"Sorry about this." Dad said as he placed her ashes in the hole we dug in the garden beside Clyde.
She and I had been together from the time I had lived on the farm in California all by myself at age 20, she an adolescent . Beautiful as she was clever, her downfall was her genes: a fierce, impulsive nature.
Eight years later, tears soaking my face and an empty collar in my hand, I choked out to the vet tech that "she was a good dog."
I got Remy from a dusty horse farm in Woodlands, California. A lanky German Shepherd mix puppy, I found her tied to a post in the midday sun with a bowl of grey water. Her colors were very unique, a black fading down to yellow, adequately substantial mitts. Eyes were an engaging amber. There to look at a horse to buy, I stopped to give her a chin scratch. "If you like 'er you can have 'er." The same afternoon she rode propped on the front seat of my outdated Blazer observing the scenery, wearing an expression of optimism-bound for Petco.
Residing on our farm in Illinois for most of her life, she never let her bed be farther than an inch from the back door, even on the coldest days when the draft seeped in. If it were to be moved, she would put it back where it belonged, this act confusing us making us think it was kind of dumb. But, it was we who were dumb and naive not realizing this was her post to ensure no disturbance would threaten the household's rest. This guarding instinct went even beyond this I found out one very odd day.
I drove up the driveway one afternoon to find her limping severely up to greet me, but not in a cheerful way. The other dogs, one a runty heeler, and the other an aging, mostly blind labrador were huddled against the house instead of lounging on the lawn as usual. I let everyone inside and on inspecting Remy I found she was covered in puncture wounds and blood. The other dogs had not a mark on them. She was trembling and traumatized. I took her to the vet where her 15 wounds were cleaned and her leg X-rayed. Was not a fracture as I would have thought, given the way she was walking, but a bite deep into the joint. Dr. Lappan told me she was positive Remy had been in battle with a coyote. Her heroism that day touched me as I realized she saved the lives of her housemates.
I nursed her for a week, giving her aspirin and hot packs. She would rest in my lap on the floor like a child.
What happened next was even more of a mystery. A week later she was anxious to go outside, so I let her, even though I didn't have time to go with her as I had been. Looking out the window 5 minutes later she was not in sight. I ran out calling and calling for her, panicked. She trotted around to me 15 minutes later with a face full of blood, no injuries. Had she finished off the dying enemy? dragged it somewhere out of respect? killed a pup in revenge? or offered the corpse to the pack as a matyr and a warning? Everyone has a theory, but whatever really happened that summer taught me pets can be so much more than you think.
Remy had a sensitive side too. She would come up to my room (as she seldom did normally) when I was upset and put her muzzle on my bed in condolence. How did she know what I was feeling when she wasn't in the same room? This is a secret gift only possessed by animals. When I moved away, she would sneak into my old bedroom and steal the stuffed bear off the bed. She would carry it by the scruff like it were pup and cradle it by her belly on the living room floor. The many times she carried out this ritual, she never tore the fur or demonstrated any destructive intent. She was just babysitting.
The longer I was away, her sensitivity gave way to impulsivity and domination, often nipping hands and fiercely chasing away neighborhood dogs. The barn cats were never seen down from the loft. These embarrassing incidents built until something happened that was so terrifiying I'll never forget the details and I'll never look at a dog the same way.
Our family friend came over with his 2 year old son. We were watching Remy and the boy carefully, not carefully enough. In the tack room, joking around we heard the sounds of attack, and rushing out to the stable we found little John pinned in a corner, the dog's mouth around his innocent, smooth, toddler's face. The boy, thankfully ok, got his first stitches, and Remy had her last day of life. My father and I, holding a gauze to the boy's cheek, looked at each other both communicating a profound guilt. I said "I'll take care of it tomorrow."
*****
Holding her muzzled head, and filling in euthanasia papers, she behaved like angel; she knew. I was facing an impending dark but ethically necessary deed. I lifted her on the table and laid her down with no fear as she was now gently compliant. The vet walked in, loaded syringe in hand, not denying our duty but giving me a wise, quiet smile. "Tell me when your ready." I stroked her ear and gave him a nod, as the poison stopped her heart I thought of the lanky puppy and I feeding horses in California, our road trip back to Illinois, and how proud I was that she was mine. Gosh I'm sorry for everything, Remy.
