We put Ruby down yesterday. She was 16 years old and failing. I miss her and all the rituals surrounding her life, even the recent ones tailored to the aging dog: carrying her outside to eat, mixing wet food with hard and adding water to soften it, holding her up to drink water. She was old, 112 in people years according to the formula (age of dog x 7). Still it sucks being the “decider”. You just can’t help questioning yourself: Is this the right time? Too early? Too late? Did she suffer more because I couldn’t make a decision? Was there still the life force in her? I think the build-up was worse than the actual event. My sister-in-law, Celeste, is a vet and a very good one at that. She was able to come over and put Ruby to sleep in her own home surrounded by her loving pack. She explained everything that was going to happen clearly and in gentle tones. I think that’s when it really hit home to our nine-year-old son, Harry, that Ruby was going to die. The hardest part was seeing him sitting cross-legged next to Ruby hang his head and start to sob. When the deed was done, it really did look like Ruby just went to sleep—there was no sign of anxiousness or stress. It was, in the end, peaceful.
Afterwards, in the best traditions of funerals and wakes, we ate. Harry suggested we go to “Ruby’s Barbeque” in honor of her namesake, so we did and we stuffed ourselves. Sounds a little maudlin to go to “Ruby’s”, but it’s not unheard of in our culture. We eat and drink the body and blood of Christ at communion and have the lamb of God for Easter. Maybe it’s a way of incorporating the things we love right into the heart and stomach of our very being—abstract to the physical. I don’t know. I’m just rambling here.
Let me tell you about Miss Ruby. She was short-haired pointer who was terrified of gun shots and any loud noises. A very loving dog, she would walk up to anybody and put her head in his hands. She was also a prize goof-ball. I once saw her point in perfect form—one long line from head to tip of tail—at a red bucket. Maybe she thought it was a fat cardinal. She hated the screen door. My husband, Tim, must have replaced it at least thirty times (we kept screen supplies on hand). If we were gone for more than a few hours, we’d come home to find it shredded. Oh Ruby!
She had boundless energy. It was pure joy to take her for a walk or run. Off leash, she’d take off like a deer: Whoosh—gone! She’d run a big loop around you, a couple of extra miles maybe, but would always meet up with you somewhere, usually ahead of you on the trail. Once she broke into Barton Springs coming back from a greenbelt hike. Tim called to her as they were getting closer to the Springs, but she’d found a little hole in the fence and suddenly he heard “SPLASH!”, followed by “Hey, get out of here!” Oh Ruby!
She got into a lot of trouble early on and chewed many window sills and door frames in her prime—Tim’s password used to be “RubyNO!”. There were more than a few folks who said “How do you put up with that?” Well, she was just so damn loveable: the way she would tease and prance and galumph in the yard with a ball when we played fetch, which was a joke because she was the worst fetcher ever, and the floppy dance she did when you pulled out the leash. Her ears were soft and silky, like fine pig-skin. Tim used to say they’d make the perfect coin purse. All in all, she was a good dog. Rest in peace, Rubes! We love you.
