Jack and Duncan

Jack and Duncan

Late February, my dog Jack was getting to be in worse and worse shape. He was a month away from turning 14, severe allergies, bad hips. I called and talked to the vet, and she agreed that it was probably time to put him down.

I talked to Mitch and Mary separately, and I told them we should plan to take Jack to be put to sleep that next Saturday, and they agreed. They both wanted to be there, felt that they owed it to him.

Over the rest of the weekend, I gave Jack extra treats, let him eat things we had held back because of all of his conditions. But that Wednesday afterschool, I came home and could see he hadn’t eaten any of his food. He barely lifted his head when I came in. I grabbed the food bowl and propped his head up, and he did manage to eat some of it. 

Mitch sent me a text that he was heading to his girlfriend’s house, so I replied that I wanted him to swing by and see Jack. When he came in, he saw the deterioration of the last few days. ”I’ve got to do it tomorrow,” I told him.

“Yeah, it’s time.” 

I called Mary, told her. She was upset, but she understood. I called Mallory. Mallory had put her dog Lexi down shortly after we met, and even though Jack’s smell and shedding aggravated her asthma, she knew what he meant to me and the kids, and knew it would be hard.

I woke in the morning, went down stairs. Jack hadn’t moved from where he had been when I went to bed. I lifted him with an assistance strap to go outside, where he was barely able to stand on his own to take care of his business. I brought him back in, where he went to the floor when I took the strap off. I held the bowl under his head like the night before, but this time he turned his face away from the kibble.

He knew. I knew. 

I called and left a message for the vet at 5:00 am, then went about typing up plans for a sub, ran out to school and printed them off. Jack was in the same spot when I came back. The vet called back before they officially opened, they could work us in at 9:30.

I texted the kids, then texted Mallory. Everybody understood, it was time. 

Jack usually rode up in the front seat of my truck, but since he couldn’t hold himself up, I put him on the floor mat, wrapped in the blanket I had to carry him out on. The vet office people had me carry him to a room, laying him on the floor. I took this picture. 

The vet and assistant came in, prepared the injection, gave it. I stroked his head as his eyes drooped, head dropped, chest stopped heaving. The vet held the stethoscope to his chest, listening. “He’s gone,” she said. 

In the movie Stripes,  Bill Murray asks his platoon “Who cried when Old Yeller died?… Yeah, I cried like a baby.” So did I. I drove aimlessly for about an hour, thinking about Shelly telling me to get another puppy, the surprise the kids had when I took them to see him, then picked him up two weeks later.

I also remembered Shelly telling me in August, 2009, that she thought about putting Jack outside, then starting her car in the closed garage. She didn’t want him to die, knew that would upset us even more along with taking her own life. She decided not to do it because she figured he would start barking, calling attention to our house, maybe somebody stopping her. Jack had saved her life that day. 

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After putting Jack down, the next week we had Parent-Teacher conferences, and I sat through those. There was a lot on the news about something called ‘corona virus’ and “COVID-19”. Many places in China and Europe were having outbreaks. Us teachers were joking that, “hey, is it really smart to have all these people coming in here with this stuff going on?” and,”hey, we might get an extended Spring Break.” Some teachers had travel plans to Seattle, but had to cancel when there was an outbreak there, and then in San Francisco. 

Mallory brought me a sandwich from Jimmy John’s, and she proceeded to tell me somebody stole the mask she had started wearing when she left it sitting on her cart at DAV. The world seemed surreal. 

They give us teachers the Friday after conferences off for working two extra nights. I had carpet cleaners in to try to get Jack’s smell out of the carpets when an announcement came on TV from the Governor. All schools in Iowa would be closed until mid April to help slow the progress of the virus. Oh snap, it was happening.

Toilet paper. That’s what people started hoarding first. People want to take care of their own asses I guess. In the middle of all the media hullabaloo about this COVID thing, I got a text from Dink:

“You ought to get a puppy.”

Great, I thought. Next, she added me to a Goldendoodle breeders group on Facebook, forwarding breeders with litters. So I bit. Found a breeder in Ogden, about an hour away. Made arrangements to go look, agreed on price. 

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March 18, 2020: a day after the St. Patrick’s Day parade was cancelled, most businesses were shut down, the Governor telling everyone to stay home.

Except for me and Mallory. I picked her up in Urbandale and drove to Ogden. On the way, she looked over my list of possible names. “I like Duncan best,” she said. “It just sounds right.” 

We got to the breeder’s farm but no one was there. I called the number again, and the lady apologized, forgot, that she would be back in 15 minutes.

While we waited, the kennels full of dogs were all barking at us. Giant full sized poodles, goldens and labs, some miniatures, some toy sized. Mallory said make sure not to get any of the huge ones.

The owner got there, apologizing again, someone had called in sick, shorthanded today. She took us in, then brought in three puppies. Mallory and I stood there, bending down to them, but the three started chasing and fighting each other, playing with each other but ignoring us.

“Wait, I ‘ve got another litter, let me bring in some of them.” She returned with three more auburn puppies, setting them down. Two of them joined the scrum the others pups had going, but one smaller one came toward us, first to me, then to Mallory. We each picked him up for a few seconds, then set him down to check out the other ones. But he followed us, whimpering. “I think we might have the one,” Mallory sighed, looking at the one following us.

“Wait,” the breeder said, “I’ve got some 12 week old standard poodles I’ll take $300 for. Let me go get a couple of them.”

$300 was less than half the price for the goldendoodles, and anyone who knew Mallory knew she couldn’t pass up a discount deal. I had visions of trying to explain having a macho dog like a poodle to the other coaches I work with…”See, I got him for less than half the price of the other puppies….”

The breeder brought in the older, bigger poodles. They joined in the mass of flying curly fur. I had trouble following any one pup in the action, but then I looked over to Mallory, holding the one that had been following us.

She silently mouthed, “This is the one.”

Here’s the picture just after that moment. 

I settled up with the breeder by PayPal, and we put the little collar I had picked up at Dollar General on the newly named Duncan. We started our drive home with him in a box in the backseat, but he kept whimpering. Then the box flew forward when I had to brake, and he flew to the floor of the cab. 

Mallory grabbed him and held him to her chest. He was still whimpering a little, but when she cracked the window, he rested his head on her breast and slept the rest of the way home.