as hell.

She will not be buried at my parents' farm as was planned either. The ex suddenly objects. For reasons that are bizarre and selfish of course as is all altered reasoning that comes out of that sadly deranged head but I won't fight about it. I relinquished claim of guardianship when we split up five or six years ago. So the decision is not mine. Blue's body will be quietly and anonymously eliminated.

I have pictures, videos and some of her toys and most importantly - memories. That will suffice. I'm not sure a headstone is altogether appropriate for an animal anyway.

Damn. I would have liked one though. And she deserved one if any dog ever did.

You were an exceptional dog, Blue. I'll write stories about you.

I'll miss you always.

Not Long Until The End

We adopted her in the fall of '93 and named her 'Bluejay' officially, 'Blue' for short. The reason was threefold. The Toronto Bluejays were currently competing in the World Series and were about to win it. Also I was a big fan of Don Cherry at the time - this was prior to his degrading into a senile idiot - and his beloved dog's name had been Blue. Thirdly it was an easy transition for the puppy who'd been named 'Lu', short for 'Lu-lu' by the sweet old woman with Alzheimer's who'd insisted on selling her over a paranoid conviction that this hyper little Red Doberman puppy would surely soon scratch the eyeballs clear off of her other pet - an old pug-faced, bug-eyed Boston Terrier named Cinnamon Saint Magoo Antoine - or 'Goo-head' for short.

Cinnamon Saint Magoo Antoine! Is that great or what? This is my second favorite name of all time. It follows this moniker at top spot: Belhap Sattlestone Wirldess Ag Miracloat Roo Conanson. That's the villain-of-sorts from a marvelous short story called Not Long Until the End by delightful sci-fi author Larry Niven.

Our Obedience trainer was the first of several knowledgeable Dobie fans who tried to gently enlighten us that our Doberman named Blue was actually a Red Doberman, not a Blue Doberman. We already knew that of course. (A quick lesson on Dobie coloration - Reddish brown ones are officially tagged 'red' while rare gray ones are referred to as 'blue'.)

We were thoroughly puzzled though when a family, visiting from Australia took the opposite tack. They took a keen interest in our pooch and immediately began calling her 'Blue' without even being introduced!

"But how did you know her name?" we begged.

"It's obvious," they said. "Anyone with red hair gets nick-named 'Blue' - at least where we're from. It's like calling an elephant 'Tiny'. Don't you see?"

I do see of course. It is obvious, though why - is difficult to express.

I must brag for a moment. She's one hell of a dog. Thoroughly obedient. Smart as a whip, with a very extensive vocabulary. A fierce watchdog and hopeless lap dog rolled into one.

Walks, treats and ear-scratches are her favorite things. And she's been given them every day. We've been accused of spoiling her. Not true, I say. She's earned her privileges.

Perhaps her fourth favorite thing - at the time we all lived together - were the weekend mornings when we slept in - the two of us - crashed on the queen-sized bed together. And when she would rest her head on me and we were very very calm, I would whisper, "You're my beautiful girl. Yes, you are. You're my beautiful girl." And I'd pet her softly. "You're my beautiful girl." And we'd drift off and sleep the morning away.

Now, just a few days until her 14th birthday, Blue's looking like she may not make it to 14 - or rather that she really shouldn't make it - if her masters have the sense to let her go when the time is right. She's got a thyroid condition, arthritis, a heart murmur and cataracts. Her equilibrium is damaged, she's covered in benign tumors (we stopped having them surgically removed) and she's almost deaf. The latest problem arising last Friday is grotesque. She developed an ungodly volume of blood pooling up inside the flaps of her ears, making a hideous mockery of her head.

Last Friday my former darling and I agreed - or so I interpreted - that the time had come to put an end to things. But I was stuck at the office with severe pressures and critical deadlines and no car besides. I was spared the task that we long assumed I would be the one to perform.

"No," I said. "I don't need to be there. Go ahead. No, I don't need to say goodbye. Just give her a hug for me." I hung up the phone and remained in the conference room, alone for awhile. I'd known enough not to take the call from my own desk - that more privacy may be needed. There were two or three false starts leaving the conference room. Halfway down the hall each time my breath fell short and I retreated to the meeting room to pace the floor again and gather composure.

The deed was not done after all. I spent the bulk of the workday believing she was gone and making peace with that. But my ex, Blue's primary guardian, is an emotionally stunted 41-year-old adolescent who can't handle stress of any sort without throwing a monumental fit of distress and despair. Blue underwent a surgical procedure instead and now her head is wrapped in a tight bandage for the course of two weeks, the end of which will prompt further analysis and another day of reckoning - and almost certainly another nervous breakdown of biblical proportions from the ex.

Perhaps this procedure will prove effective. If not, there are two further options. A more serious and costly operation that she might very well not survive - or else - you know. The sleep.

She can still pull herself to a standing position after considerable effort. She still makes it up or down short flights of stairs with few collapses - on the occasions that something above or below captures her interest and no one is quick enough to come lending assistance by guiding her weakened hips. She still meanders over to you and presents her neck and back for a good scratching. She still staggers into the kitchen in hopes of a biscuit or a simulated bacon strip whenever any human treads there. And she gets one every time now.

How does this all sound? Like a dog that should be put down or not? I've lost any grasp on objectivity.

I am resigned to the notion that her life is complete. That she's well into bonus time. I just want to do the right thing. I'm told that pet owners should not be present at the time of departure. It can be traumatic. I understand that. But I'll have to be there anyway. I can't abandon her to be executed by strangers.

I'll whisper "You're my beautiful girl," and she'll sleep. And I'll hold her tight when her nerves go haywire and her body spasms and my heart gets ripped out. I just think it has to be that way.

She'll be buried on my parents' farm. They offered without my asking.

I always said I wouldn't want another dog after Blue. Because she's too special and deserves to be missed. But if I ever do get another dog I will name it in honor of Blue. Not by giving it the same name. That wouldn't be right. Blue can't be replaced. But I will honor her nevertheless. I'll do it right. If I ever get another dog it will have to be a blue Doberman this time. And of course - I'll name him Red.

FWG