An abridged version of this piece was originally published for the Doctor Who Appreciation Society charity book, Pets in Time. I had been asked by editor Ian Wheeler if some of my animal-themed Doctor Who sketches could be used, and also if I might want to write about recently losing my dog, Ashi.
If you've ever lost a beloved animal companion, then you understand how hard it was to do. This is the original, longer version of the story I wrote, which I then edited down to submit to Pets in Time, which benefits the RSPCA and can be purchased here.
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The hardest thing to come home to is the missing presence.
How do you sum up a dog who has been your friend for thirteen years and is now
longer there? While I still have my two wonderful cats, who are happy to see my
daily return from the World Outside, it was Ashi who accompanied me beyond the
door for small adventures together.
Walking together in early evenings, we had our own separate
interests: he had a world of scents to explore, while I observed a neon-colored
Arizona sunset, or an elusive elf owl on a tree branch, or a retreating coyote.
Then there was the nighttime walks and astronomy, looking for lunar eclipses
and comets, or the International Space Station making a pass over the desert sky. Later, with him
beside me and in failing health, I was able to see Saturn and Jupiter align in
the southwestern sky and Mars glow bright in the east. I miss having his
company for these expeditions, even though he was more interested in the
messages left by other canines, which he would leave replies to.
I named him Ashi, which is short for Ashitaka, a character from the Hayao
Miyazaki film,
Princess Mononoke. He was a shiba inu, a fox-like dog of
Japanese descent. Despite looking like a plush toy when he was a puppy, he had
started out as quite a handful. Testing his boundaries, he had been spunky and
stubborn, often a bratty little gremlin who would challenge me at every turn.
Shiba are one of the more primitive of dog breeds, known for their
independence, intelligence...and limited attention span. I soon realized that I
had my work cut out for me to keep my fuzzy little goblin in line.
Consistency and perseverance were necessary.
And so was puppy obedience school, where Ashi became the class clown. He would
usually end up surging forward at the command of “Stay!” He would grab all the
treats that awaited the more obedient dogs in the class, who looked on as the
little thief ate all their rewards. It took him a little longer than the
rest of the class, but Ashi finally learned how to be patient.
Eventually, he performed his commands only with the assumption that something
was in it for him. With calculated cuteness, he would present his paw to any
human in anticipation of a treat. For thirteen years, I would hear: “He looks
like a little fox!” Or sometimes it was “mini-wolf,” or a “baby coyote.” Always
a wild creature—which is also how I thought of him during my first two years
with him.
On our very first walks together, he complained loudly when I first put a
collar or leash on him; then he would carry the leash himself, in his mouth. In
later years, I was guilty of allowing him sometimes to run ahead, so he that he
could scout his territory. He could run unhampered this way, but was still
attached to a long lead, which I held on to
very tightly.
Shiba are dogs that can rarely be off leash. Ashi was a notorious escape
artist, slipping out of collars with ease and squeezing out of open doors.
Running after him in these cases was usually a comedy of errors. Sometimes I
had to use reverse psychology in these situations and walk away from him in the
other direction. In most cases, he would stop running when he realized that I
was not going to play his game of chase, or “keep away.” He would then follow
behind me at a distance. Whenever he pulled one of these stunts, I was
fortunately always able to retrieve him one way or another. I usually was
terrified that he would keep running and never come back.
After two years of puppy craziness and a lot of gnawed books in my apartment, Ashi
seemed to mellow almost overnight, and grew into the handsome gentleman he
would remain. He always waited for me to go through a door first. He rarely
barked except at his nemeses, hummingbirds and bumblebees, which he viewed as
small demons who hovered and mocked him, just out of his reach. For his own small
size, his bark made him sound bigger and much more ferocious. On one of our
walks, he once scared off a creepy man on a bicycle by swerving back and forth
in front of me, in “goblin-dog” mode and the man fled.
I had taken him several times to our local Japanese festival,
where he got to have sushi and rice balls and meet fellow shiba inu. However,
he would become terrified at the sound of the taiko drumming and would pull me
towards the exits. “We’re done. Time to go home
now.” Like many dogs, he
hated loud noises, and the traditional Japanese drumming must have sounded to
him like thunder and fireworks, which always left him shaking in fear. I
usually had to sit with him in my lap every New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July.
His favorite treats were peanut butter and cheese. I gave
him entire spoonfuls of peanut butter to lick , or I'd spread it on a favorite
biscuit for him. Anytime he heard me opening a package of cheese, he was by my
side, expectant.
From the moment I had first brought him home, I made certain
to show him that the cats had a higher rank in his new pack by feeding them
first, while he was made to wait. In this way, he would learn to respect them. For
all the years I had him, he deferred to the tougher of my two cats, Mifune
(named after Toshiro). With his selective hearing and un-canine love of catnip,
Ashi was rather cat-like himself. His respect for the cats, however, did not
prevent him from stealing their toys for himself. No fuzzy green felt mouse was
safe from his jaws.
Later, all three of them would commandeer my bed for naps
when I was not using it, and sometimes when I was.
When he still was able to, Ashi liked to sleep in the bed
with me, usually at the foot of it, his head on my legs. When it was colder, he
stretched out alongside of me, usually with both the cats as well. I
remember being very sick one year, shivering, and waking up in a sweat when my
fever broke to discover that Ashi was huddled up against me.
Being a shiba inu, he was still equal parts stubborn and
elegant, needy and aloof. Sometimes he was stoic as a samurai, other times an
absolute drama queen. To everyone else, he was a handsome charmer. At home,
Ashi could be found under my desk or under my drawing table, usually at my feet
as I worked. When he needed to go outside for a walk, he would sit at the door
and make a low, deep noise that sounded like “Hmm.” To get my attention, he
would also activate the Shiba Stare, which is a sophisticated and effective
mind control technique.
When I was full of doubt or insecurity, I had only to stroke
his fur or look at his grin to know it would be all right.
Except, when it wasn't.
It was when he stumbled for the first time going up the stairs after a walk
outside, that I realized something was wrong. What had started in such a subtle
way with a lame back leg, progressed into a loss of muscle control in his hind
quarters, an inability to even wag his tail. His tail had started to sag, no
longer curling up over his back in typical shiba-fashion anymore,
instead hanging loose and limp. In a short time, he succumbed to so much pain
and immobility, that I had to carry him up and down the stairs of my apartment
building so that he would be able to relieve himself. And even that became an
excruciating effort for him because he could barely walk.
He had been losing weight, despite always having a good
appetite. His back leg had begun to drag, sometimes causing his paw to scrape
on the ground and bleed. I cleaned the injuries, bought him special paw
protectors.
Despite many veterinary trips and an ever-increasing amount of medicine, he was
not getting any better as the end of the year progressed. After an examination,
the veterinarian wondered if he there was the possibility of an undiscovered
tumor somewhere; but we never did find out.
Eventually, he could no longer stand, and he had lost control over his bladder.
Shiba are very fastidious and clean, and I think he was deeply humiliated by
this.
After what was supposed to have been a routine veterinary
exam one weekend, I had come back to retrieve him after a few hours, and
realized things were not well. Right away I recognized the voice of the dog who
was howling and shrieking nonstop in the back room. Everyone looked at me with
concern and I was told he needed to be given even stronger pain medicine, as
well as sedatives. When I brought him home, I tried to make him as comfortable
as best that I could, but he began to yelp in pain again. I texted the
veterinarian, who instructed me to increase his medicine. This did not help at
all. I put my pillow and blanket on the floor beside his dog bed so I could sleep beside him and to be close. At one point, Mifune came over to him
and rubbed her head against him and purred; this calmed him down for a short
time and it was the only time he fell asleep that whole weekend. I thanked
Mifune for that brief comfort for both of us. I too was able to get some brief
sleep.
When he awoke in terrible pain again, crying, I knew that he was suffering and that
I had to make an awful decision. It might have been the hardest thing I would
ever do.
I texted my veterinarian. Perhaps it was that time.
I drove back to the vet before dawn broke. He was wrapped in one of my bathroom
towels as I carried him inside.
I stayed with him until the end, and afterwards.
His collar and harness are still hanging from the doorknob
of my apartment as I write. Before realization sets in, I still catch myself
saying, “Be a good boy,” before I close the door to go off to work.
There is the empty place at my side now when I take solitary walks; I still
imagine him running ahead of me. There is no more ball presented to me as a
homecoming gift. There is the empty place under my desk, too, and under the
drawing table. There is the end of the bed where he used to curl up or wrestle
with a pillow.
I finally accepted that it was all right if I slipped up, if I
still told him to “be good” as I left for the day. When he had run away from me
in the past and I had walked in the opposite direction, he had always ended up
following me home. I hope that he will continue to follow along from wherever
he is now, however far away it may be.
I won’t need to turn around to know that he still will be there, following from
a distance.
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I finally made a little bonsai memorial for Ashi. It's not a real bonsai, and it's a toy shiba, but he looks quite happy, nevertheless. He was recently joined by his feline sister, GoGo, whom I dearly miss.
You can purchase
Pets in Time at the
Doctor Who Appreciation Society store and read many other tales of beloved animal companions, both moving and funny, and also help support a good cause.
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