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Life

I Miss My Prince

My dog died. No national tragedy, I know. But pet grief is pain, all the same.

Kelsey Dundon 8 Apr 2005TheTyee.ca

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The dog formerly known as Prince

A cycling fan told me Tyler Hamilton pulled out of the Tour de France last summer because his golden retriever, Tugboat, had died. The move was probably because of a back injury, but many spectators didn’t question the dead dog excuse.

My preferred pooch has gone on to the big doggy park in the sky. Mind you, it’s not his death that’s stopping me from competing in the next Tour de France.

It’s not easy grieving the loss of a dog formerly known as Prince.

I was unbelievably attached to that canine, however it wasn’t the kind of attachment where I would put him in my purse and carry him everywhere a la Paris Hilton (not that, at 50 pounds, he would fit in anything smaller than a duffle bag).

Helped me grow up

Prince was with me during what Britney Spears might call my “Not a girl, not yet a woman” years.

When my siblings, cousins and I would build elaborate outdoor forts, that dog was in the middle of the action getting as muddy as we were.

It was while walking that stinky dog that I broke up with my first boyfriend. It was that long-faced mutt who shed all over my prom dress.

More recently that animal would be underfoot as I threw dinner parties, sitting in the middle of the kitchen or greeting my guests.

He was a source of stability during those painfully unstable maturation years. In a way his death marks the end of that process.

Yes, he was an old dog, he lived a good life, and he was sick for several months.

And no, his death wasn’t tragic.

But none of those things makes me feel better.

There is no big wet nose resting on the table while my family eats dinner. There are no chewed tennis balls in the backyard, neon green fluff everywhere. This experience was very different from flushing fish or putting hamsters in the ground.

Cat envy

During Prince’s demise I wondered how I would react to his death and now I’m surprised by how I am. It’s made me question Shakespeare’s thoughts on loving and losing, at least when it comes to a pet. I’ve caught myself looking at dog owners and thinking, “If only you knew what lies ahead…” It makes me bitter towards my cat, who at 14 is in good enough shape to outlive my entire family.

Some thought Prince was bred on purpose, he was just that gosh-darned pretty. But in reality, he was a happy accident - the result of a German shepherd frolicking with the collie-next-door.

I didn’t name him for the artist, but for his prance. As a name, Prince was my second choice. When we first adopted the puppy, I named him Cookie after his mother. I was ten. I thought it was a noble move that would somehow make up for tearing him from his family. But naming him Cookie on top of his good looks made people to confuse him for Lady, instead of the Tramp.

A morally flawed dog

Prince was far from perfect. He had an untoward habit of getting sprayed by skunks. Over the course of his 13 years, we’ve tried every skunk-smell removing product on the market. None of them work. He was also too friendly. The first time my cat-loving friend met him, he caught her off guard, jumped up and French-kissed her.

Though he was not allowed to lie on the couch, he would. And he would be dishonest about it. When he heard someone approach, he'd jumped off and stand in the middle of the room as if he was there all along. The older and deafer he became, the easier it was to catch him lounging illegally.

When I found out he had two weeks left to live, I threw up -- an emotional reaction I’d never experienced before. It was painful counting down the days. In the end, he cheated us out of one and gave out on day 13.

Dealing with death

I can’t get the picture of him dying out of my head. He looked like a horse, bug-eyed, lips pulled back to expose his teeth and gums while he wheezed toward that terrible finish line.

When we had to take him to the vet to be put down, we called him to come out to the car and he tottered out like a sailor who hadn’t gotten his sea legs. My mother always said he would obey to the death and in a perverse way he did.

The vet warned me that when she gave Prince the injection he might twitch or exhale one last big breath. But he didn’t. He just slowed down and then stopped. I had to ask if he were actually dead.

He didn’t look like Prince anymore. He just looked like a dead animal, the kind whose head someone might mount on a wall. I can’t explain it other than to say he looked unfamiliar.

What surprises me the most is our willingness to laugh. As everyone stood over him at the animal hospital, I joked that we should have him stuffed. If it were any other time, that comment would have earned me the verbal equivalent of a smack upside the head, but instead we kind of laughed.

During a nationally televised funeral for bona fide heroes, I was mourning my dog. I recognize how ridiculous it sounds.

Yet I keep thinking about how, whenever I was sick or sad, Prince would comfort me. He might have been a poor conversationalist, but he was an excellent listener. It kills me that he could make me feel better but all I could do was watch him and pet him while he died, telling him over and over how sorry I was.

Kelsey Dundon is an intern at The Tyee.  [Tyee]

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