My dog died this weekend.
A part of me wants to make his death poetic so that it and his life can forever be immortalized as something beautiful. However, I find myself drawn to the pointed statement: Tug died. Much like his death, it’s a blunt and a simple fact, devoid of any obscurities and trivial lamentations. He’s gone and that’s that.
Tug was my family’s beloved eleven-year-old English bulldog. He entered my family when I was in the fourth grade and he left it at the beginning of my junior year at the University of Texas. I remember the day my father picked him out vividly. My mother wanted to give my father an anniversary present that he wouldn’t return. She wanted to finally give him, as she commonly states, “a boy since [he is] surrounded by girls.” Since he had three daughters and a wife, I can only image that getting a male dog would be the perfect present for my father. We all went to see the bulldog breeder my mother picked out and my dad instantly was drawn to the small, white dog with a black spot on his back. When my dad picked up the small puppy, he quickly fell asleep on my dad’s chest. My father named him Tug Boat Willie after Mickey Mouse’s boat Steamboat Willie. I’m not sure why.
I remember excitedly telling my fourth grade teacher about him. I remember how he would not get along with Teddy, my sister’s schipperke, because she did not like male dogs or men. I remember how he was scared of pineapples and cardboard boxes. I remember how I would pick him up and set him on the countertops in the kitchen so that he could eat dog cookies out of the cookie jars. I remember buying him a Christmas-themed dog bouquet of toys and bones after one of his surgeries, even though I gawked at the price of 10$ at the time (I was a cheap kid and 10$ was a lot to me back then). I remember forcing him and Annie, my 5-year-old bulldog, to take pictures together after I had just brought her home. I remember how Tug liked to sleep in-between my mother’s legs because it was a natural barrier around him. I remember how he would run around on the wood floors, sliding into walls while chasing after toys. I remember Tug.
Tug had cancer near his skull and the tumor was pushing his cherry-eye out of its place. He had become lethargic and all he did was sleep all day. When he was awake, he would yelp in pain. His jaw was in so much pain that he couldn’t eat or drink. The day before he was put down, he would hover over his water bowl wanting to drink, although he would never open his mouth. My family, in a sense, was prepared for his death, because it was very evident that his time was up, but that didn’t make the process any easier.
When we took Tug to the vet, he curiously walked around the office, investigating everything. He seemed oblivious to what was about to happen, although I think he knew. When the vet administered what she called the Michael Jackson drug, a sleeping drug, he let out one last loud snore as my sister hugged him, saying her last goodbyes before she left the room in which dogs were put down. It made my mother cry harder as she laughed. I didn’t want to see him actually die when the barbiturate was given to stop his heart, but I wanted to make sure that he had someone by him and petting him every step of the way until there were no more steps to take. When I left Tug, he was positioned the same way as when he slept on the couch. As if it were just another day.
When I tell people that my dog died, they say they are sorry and express their legitimate concern for my well being. Although I’ve been grateful for their concern, I find a greater injustice in the whole affair. My dog died, but Tug’s death is not important because my dog died. Tug’s death is important because Tug died. I wanted everyone to mourn his death and appreciate the lack of color the world holds because of his exit from it. Tug’s life mattered, yet the world moves on like it didn’t.
Tug died this weekend. And I’ve been living with that fact ever since.