Sherman

Today I did one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. 

I had to have our beloved bulldog Sherman put down.

Sherman was really the first dog I've ever had. Growing up, Himself wouldn't let us get a dog, saying that it wouldn't be fair to not have enough space for it to run around and play.  During college, the family went down to New Mexico and brought home a stray Siberian husky they named Anoosh.  Since I had to stay home and work to earn money for school, I wasn't a part of the decision, and what's more, I was away at school nine months out of the year, so I didn't really get emotionally invested in Anoosh.  Compounding the emotional distance was the fact that Himself, despite what he said about a dog needing to have space to run and play, kept him tethered to a line in the back where he slept in a doghouse.

The other dog that I had any connection to was a Tibetan terrier my ex-wife insisted we buy.  Not a frou-frou dog, but not a real dog either, it went to her when we split up.  The only thing I missed about that dog was its name.

But then there came Sherman.  Actually -- or literally, take your pick -- it was a package deal.  Karen had him when she left a very bad marriage.  Sherm was a rescue filled with medical issues.  Karen tells me he was round as they came when she got him, because the former owner indulged him too much at meal time.  But Sherm also had an ACL in need of repair, alopecia and was in need of surgery to prevent his corneas from being scratched to blindness by his eyelashes, something I've come to learn is called double entropion.  So yea, Sherman had an eye job.

Sherm was never going to win Westminster.  He had a roached back, the aforementioned eye job, ears that tulipped and sundry imperfections that ruled out a career as either a show dog or a breeder.  Yet, what he lacked in physical beauty he more than made up in personality.

One might think that with all these maladies, Sherm might be a little testy.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  He was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest dog around whom I've ever been.  If he had a fault it was that he liked to be petted.  He never met a hand he didn't like as long as it was touching him.  Sometimes he made a slight nuisance out of himself with this, but if that's the worst that can be said about him, it's nothing at all.

Sherm liked to eat.  He probably felt that he was getting starved by us compared to the buffet he had been served by his original owner.  We were always worried about hip dysplasia.  Would that that had been his only problem.

When I first met him, Sherm was very active.  This was only six years ago.  He would do this thing that we termed Belushi-ing, which was from Belushi's role in Animal House, where he stood in the middle of the living room and just jumped and turned, awkwardly.  There was nothing awkward about Sherm's movements.  They were lightning quick and playful, Sherm wanting to be chased as he zoomed around furniture in the living room.  He went so fast we started calling this running the zoomies.  It was great fun to watch Sherm when he had the zoomies.

We played tug of war relentlessly.  He'd grab my fingers in his teeth and gently gnaw on them as if to claim them for his own.  He loved being brushed.  Especially when his allergies started making him itch all over, he'd get giddy when he saw me break out the brush.  Custer would run for the high hills, thinking I was going to beat him with the brush (he'd been beaten by his former owners), but Sherman relished the pampering that was to come.  If I stopped and Sherman thought I hadn't brushed him enough, he'd paw me to remind me to continue.  It soothed him so much that it could put him to sleep.

Sherm loved to take rides in the car.  When he knew he was going for a ride he'd get all excited and jump around, pawing our legs and virtually begging to be put in the car.  Once he was in the car, he slept.  I don't know why he enjoyed being in the car so much since it probably bored him to death.  But boy, he did love going for rides.

He didn't care for rain much, or baths, for the matter.  He would run outside and do his business in the rain and then run back under the soffit of the house where he was drier.  When I'd bathe him he'd grump about having to sit with the medicated shampoo on.  He learned to tolerate it but he never came to like it.

Almost paradoxically, Sherm loved snow.  One year we had a horrible blizzard and he ran through the drifts like a snowplow.  He loved colder weather, it being easier for him to breathe.  He also hated grass.  Sherm was a little finicky in that regard.  There were times he looked like an elephant trying to avoid a mouse the way he'd step over grass.

He loved his bed with the bolster.  Sherm was all about the comfort.  He would get so excited when we put down a fresh bed for him, greeting it almost as if it were his birthright.  If Custer made it into a bed before Sherman, he'd pitch a fit until Cus moved and Sherman could take over the bed.  How did Sherm pitch a fit?  He'd annoy me so much that when I got up to take him out, and thereby cause Custer to jump up out of the bed thinking he was going out, too, Sherm would casually stroll over and take his rightful place in the now-vacant bed.

When Karen left her ex-husband, Sherm was her companion.  She cried on him and he kept her company while she mourned the death of her marriage.  In a sense, they both rescued each other, just at different times.  I would often take his scrunched up little face in my hand and tell him that I loved him for taking care of Karen.  I can only hope that he understood what I was saying.  I surely hope he knew how much he was loved.

Sherm was no guard dog.  He liked to make it seem as if he were; when the doorbell rang, Sherm would jump up and bark ferociously at the door as if the Huns were on the other side.  But when whoever it was was let in, Sherman (and Custer, to be fair) turned into the neighborhood welcoming committee fully intent on getting their tribute from the visitors. 

Last night Sherman seemed his old self:  Tired but with a moment of the zoomies.  I fed them late after getting home late myself and then petted them a bit before bed.  Then I took them out to do their business and put them to bed.

When I awoke Sherm wouldn't get up to go outside.  No matter how much I prodded him he wouldn't move.  He was breathing and alert, his nose was cold, but he wasn't moving.  Then I noticed the pile of vomit right by his mouth in the bed.  Sherm, being the persnickety sort he was, would never abide that if he were well.  He'd sooner get out of bed and lie on the floor.  It was obvious something was wrong.  But Bulldogs are notorious for not alerting people that they're injured or hurting.

I lifted him out of the bed and he had trouble standing.  One time his right front leg buckled and his head was on the floor, almost as if he were drunk.  He wouldn't walk at all and just stood there.  I had to lift him outside to do his business and he wouldn't even squat to do it.  It just came out of him.

I called Karen, who was at the hospital for her mother, and we agreed that Sherm had to see the vet.  We knew he was getting older and thought that perhaps he had some gastro issue that was making him lethargic.  Sherm couldn't even walk to the car, so I had to carry him out there and load him in as gently as I could.  I never thought this could be his last ride.

We got to the vet's office and I carried him in.  The vet himself wasn't there yet, so the technician called and it was decided to do blood work and have an X-ray done.  Once that was done, Sherman stayed with me in the waiting room, lying on the floor as I rubbed him.  I was concerned, but I can't say I worried.  If anything, I wondered if I'd have to take off work to stay home with him and monitor him.

The vet was gentle as he delivered the news.  Sherm had a mass by his heart so big that it obscured partially seeing his heart on the X-ray.  He also had a build-up of fluid that was adding to his discomfort.  He didn't call it cancer; I had to ask him.  I suppose people get overly emotional when they hear the term.

The vet explained that we could take Sherm to a cardiologist but that this was probably just going to come back.  He said that Sherm might die in a day or in two weeks; he couldn't tell. 

I called Karen and we both broke down.  We'd discussed what it would be like when we got to this moment, but this moment came far more quickly than we anticipated.  The humane thing was the right thing, but it was also the worst thing for us.  We'd be losing the one thing that we'd had since we've been together, the one being that supported us unconditionally and loved us no matter what when others spurned us.  We were about to lose our cantankerous old four-legged man, and there was nothing we or anyone else could do about it.

We made the decision, sadly, to have him put down.  The formalities had to be addressed -- cremation, burial, ashes -- and then it was time.  The vet administered the sedative and Sherman was gone, forever.

I insisted that I carry him to the back where they'd take care of his body.  I'd brought him in, he was ours, I'd take him those final steps that he couldn't walk.  I gently laid him down on the table and stroked his side, telling him I loved him and thanking him for all that he'd done for us, mostly for taking care of Karen during that hardest time in her life.  Then I kissed his cheek and left.

The vet told me we'd made a brave decision.  I don't know how brave it was.  It was the right decision, to be sure; Sherman didn't deserve to suffer any longer, and seeing him in that weakened, lethargic state was hard.  Perhaps it was a cowardly decision, not wanting to watch him deteriorate at the expense of his life.  But the quality of his life was diminishing, so it was the right decision for Sherman.

I thought I could handle this better than I'm handling it, but I haven't been this inconsolable in years.  In fact, I can only think of two such events that caused me this much grief.  I keep looking at the pictures of him and Cus and realize that that little face that was always the first to greet me when I got home will never again greet me.  The one that pawed the chair wanting to be petted, or the one who got all worked up when he knew he was going for a ride, is gone.  The one who took care of my girl during the lowest and darkest recesses of her life isn't here to comfort her anymore.

There will be those who say he was just a pet, an animal, and in part they're correct.  But he was so much more to Karen and me that we now have a hole that no new pet will ever be able to fill.  Just as with people, Sherman had his own personality that brought such joy and warmth to our lives.  He's not even been gone twelve hours and I ache throughout my body.  I go through weeping jags where I look like a five-year-old.  I struggle to retain my composure when speaking to colleagues.  In short, I'm a mess.

If anyone wishes to scoff at this, that's his business.  This is our life and this was our pet.  We still have Custer and Bupkes and, probably, will welcome another pet to our home sometime in the future.  But Sherman is the gold standard, the sin par, the best that ever was.  We'll miss him terribly and remember him lovingly.

I will always remember Sherman and smile.

I just wish I had one more chance to brush him.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles