Burton, 1996-2008

My mother died four years ago this past Spring.  Her hospitalization was sudden, but her death was not.  A heart attack had revealed a defect in the muscle, which had to be surgically rebuilt.  She spent two months on and off machines, making improvements and setbacks, and until her last week we were nothing but optimistic.  The collapse was hard - even if you consider it a possibility, having your own mother fail to recognize you is a cold shock - but that long stay at least served to steel those of us who'd be left behind.  I don't believe in any post-life amusement park or penalty box, dead is dead, gone is gone, that's that.  She died younger than she should have - she was outlived by her mother - but had started life as a sickly child who wasn't supposed to live long at all and she'd proudly bucked that.

I was angry with her for not working harder to get better, I was angry at myself for letting her die in a hospital.  Her only wish was to die at home with her dog, but by the time we were sure she wasn't going to make it, she wouldn't have survived the move.  We were making arrangements with doctors to sneak the dog in, but it soon became apparent that what was left of her wasn't her, anymore.  I have forgiven her, of course, and have promised to forgive myself.  I do wish she could have said goodbye to Burton.  I know that would have meant much to her.

We'd gone as a family years before to get her her dog from some deep-binned littermarket called The Puppy Barn.  My brother plucked out an all-black Lab/Border Collie mix; I named him - Burton, not after anything, it was just the right name; she approved.  When you rolled him on his back, expressive eyes would go wild and ears would flop back, he'd paw and play-gnash and growl-talk at the air, a tiny black bear cub.

A remarkable pup, housebroken in three days, smarter than all of us.  The working dog half of him was energetic and anal retentive.  He would group his toys - tug socks, balls, squeaky things - in piles by type.  He would herd his people, get down on your hands and knees and try to get past, he'd bump you ‘til you knew who was running the room.  Border Collies need like a billion miles of exercise a day; he'd burn off the extra by tucking back his ears and cutting crazy psycho circles through the house, precarious runs you swore would result in upended furniture and personal injury but never did.

If you covered yourself completely with a blanket and made monster noises, he would bark and tackle and tug until he'd completely extricated you from the beast, then he'd lick you until you were laughing.

Keeping the previous family dog in the yard had been an occasional problem, especially after Mom had moved from Delaware to Jersey and I'd left for college.  So there was panic when the new pup got let out unattended in the backyard and the gate was found open.  We threw on jackets and grabbed car keys to start a search; opening the front door, we found him on the porch, waiting, tail wagging.

He had a compulsive need for contact.  I remember after first bringing him to her house his struggling up the two-step move from her den because everyone else was on the higher ground.  Comical, determined, hind legs bounding, front claws pulling, the top of his head kept appearing and sliding back out of view.  And suddenly he was there, he'd follow you everywhere.  Burton Underfoot.  When small enough, he'd climb up and nest on your belly.  When he could still fit, he'd slide under the desk and lie on your feet. Larger, he'd press against you when you were prone, flopping his chin on your chest or leg.  His working dog tendencies didn't so much lapse from lack of use as shift:  His job was to keep Mom happy and safe and he did that well.

When she passed on, I was happy to take him.  His presence rearranged, restructured my life.  I was moving out of a no-pets apartment and on my way back to New York, and it was because of him I wound up where I did in Brooklyn.  Having had been raised with dogs and yards, I'd always thought the notion of large dogs in Manhattan absurd, if not cruel.  Prospect Park was Burton's backyard, the city's best.  Go there any weekend morning between, say, 8 and 9am and you'll see hundreds of dogs roaming free the acres of its Long Meadow.  There were squirrels to chase, pigeons to scare, flocks of waterfowl to stare down, ass to sniff.  He almost accidentally caught a hawk, once.  Never figured out what to do with the horses, but it was fun watching him think about it.  For a while he was sure kite flyers managed giant birds, and of course those should be attacked; eventually he settled on sitting on hills and monitoring their altitude.  Because of that dog I was forced to spend more than an hour each day in our park and I loved it.

I'd been worried how he'd behave during the park's (recently curtailed, boo) off-leash hours, but that was dumb worry.  Mostly he did what he always did.  He followed me around.  Working the outside track, patrolling the perimeter, observing, not getting involved.  In winter I'd walk with my big black coat and he his; white hair overtook his snout, I'd find it building in my beard.  He was my dog, I was his boy, we were turning to old men together.

He had arthritis, a fatty tumor removed from his hindquarters had left him hobbled a bit, he came to me overweight.  I worried about his health and his mobility, but for a long while he got stronger and lighter.  He rarely managed a trot but was good for long hauls.  Come come Bear Cub, let's go, let's go.

(Except when it snowed.  When it snowed, he would turn back to a puppy and we would go out and rumpus and roll around, get white and wet and collapse and laugh at ourselves, old men with silly young hearts.)

Burton died Saturday.  He would have been thirteen years old this coming Spring, a good age for a dog his size.  But this was sudden, I'd just had him down to the vet - the good vet, the old family vet - to check a weird (ultimately unrelated) lump on his side, the doctor commented on how healthy he looked.  Days later, Burton's breathing was constantly labored, even painful, he couldn't eat anything, started vomiting, weakened considerably.  An ultrasound showed a massive amount of fluid around his heart, a tumor on his adrenal gland, organs swollen against each other.  And, oh God, his eyes started swelling, the white parts bulging up around his irises.

He spent the last three days of his life in an animal hospital on an IV and I hate that I hate that so much, there was no way he could understand why we kept coming and going and leaving without him.  He was so weak, so thin under his coat, bits of fur shaved off for needles and tests and tubes, bodies, they are such shit at the end.  Steroids had brought the swelling down in his eyes, at least, and though he was exhausted you could see that he was still himself in there.

If there was anything good, I guess, it's that he knew we were next to him, my brother and I.  As the doctors did whatever they do at the end, Burton's chin was on my arm and I pressed against him and gripped his fur and bent down and whispered good pup, it's okay, I always come back for you, everything's okay old friend, this is it, now, you did such a good job good job thank you thank you and then he was stopped, and sobbing, sobbing.

I miss him horribly.

He's one of the very few creatures in this life I've allowed myself to love.  And he loved back so much.  In many ways he was the best friend I will ever have, I do not think there could be one better.  There have been days, low days, when he was the only reason I've gotten out of bed.  I've known no better peace than the sounds of him, dreaming.  He made everything better.

He was the last, best thing my mother gave me.

There are stupid behavioral things now.  I anticipate his bark just before I reach for the door knob, I listen for the jingle of his tags from behind me, I keep moving to fill his water bowl.  These will fade.

Oh my friend my friend my friend you are gone you are no more.

Once, some time ago, maybe it was out here, I wished that when we died we turned into music.  I can't think of anything better to wind up as than what comes from the violin in this:

The London Chamber Orchestra featuring Christopher Warren-Green - Ralph Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending (mp3) (buy)

We had a pretty good run, old man.

tags: rip  

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