The Coon Hound I Loved Too Late

As I watch our beloved old dog Shelby find it more difficult to rise from the floor, when she refuses to eat or suffers interminable bouts of diarrhea I know that at some point we shall have to say goodbye.  

Last week we took her to a new vet to see if anything could be done. I knew this might be her final trip. As Bill lifted her into the back of the truck, I wanted to crawl in there with her. It was a long drive and I sobbed most of the way. The closer we got to Two Harbors the more rapidly my heart beat and the more difficult I found it to breathe. Two blocks from the office I gasped, “Bill, I’m going to faint. Pull over.” Bill kept on driving. “Open the window; breathe deep,” he said. He turned into the parking lot. I was there as Bill lifted Shelby from the  truck. I threw my arms around her and wept. My tears soaked her head. Her head went lower and lower. “I love you Shelby, I love you.” As  Bill lead her away I staggered onto the lawn and sank onto my knees in a small island of trees. I thought of Captain and the decision I’d made 30 years earlier.

I was five months into a precarious pregnancy. Swaddled among the pillows my husband stacked around me, we began our long drive home along the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was November and fog blanketed the highway, hiding even the hood of our bright yellow Fiat. After an especially hairy section of road, as we negotiated yet another S curve, the fog suddenly dissipated. Directly in front of us, huddled precariously close to the road under a canopy of dripping pines, sat two tiny white puppies. Vittorio (my deceased husband) pulled to the side of the road and gathered the miserable little things into his coat. He seemed jubilant as he tucked them into a blanket in the back seat of the car. He knew his “gentle-hearted” wife couldn’t bear to leave those helpless creatures abandoned on that dangerous road. He smiled at me tenderly.

            Vittorio thought I was good and caring but the truth was that I could easily have convinced myself those puppies belonged to someone living on the mountain and driven on. I’d never had a dog of my own. What would we do with two puppies in a tiny apartment, I asked him, and convinced him to stop at the nearby town to see if anyone had lost two puppies. People laughed at our inquiries. “Too many coon hounds around here. They’d been dumped.” We returned to New Jersey with them.

            We named the one with the black eye-patch Captain and gave the other to my brother. As baby Thomas grew within me, Captain developed into a lively young pup that we both enjoyed. When labor began, I hugged Captain goodbye but when I returned, I walked right past the hysterically happy dog, my eyes seeing only my baby.  My mother noticed this and grew furiously angry with me. How dare I walk right past the dog that had been languishing for me ever since I left. Couldn’t I see he had gotten ill while I was gone? How could I be so hard-hearted? Mom’s questions shocked me. I realized that since the baby’s arrival, I hadn’t thought of Captain once.

I tried to pay attention to the dog, but he was no longer the “child” in our lives. Captain didn’t seem to mind. He adored the baby, appointed himself guardian—making sure the Great Dane next door kept its distance, checking visitors, growling if they got too rough. I appreciated Captain’s presence but found it hard to care for him adequately.  I’d developed tendonitis and walking the dog became difficult. When he yanked at the leash, I almost fainted from the pain. His hair was everywhere. Attempting to brush him and clean the carpets became a disgusting chore. His short bristly hair stuck to everything. I worried about the baby who was learning to crawl. It was only a short move from inside the apartment to a doghouse outside. There his howling disturbed the neighbors. I didn’t want the dog. Someone else might.

            When no one responded to our ads for a “free Coon hound. Loving. Great with children,” Vittorio reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the Humane Society. They explained that they would hold Captain for two weeks, during which time Captain might be adopted. If not they’d have to put him down. Could we take him back if no one wanted him, I asked? The reply was negative. I was appalled at the alternative. I hesitated. Vittorio asked if I wouldn’t want to change my mind.  I thought of the hair, the baby, my hand. Someone would adopt Captain, I convinced myself. Biting my lip, I signed the form releasing him into their custody.

Days later, I dreamt of Captain. He was begging to come home. The dream was so vivid it woke me up. I ran to the calendar to check the date. Two weeks. With a shudder I realized the dream was a premonition. Captain had not been adopted. I sat in the kitchen sobbing. The baby woke crying. I swept him up into my arms. I’d loved Captain too late. I’d not ever make that mistake again.

 When Bill came out of the veterinarian’s office, he was smiling. “It’s okay. She’s coming home. The doctor says he can help her.” I fell into Bill’s arms laughing and weeping. We’d been given a respite.