Cagney

Seems like the best things in life always find us, rather than when we go looking for them. The first time I saw Cagney, he was a fuzzy black furball you could hold in one hand. At the time, I didn't particularly want a dog, but we took him in to rescue him from abuse at the hands of neighborhood children. He would hide under the furniture and roll these huge cow eyes at you when you came to find him.

He hated learning to walk on a leash- sat down on the sidewalk and cried long mournful puppy howls. Named after Jimmy Cagney, the actor, because of his passive-aggressive behavior, he quickly developed into a real character. A stout, short-legged Scotty mixed breed, he could be cantankerous, but never ill-tempered, with an iron constitution and a stomach to match. He would eat anything- and often.

Unfortunately, he was also shy and was something of a sissy when it came to things like injections and cat scratches. He always liked flowers, and would often pause on his rounds to admire any he'd find. He was affectionate without being maudlin, and liked being in the company of some dogs and most cats. (For some reason, he always hated terriers.) It was not until his later years that he developed a tolerance for strangers- pizza deliverymen and the like. Oddly enough, the last new friends he made here were the downstairs neighbor's two little boys.

Cagney had enormously expressive brown eyes and even in his old age, after cataracts had dimmed his sight, he could still say a lot by just looking at you. He learned to "talk", as rare dogs occasionally do, instead of barking (although he did his fair share of that, too). He would not stay with my ex-wife when we split up, so I rescued him again- this time from her. For thirteen years, he repaid me with unflinching loyalty, constant companionship and complete adoration. I have a theory that animals- those which we call "lower" or "dumb"- are actually the most evolved creatures on this earth. They never act out of spite or revenge, and they offer unconditional love without regard to our status, race, or other imperfections. Someone once made the analogy that to a dog, we must be like gods. I only hope that I measured up.

For over a decade, I lived my life being trained by this dog. There were walks to be taken, every morning and every evening, baths to be given, vaccinations to consider, food, water-all this had to be performed regardless of whatever else I was doing. In its constancy, the routines gave me stability when my life had none. The physical demands of this animal, who depended solely on me for every basic necessity of life, gave my life purpose. He trained me well. Every single day after I left home for work, school or even to the grocery store, his would be the first face to greet me when I returned. The longer we stayed together, the more he acted like me. Whenever I was home, he was never out of my sight. He would follow me from room to room while I did chores or got up to go to the bathroom.

Raised like my own child, he was (if you'll pardon the cliche) a member of our family. Nothing was ever undertaken without first giving thought to how it would affect Cagney, and later Scooter (our cat and Cagney's companion). Rationalize if you will, some psychological need that justifies our behaviour towards pets, but I challenge you to watch a video of Cagney two Christmases ago and deny that he is expressing joy and gratitude. We had given him a plush, warm bed for his aging, arthritic bones and he immediately got in it and howled with delight. He had personality in spades.

About two weeks ago, he began to move ever slower, wanting to stay outside longer and longer. He got incredibly weak, until he could no longer climb the stairs outside the apartment, and had to be carried out for his walks and back in again. This past Tuesday, I had gotten up and dressed a little earlier than usual, so Cagney and I took a little extra time out in the yard. He sniffed the wet grass and watched the world go by for awhile, until I had to bring him in. I was more concerned with being late for work than watching him, as he wandered over to the water bowl and started to drink.

Suddenly, he made a noise I've never heard before, then collapsed. We rushed him to the vet, where they stabilized him with transfusions and antibiotics. But by Wednesday afternoon, we knew it was over. A massive tumor on his spleen had made him so anemic that he was beyond surgery and hope.

Cagney died in my arms at 830 on Thursday morning, August 26th- the result of a lethal injection. I prayed that his spirit would go swiftly to the next life, where he would see Spring through a puppy's eyes again. I told him he was a good dog- and he was. But the last words I spoke to him as he died were a lie. I said, "it's okay". It wasn't, but I hope he believed me.

The hardest times for me now are the evenings, when I come home. I don't know what to do with myself. I expect to see him lying here on the floor beside me as I write this. I leave the house in the morning with the vague feeling I've forgotten something. I had his friendship longer than I've had most anything else. A part of me is gone, and I despair of ever finding it again. I can only hope it will find me in time.