Posts tagged ‘animals’

Remembering my family dog, Dusty

Dusty II on my childhood bed in Brampton

When I was 5-years-old my family rented a home in Rexdale, a neighbourhood in Toronto, and as part of our kin we had a dog, a shih tzu named Dusty.

One day Dusty was mauled by a German Shepherd and died. I wasn’t there to witness the horrible event, but my dad rushed our poor mangled family pet to the vet (a rhyme!), where he remained, never to return to our humble abode.

My dad explained that he surrendered Dusty to the animal hospital, who happily adopted him. I somehow knew that was code for “the emergency bill to save his life was too expensive, and so Dusty was mercifully sent to doggy heaven.” In fairness, I’m sure that my dad would have paid anything to save that dog if it was possible.

Well, a year later my parents bought their first house in Brampton, and that’s where I lived until I went to university.

Okay, I’m just going to lay it out there for all of you: Brampton was a hell hole. It’s not exactly where I would choose to raise my family, but it was cheap, there were good Catholic schools that I loathed as much as living in Brampton,  and we were somewhat safe. That’s if you forgive that time our next-door neighbours were robbed from top to bottom, but that’s a story for another blog post.

Eventually, my parents decided that it was time for us to buy a new dog, to replace Dusty, and we did, a shih tzu, named, errr…. Dusty. Maybe my dad thought this would erase our memory of Dusty I, and it sort of worked, but it was odd, to say the least.

Dusty II was a loyal addition to our family and we loved him dearly. We demonstrated our affection by feeding him… a lot! Throughout his life, Dusty II was always somewhat obese, and looking back it was cruel that we fed him so much. But it was always so cute to see how excited he would get at the word “cookie” and of course, as soon as you mentioned it, you had to give it to him. Dusty II could sit, lie down, roll over and give paw on command, which is something I later found to be impossible with another breed of dog. But I digress.

I especially adored Dusty, he was probably my best friend, and I’m not ashamed to confess that. When my whole family went to Italy one summer I was gutted that I would be apart from him for so long, but I managed and I remember when we collected him from the dog-sitters, how tremendously happy he was to be reunited with us. As we drove up to our house he was bursting with joy; perhaps he felt he would never see us again when we unceremoniously abandoned him for a month with complete strangers.

For all their faults my parents were loving dog owners, but Dusty made it easy for all of us to love him. He was well-behaved, never barked and his favourite past-time was sleeping. Win-win-win!

Whenever he got super happy he would excitedly run around the house in circles and then stop, panting and staring at us, as if to ask, “Are you proud of me?”

Dusty was deathly afraid of the vacuum cleaner because once I mistook his tail for part of the carpet. I was mortified that I had just traumatized my beautiful baby, but like all dogs, he instantly forgave me. But not the vacuum.

In later years Dusty got thinner, and I moved away to attend university. I would come home every now and again and notice that he was even thinner and that he wasn’t eating his cookies like he used to.

One night my father found him, alone in the corner of the laundry room. This was unusual for Dusty, because he loved my father very much and was always by his side in the family room sleeping on a pillow.

My father spent most of the evening making Dusty comfortable and trying not to disturb him. He was clearly dying, and wanted to spare his family, the ones he loved the most in the whole world, from the trauma of having to witness his demise. Over night he lay on the ground in the laundry room, while my father stroked his once shiny fur.  Dusty courageously held on to life, either afraid of disappointing us, or desperate to stay with his loving family.  The next day at the vet my parents and brothers learned that he was riddled with cancer.

The decision was made to spare him any further pain, and he was euthanized that day. He was 14.

I never said goodbye to Dusty and I still think of him often. I remember his chubby body, his cute round squishy face, and how much I used to love kissing the little brown spot on his otherwise primarily black nose.

I still feel guilty that I wasn’t around more during the last years of his life. I was selfish, a teenager, just wanting to be away from home, free to discover new friends, and new experiences. I forgot how loyal and loving he was to me, during a time when I was isolated and abandoned by my peers.  With Dusty I was never a loser, never a nerd. I was… gulp… cool.

After he died, Dusty was cremated. When I came home that very day, unaware that he had passed, I immediately called for him when I entered the house. Usually, at that stage of his life, he would saunter over to welcome me back, but this time he was nowhere to be seen. I thought it odd that I couldn’t find his food and water dishes, and as I continued my useless search to find him, my mother appeared and told me what had happened.

Understandably I cried. Embarrassingly. An ugly cry. I stood in the foyer of my family home and crumbled in agony. He was my dog, my friend, the only thing that mattered to me. How could it be that he was just gone? You mean, I’ll never see him again?

Nothing seemed the same after he passed away, and even our house missed him. He was a beautiful dog, and his peaceful presence was hard to ignore. His energy was always a positive influence on all of us.

There are still nights when I dream about him. I know it sounds cheesy, but I hope that he’s alive somewhere, and that I’ll be reunited with him again one day. He was a special little guy, and he brought so much love and light to our family.

A few weeks ago my friend Alisha reminded me of a quote that says, “Be the person your dog thinks you are.” I hope I made Dusty proud.

I love you Dusty. Wherever you are.