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Outside Magazine June 2002
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Living in Dog Years (Cont.)

ONE MORNING IN February, when Radish turned away from his favorite nosh, I figured the banana must be tainted or the yogurt soured, and dumped it in the compost. But he wouldn't eat a thing I offered. Not hamburger nor cheddar nor Asian pear. When he went to his dog bed the next day, he couldn't get up, or wouldn't. It was as if he had entered the world at one end of a crowded banquet table, eaten his way to the other end, and announced that it had all been very yummy indeed but he'd had his fill. Since Christmas he'd been dwindling from congestive heart failure and a bum thyroid we were treating with drugs. And he had developed psychogenic polydipsia, a mental quirk that convinced him he was always thirsty. As he looked up at us with seamless trust, Kitty or I carried him, arms around his chest, from house to yard so he could do his business. But four days after he lay down, he messed himself. Kitty and I held a tearful meeting. It was time to call our vet.

Within seconds the phenobarbital stopped his heart and closed down his brain. As we kissed him and said good-bye, the light in his eyes went out. I wrapped him in a horse blanket and carried him outside. Clara ran from us and sat in the snow, confused. We buried him with his feed dish and a tennis ball, in the rhubarb patch, just downhill from the apple tree. It was Valentine's Day.
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