In so far as we know anything about the consciousness of a little dog, I think it is fair and true to say that he enjoys being. Hmm. “Enjoys” suddenly seems false. Enjoys suggests the possibility of having a self and being able to step back, so to speak, and know what one is doing. Simon (the dog in question) simply does, simply is. [The social psychologist defines self as that which can be an object to itself]
It’s true to say that he has what I would call and understand as desires. When he wakes up on the bed, he barks until I come to see him and sit with him. He barks when he wants water; I know that is what he wants because he is quiet once he has drunk from his bowl. He barks for his supper around six p.m. if he hasn’t been fed yet. So, he gets hungry and thirsty; he gets sleepy and he gets something like what a person would call lonely.
Truly though the little dog, Simon, is a mystery, a creature whose real being is not really available to the human self. He’s a mystery in that sense, truly unknowable. He knows me, though that first means he “recognizes” me; second, it is impossible to give a meaningful word to how he feels about me. Likes? Has affection for? Takes pleasure in my presence? He wags his tail when I come to see him and pet him and scratch his ears, surely a sign of some positive emotion.
I missed him when I was in the hospital for two months; did he miss me? What he felt or experienced I will never know. He has been our [my] dog for 13 years. Mary had Frolie and Dexter and then Schuster. I had Simon. I don’t know how old he was when we rescued him from abandonment, from the crack house, from the owner who had gone off and just left him without food or water. 2009, it was.
I love Simon which means I have a tremendous affection for the little dog [storge, I suppose. One of C.S. Lewis’s four loves]. My “love” for Simon has to be/is different from my love for a person because, a dog is different in kind from a person. My feelings for Simon may be stronger than my feelings for a particular person—wife, child, friend, acquaintance, neighbor, etc.—but the feelings will be of a different nature. “Affection” can be present in me for both Simon and Wife, for example. However, my “love” for my wife goes way beyond “affection”; she is a rational being too and that makes all the difference in the world.
The problem here and now is that we are about to euthanize Simon. My wife finds being responsible for Simon a duty that is frequently beyond bearing. I am as responsible for him as I can be but my physical condition makes that fairly minimal. I would not find the taking-care part onerous if I were able to take care of him. I am not able. He can’t walk or control his doggy emissions. Mary has to do all the heavy lifting so to speak, literally and figuratively. I now have a wound vac attached to my body (right foot) which limits my behavior even more than it was before. Simon is thus a burden for both of us. We both “love” him, but we can no longer take good care of him. I have cried off and on all day. My eyes are wet now. I love the little dog. I feel that euthanizing him is wrong; he just can’t walk, after all. Other than that, he is an affectionate and beautiful little dog. Reason says it would be wrong not to euthanize him at this point. His condition has been going on well over a year. The quality of all three lives suffers, in truth, given all our situations.
The thing is, without Simon my life will truly be diminished. Simon is a gift; his presence, his beauty always point toward the source of the gift. I know where he came from, who provided him, in so far as I know anything. Except, however, the gift has become a burden. What then? I can’t take care of him as I should; does that mean it’s time to return the gift or give it up. Does Simon’s demise mean that nothing now can distract me from the love of God? Is that what Simon does? When I look at a good gift, I remember the giver. So, no. Simon does not distract me from the love of God; he affirms and enhances, intensifies it. The way his head, ears and neck curve slightly toward his body when he sleeps makes me see the beauty and complexity of God’s creation. That such a creature should be! God is good. God gives and he takes away. God is good.
I am grateful for Simon and for 13 years of affection and companionship. And I am sorry I am not up to the task of caring for him properly. My inability feels like a betrayal, though I didn’t afflict myself, and I suppose my failure always will. I will miss him terribly, even in this condition. Furthermore. as with any person or creature we truly love for itself, that person or creature (yes, pet) becomes part of us; our loves help define us for good or ill. If the person or pet dies, a part of ourselves disappears too. The loss, I think, is like losing a body part. We are diminished, not whole or complete in the way we were. Simon, like Pookie and Biscuit, is part of me. Once he is dead that part of me is gone too and his perked ears and his wagging tail responses to my affection will be only a memory. I may not know or understand much, but I know when a valuable part of me is missing. As I said I may not understand much but I am grateful for what I have been given, even if I now must let it go and give it back with tears, hoping and trusting that that really is the right thing to do, the best choice.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Simon died 9/28/21; about 5:16 p.m.
Simon: last days; death in the afternoon. A very good gift. Died 9/28/21