For Thursday, September 24, 1998 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 722 words

Bone voyage

No. I'm not going to comment on Bill Clinton. I had an opinion for a while, then I went numb. I didn't watch the film or read the transcripts. Does that make me a bad American? I'm not hip to that scene at this time.

My dog died. Well, actually, I killed him. I had him killed. My vet put him down. I'm being frank about it because I am trying to face what I did. I need to talk about it.

You see, Lennie had chronic everything. He was a six-year-old Old English Sheepdog who scratched and chewed holes in himself for 90-percent of his waking life. Out in the yard, covered with sores and saliva, he would roll in the dirt until his beautiful white hair, which we generally kept at finger-length, was dirty and smelly.

Then he would lose friends. Most people avoided touching Lennie. They backed away. I don't think he understood why. Being a loving dog, it must have hurt him. Of course, I knew how hard it was to interact with Lennie. Playing with him only triggered more intense itching. At the slightest hint of excitement, Lennie had to stop playing, roll on his back and flail his legs around, or just find a good place to start chewing.

We used to be able to keep up with Lennie's needs. As he grew older, and we grew older, his needs increased. He began doing things to himself that required a vet. Recently, he dug his ears until he caused a hematoma. When it healed, we removed the funnel from around his head, and he began digging again until he had two more hematomas.

We'd been through the prescriptions, the medicated baths, the altered diets, the bitter ointments, the neutering. Nothing worked. His eyes wept. He had lick wounds. Hot spots grew like mushrooms. The spot ailing him when I took him for euthanasia was the size of a dinner plate.

His faults continue, but I don't want to talk foul about my dog anymore. He was suffering, and I couldn't stop the suffering. I held a conference with my vet. He agreed that Lennie had had far more than his share of misery. He took Lennie away and gave me overnight to think about it. I talked with my wife. I called several close friends. I explained what I intended to do and paused for replies. These people knew Lennie and their silence affirmed my decision to put him to rest.

The next morning, while my freshmen were digging out their homework, I made the call from my room. "Put him down," I said.

There I was in my classroom where I had so many times before read aloud John Steinbeck's moving story of friendship and sacrifice, Of Mice and Men. When I named my dog after the character in that book, I did so because Lennie was a big, dumb, friendly puppy. I had no idea that our fates would unfold along similar lines to those in the novel. I wasn't even thinking of the book when I said to him, "It's going to be nice, Lennie. Ain't no itching or scratching going to bother you any more. It's going to be comfortable, Lennie. You can sleep undisturbed." I became George. Now it hurts.

I miss Lennie's loyalty. I could put him out the front door and he would never leave the yard. In fact, he never left my side. I miss his humor. Whenever my wife and I hugged or kissed, Lennie would bark, and he wouldn't stop until we did. I miss his obvious joy at being included on a walk or a drive. He'd dance and wriggle and almost wet himself. I miss his eagerness, though frantic at times, to love and be loved.

Now my cat, Scatman, and my dog, Lennie, are both gone. That's a lot of loss in a month. However, we still have old Felix, Scatman's mom. She's the sole survivor and the oldest of them all. Felix has paced herself. She moves slowly, eats lightly, and purrs gently. Just now, she is at my feet.

Sorry to burden you all with this. I'm just exercising a bit of therapy. I did not want to hide from the truth. Maybe Bill Clinton taught me that.

Good-bye, Lennie. Good dog.