It is said “all dogs go to Heaven.”
In the case of Skooder, our family pet many years ago, this saying had likely been put to the test.
Those encountering him were never shy about sharing unsolicited suspicions that he originated from Heaven’s polar opposite.
My dad, clearly Skooder’s best buddy outside our household, never failed to demonstrate his tenderness for the dog by bringing him gas-station chicken tenders during visits. But even Dad summed Skooder up as “one mean SOB.”
Based on our Skooder experiences, I would not be surprised if the devil’s preferred pet is a dachshund.
When Skooder died, I couldn’t help but imagine St. Peter looking at his clipboard, glancing through the dog’s Earth report, and nodding the “big no” to the awaiting wiener dog that likely had his hind leg hiked over the “pearly gates.”
In all fairness, Skooder was our family protector – mostly my daughter’s. To a fault, perhaps. His territoriality turned him into a serious threat to visitors and passersby. Visitors seldom returned – but at least they got away, bandaged maybe, but alive.
Early on, we knew the hot mess we had on our hands. When he was a pup, we entered him in a local wiener dog race, but not without first fitting him with a muzzle to protect the competition. This proved detrimental to winning a trophy. The muzzle broke his spirit, causing him to lower his head to the grass and become the poster pup for full-bodied paralysis. He never saw the finish line.
Feeling sorry for him while walking through the crowd with him on my shoulder, I removed the muzzle. Within seconds, he bit a boy’s shoulder, drawing blood. I escaped through the maze of wiener dogs and wiener dog owners to avoid detection by the boy’s parents. Later, he bit a neighbor boy’s butt across the street. He tried to viciously chomp off my girlfriend’s fingers one too many times – I read her mind, “I didn’t sign up for this $#%&.”
Skooder did attack Delaney a few times, too, the last time leaving a facial scar.
My buddy Chappell was the victim of a memorable Skooder attack. Chappell entered my house only to be welcomed by a growling flash of ankle-high brown fur leaping high enough to attach his teeth to the crotch of his dress pants, swinging like a razor-sharp-toothed pendulum between the visitor’s legs. Only when Skooder was caged on the other side of a closed bedroom door did the pallor on my friend’s face leave. He laughed uncontrollably, stating, “I had never been so scared in my life.”
I had never been so scared in my life either, for Chappell was a lawyer.
Skooder received far too many get-out-of-jail-free cards.
It was not his temperament, but a back disorder, that did him in. Spinal issues come with the territory for elongated, short-legged dogs. There were too many leaps onto our beds, an ill-fated feat he performed, though not successfully until, to our amusement, he thumped into the mattress side three of four times. There were too many leaps from the couch – his favorite nap spot.
Too much pain. Too many medicines. We even made a trio of visits to a chiropractor.
No life for a dog.
I made the dreaded phone call to the vet after taking Delaney to school. She had finally reached the surrender point of not asking me not to do it. Animal smart, she knew the score. In one sitting, I dialed the vet’s number thrice. The first two attempts, I couldn’t get any words out.
I fed him a half pack of sliced ham, this after the popcorn chicken Delaney had dumped into his bowl earlier, something neither of us would have done before. I wondered if this had tipped him off about his fate.
In the parking lot, I hesitated to exit the car, considered one more get-out-of-jail-free card. Whimpers filled the backseat cage. Once out of the car, instead of getting Skooder, I took a short walk through a stout breeze, the day overcast, wet and cold. I heard muffled howls behind me, something he always did when sensing abandonment.
I blubbered by the vet’s roadside mailbox, gathered my composure and removed the cage. I saw the grim-faced receptionist. She knew the score, too. With one foot inside the clinic, I set the cage down despite my dog’s whiny protest – please tell me it is back pain causing these sounds, I thought – and returned outside without a final look.
I let the vet do her job without me.
My son and I wrapped him in his favorite tie-dyed blanket with his favorite stuffed animal minus the stuffing (he had long ago taken the insides out of his stuffed dog, something he did with any stuffed toy, one of his missions in life).
“He had a good life,” my son said, his shovel hitting dirt, something he retold his sister later – and I’m sure his own self.
“It is all for the best,” I said, spade in grip.
We capped the hole with sod and topped that with the red dog bowl, four Milk Bone treats inside, one for each Skooder year. At times like this, multiplying seven “dog years” to the human years becomes most important – 28 sounds far better than four. I think that’s why humans concocted the whole seven-year equivalency formula.
The next morning, I awoke without the anticipated click of anxious toenails on my faux wood floor. Hearing that loud new-morning silence, I reminded myself, “He had a good life; it is all for the best. No life for a dog.”
In the following weeks, I prayed for the mending of an 11-year-old girl’s broken heart.
Here’s to you, Skooder – wherever you ended up.
You can purchase Scott’s latest humor collection, “Quietly Making Noise,” on Amazon. Contact him if you would like a speaker at a meeting or event at scottsaalman@gmail.com.