Today, our little Jack Russell Ruby will spend her full last day on earth. I say earth, because when a living thing dies, it's not too clear what happens.
Ruby may live on in some other way, in our memory. Her spirit may blow in on a cloud, or a sudden gust of wind. Or she could reincarnate into another black and white animal, like the zebra I saw in Africa last month.
Ruby doesn't know that we plan to say a final good-bye to her tomorrow at the vets, unless a miracle happens and her boundless, independent spirit returns in the next 24 hours, AND she becomes continent again.
Does she guess this is why yesterday, I pulled a precious t-bone out of the freezer for her to gnaw on, and why last night we took her to the Dairy Queen with our young neighbor girls, and gave Ruby the true love of her life, ice cream? Has she figured out why we are taking her to her beloved park every day, even though she has stopped leading us around, and, like lots of older beings, doesn't want to get too far from the car?
These little treats are part of our good-bye to her. I try to carry her around a lot, nuzzle my nose until her neck, just memorize her woodsy smell, and the feel of her scratchy fur on my cheek. When she ambles into the kitchen I bend down to smooth her back and tickle her behind the ears. She is following me around, like a small puppy, like my elder parents who like to keep track of me, nearly every day.
Memories of Ruby as a puppy are crowding in: the way she slowly walked up to us at the kennel in Tecumseh, not wanting to look too eager, or not trusting that we would love her. See, she was the last to adopted in her litter, because her head was all black. I don't know why people found that unattractive. We loved it, just like we loved her combination of affection-seeking, and independence. We didn't love her fur though. It was unruly and wirey, and she looked like a small, squat sheep if we didn't have her groomed like the runt terrier she was.
Some runt: she ran on three legs when chasing a squirrel, and killed her share of little furry animals. One day she got a squirrel, killed it quick, and when Rob went to the garage for a shovel to bury the victim, Ruby got busy. Rob searched high and low for the dead animal, Ruby following him around all innocent-like. It wasn't until the squirrel's tail gave it away, sticking straight up from the shallow grave Ruby dug in under 30 seconds.
There were more endearing traits: She loved to sleep on the top of bed pillows,
and laid still for nearly an hour if Rob stroked her stomach.
Dan was her favorite:
she hoisted herself up on two legs for him when he greeted her, and licked his face when he bent down. She was front and center at Adam and Kelly's wedding, not to be forgotten, depositing a turd right in front of the wedding arch, minutes before the ceremony When Ruby is scared, she puts one paw on my foot, for security, or tries to climb up my legs. Once she jumped on her high bed as a call for help, her head swollen with a bad sore. This spring, she howled if I went outside and left her indoors, and camped under the computer table while I worked.
These was her only signs of vulnerability. Introduced into a household that already held a large blond Lab, Ruby decided to be top dog.
She dominated Lucy, and our neighbor's Lab Remington, until Lucy herself grew old, and lame. Larger dogs in the park came to avoid her; she had a way of grabbing them by the jowls and hanging on.
People seemed to love her, though. Some begged for a chance to housesit, like our wacky painter and his family who drove her to Grand Rapids and let her swim in a friend's swimming pool. She was cute, like a little toddler.
Some toddler. Ruby was always on the kill, and alert for bushy-tailed animals like the fox. We once had one in the neighborhood; it walked down our road in broad daylight, daring Ruby to find him.
I'm sorry she never chased a fox, and had to settle for squirrels.
Now she's very old, she's ill with kidney disease, and the pleasure parts of her life, like a faux-fox chase, are over. It's time we helped her along to wherever she'll land in the universe. I'd like to believe in reincarnation, or heaven, during times like these. I'd like to believe that Ruby will join Lucy, and Al, who loved dogs.We were never such dog lovers, Rob and I, people being too interesting and compelling and rewarding. But we liked tending, we loved our animals, and I don't know what we'll do about that.
Today I begin to pack away some of our dog things: coat brushes, beds, trimmers, carrying cases. They will go in the attic next to the flattened crib, and broken wagon, and high chair, for the next generation of children, and dogs, if there is one. I don't have a replacement strategy, not yet.
But it won't be a new dog. Maybe when we're in our 80's, and moving around less, and not wanting to think about our inevitable future, we'll need the challenge of a pet. But not now, not yet.
