Sixteen years ago my youngest daughter was still living at home, squeezing four years of college into six and living her best life.  I was working all the time, making as much money as I could.  (This was before I quit a lucrative job to go into teaching so I could work a lot longer hours to make a lot less money.)  I got the rare call one morning, “Hey Dad.  Wanna meet up for lunch somewhere?”

My first thoughts as a father were that she’d wrecked the car, wanted to get married, or needed money for something.  That’s how fathers’ minds generally work.  But then, knowing her as I do, any of those would have been topics that she’d have been more comfortable handling with a phone call rather than a face-to-face.  It dawned on me that what she might really want . . . was just lunch with her dad.  Kids will surprise you like that, sometimes.

We met an hour later at the Holy Guacamole for a couple a couple combo plates.  I scanned her car for any damage as she pulled into the parking lot.  Nothing.  While waiting to order, I said “How’s that kid you’ve been seeing?”  She reminded me they’d been dating for three years, I could go ahead and call him by his name.  “No reason to rush it,” I replied.  That could have been the segue to marriage talk.  It wasn’t.  “Things good?  Need a little cash?” I asked her.  She told me she had everything she needed.  

I relaxed.  Actually enjoyed lunch and catching up.  It was towards the end, over sopapillas and honey, that I casually mentioned, “I’d like to get a dog.”  It was kind of a throw-away comment.  More of a casual observation kind of thing.

“Then let’s go get you one.  Right now.  Let’s just do it,” she said.  That’s the thing about being 20.  The ability to throw caution to the wind and just do something without regard to planning, cause and effect, financial analysis, or consequences.  It’s the reason it was written into the constitution that you have to be at least 35 years old to be president.

But here’s what happened.  Rather than tell her how crazy the idea was and how Buttercup should be consulted before I just brought home a dog, or give her the list of logical reasons why just such a thing would be out of the question, I just said, “Okay.  Let’s go.”  Fifteen minutes later we were in the bowels of the Fort Stockton SPCA amongst a chorus of howling dogs of every imaginable shape, size, age, and color.

My daughter started walking around, peering into each cage, sizing up the capabilities of each canine for compatibility.  I, on the other hand, only ever looked at one dog.  He was in the corner.  A pup.  He had eyes that peered as deeply into my soul as anyone ever had and spoke to me immediately.  “This is the one.  I’ll take him.”

Have you ever heard your own voice and wondered,  “Who is that talking? And why on earth is he saying that?

“Yeah.  He looks like a good one,” my daughter said.  “Sometimes you just know.”

The paperwork was the longest part of the process.  It took place in a different room, although the sounds of the remaining dogs voicing their disapproval of my selection required speaking loudly as I filled out the paperwork and agreed to return him within ten days to be “fixed”.  The aging volunteer behind the desk said, “He’s a Wolfhound.  Here’s a picture of one.”  She slid a book across the desk, open to a picture of a dog that looked just like the pup.  “But if I put that down on the paperwork, he’ll cost $150.  I’m just going to put down ‘hound-mix’.  That way he’ll only be $100.”  The dog and I had already bonded over a tangled web of lies.  I made the check out for $150, anyway.

Forty-five minutes later, out in the parking lot my daughter and I stood between my Edsel Bermuda and her Mustang, a panting pile of Wolfhound sitting in the front seat, waiting to scope out his forever home (and mark his new territory).  “Mom’s going to shit a brick,” she said with a grin, knowing there was no turning back at this point.  Among the many talents and gifts I had passed on to the youngest of my progeny was a gift for colorful language.  While Buttercup could sometimes be put off by it, it still made me snicker for some reason.

“Yes,” I said.  “Yes she will.”  That part of the story doesn’t bear repeating.  Let’s just say that Gullwing became part of the family, eventually.  A big part.  The dog ate better than we did.  Schedules were changed to accommodate his needs and wishes.  Daily walks became a thing in order for his legs to be stretched, and mine as well.  

The only time there was ever a cross feeling between he and I was that trip back to the shelter ten days later, when he went in with his balls but left the next day without them.  I felt bad and tried to explain it to him several times, telling him it was a condition of his adoption I had to agree to.  He just listened and then glanced back at  his empty sack, and then out the window, betrayed, his bark an active higher.  As a peace offering I took him to the Dairy Twin on the way home for a soft serve cone.  A cold treat does not make up for the ability to reproduce, but the brain freeze it gave him seemed to change his focus from one end of himself to the other.

At some point along the way, Buttercup even went so far as to say, “You know, Gullwing might need a friend.  Another dog to keep him company when we’re not home.  Someone to keep him young.”  Inasmuch as I had brought Gullwing home without discussing it with Buttercup, I didn’t feel like I was in any position to argue the point.  Nor did I really have a point to argue.  When Buttercup said she found a rescue-companion online and showed me a picture, I was quick to agree.  “You’ll have to drive to Houston.  That’s where this dog is.”  Funny how one thing leads to another.  (But not really all that funny.)  Roadster joined the family the following weekend.

One of the mistakes God made when creating the world was giving humans and dogs vastly different life spans.  Another is dividing America into Red and Blue states instead of just making everything Purple for convenience and continuity, but that’s off topic.

A year and a half ago, Gullwing couldn’t go for walks any longer.  He’ made’d make it to the end of the driveway and just sit.  His heart wanted to go.  His legs and hips were no longer willing.  I understood.  He slept a lot more than he used to.  I got that, too.  As Gullwing got older, I had gotten older too.  I felt like I could relate to a lot of his aches and pains.  He didn’t hear us come into the room; his eyesight began failing him.  Again, I could relate.  But his aging seemed to be moving at a much more rapid pace than mine.  But then, sixteen years is a long life for a dog.

Recently, Gullwing began having some urinary issues.  I mean, don’t we all?  It happens.  Still ate like a horse, as evidenced by the large treasures he’d leave for me in the backyard every day.  I wish I had that level of regularity.  But his eyes were getting cloudy.  He obviously had more trouble getting around than he used to.  We took him in for his yearly visit last weekend.  The nurse called Buttercup Monday and shared the results of the blood work.  They weren’t good.  Kidney disease.

She explained what the options were and none of them were really viable.  She painted a picture of what the future would hold for Gullwing.  That night, Buttercup and I sat down and discussed the course of action ahead.  There was really no discussion of ‘if’, just ‘how and when’.    I told her I wanted to take him in myself.  Partly, I wanted to spare Buttercup the emotional duress of having to be a part of it.  Selfishly, I didn’t want to have to try to comfort her through it, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be much comfort at all.

When I put Gullwing on the passenger seat of the Bermuda beside me, I think he knew.  The look in his eye was akin to the one after he woke up with his balls gone, but with more of a greater sense of understanding.  Despite his diminished sight, he could still peer into my soul.  I think he knew how much I hurt for him and didn’t want us to be making this trip.  We drove right past the Dairy Twin.  We were beyond even that.

At the vet’s office, they asked if I wanted to be there during the process.  “Of course,” I said.  You don’t just hand off a part of the family and walk away.  I made sure he was looking into my eyes the whole time, for as much comfort as I could offer.

Afterwards, I sat in the Edsel and cried.  I cried more than when my dad passed last year.  That is not a reflection on the depth of my love for Dad.  I was just so overwhelmed with all the things that followed when Dad passed that I didn’t have time to grieve.  I didn’t have any of those things to distract me with Gullwing’s crossing over to the other side.

When I got home, Buttercup gave me a hug.  Roadster looked up, looking for an explanation I couldn’t offer.  She tucked her tail and slinked off to deal with her grief in her own way.  Out in the middle of the patio, standing at attention, was a good sized turd, the last one Gullwing would ever drop.  An erect brown baby-arm, waving goodbye.  A final reminder.  His way of saying, “Joke’s on you.  It’s the circle of life, Buddy.  We both knew this was how it was going to end.  Focus on the first sixteen years, not the last three days.”

Hasta la vista, Gullwing.  You’ll be missed.