Noonan's Last Legs...Last Laugh

My dog pissed on me. Then I buried him.

Actually, he pissed on me twice. But I don’t blame him…because he was dead. And you don’t blame dead dogs for anything.

The first time he pissed on me I was carrying him to the trunk of my car. The second time I was carrying him to his final resting place in our backyard.

They don’t tell you these kinds of things at the vet when you’re preparing to put your dog to sleep. You learn it the hard way, the hot and hard and wet way as you are hurrying across a parking lot on Route 70 during rush-hour traffic with bottleneckers staring on.

My heart flattened by grief. Tears dripping down my face. Piss dripping down my thigh as his bladder leaked like a sliced hot compress. I couldn’t help but to laugh, “Hurry up, he’s pissing on me,” I yelled to my wife to pop the trunk. This was Noonan’s last laugh.

We adopted the boxer when he was three years old one weekday night in November, 2003. He licked my face with his fat tongue from the backseat as his paws perched on the center console. His broad chest boasted with confidence on the way to his new home. They said he was three years old. Yet we suspected this was a lie on someone’s part. However, he gave us five more years, five great and expensive years.

Noonan devoured two medium Domino pizzas on our brand new couches (both couches, in one eating). He drank from too many baby bottles gnawing too many nipples. He shattered our front door window while greeting the mailman. He killed a squirrel. He killed a bird. He killed a vole and a mole. He chewed my friend’s Josh Ritter Golden Age of Radio CD. He scratched off the tarnish, the paint and the antiquing from our coffee table. And we’re pretty sure he dialed 911 on us once resulting in a false report and one very suspicious police officer that still glares in my direction every time he drives by.

Through all the painful expenses of adopting a problem boxer, he was a good dog. We wished we had him earlier and hoped to keep him forever. But it became apparent in 2008 that it wasn’t going to last forever.

He began to limp. Then he began to fall. He bloodied his feet through toe-dragging during walks. He was unable to eat his food without his back legs crossing and giving out. He began to pee in the house and drop back into his own poop in the yard. Then he stopped using the stairs. Eventually he stopped moving altogether.

We took Noonan to our vet and came away with a handful of wrong diagnoses before finally self diagnosing him through the internet. We got a second opinion through the wonderful folks at the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary Hospital. See.. http://www.vet.upenn.edu/RyanHospital.aspx

It was called Degenerative Myelopathy and Noonan was in the later stages. Referred to as DM, this is a neurological disease that attacks the spinal cord. For all the painful details try http://74.125.93.132/search?q=cache:http://americanboxerclub.org/DM.html

We were at peace with the decision to have our old puppy put down. He was an old dog with at least eight years behind him and not a lot of good days ahead. I believe there is no wrong decision when it comes to a pet’s life. A rightful owner knows in their heart what is best for their pet. Noonan was an active dog who once could leap five feet in the air. Now he struggled to lift his head the other way in shame when we were talking about him. After six months of this it was his time to go.

On September 25, 2008 we arranged a babysitter, prepared an open grave in our backyard and made an appointment at the vet. It was one of those heart-pounding, goose bump-making, brave-walking moments. My wife and I did it together hand-in-hand the whole time. The vet prepped us with details, though we were still unprepared to watch him lay in surrender to his final breath. He did this at the hands of a half-dozen of the finest-looking female vets and vet-assistants in South Jersey. The dog lived a good life and was rewarded in his final moments.

They gave us a choice of what to do with the remains. We could leave him there at no cost to a mass cremation alongside however many stranger dogs. We could pay to have his remains individually disposed. Or we could wrap him up and do what with him we will. We chose the latter cuddling him in the first bed sheet my wife and I ever shared and carried him to our home, his home….as he pissed on me….twice!

Last month while driving by a cemetery alone with my six-year-old daughter I decided it was a good time to go over some of the real facts about death.

“Hey Abby,” I asked. “Did you know that when a person dies they are buried in the ground?”

“Yeah, I know that,” she said with the confidence of a teenager. Then she paused with silence. “Is Noonan buried in the ground?”

Blindsided by a six year old! I don’t know why this caught me off guard. My children know death through two beings – my wife’s great Aunt DeeDee and their Noonan. Whenever any conversation comes up about death my children automatically lead the conversation this way. Either that or any random Disney movie.

This is decision time for me. Noonan is buried in our backyard, just ten feet from my children’s play set. We never told our children because at the time they were definitely not old enough to handle this idea. But now? Is my daughter able to handle this truth, or is this the kind of thing that keeps six-year-olds awake with night tremors?

I told my daughter that Noonan is buried in the ground. I told her that he’s buried in our backyard. I told her that he’s home forever and that he’s exactly where he belongs. I feel like I’ve done well. Like I handled it like a champ.

“What if we move, Dad? Would we dig him up?”

Shit, another blindside! I explained that while we won’t dig him up he’ll be forever in his favorite place, the same yard where he had his best days.

We finished the conversation by agreeing to one thing. “Abby, I told you this because you are a big girl and I thought that you can handle it. But do not tell your brother, Ethan. Understand? DO NOT TELL Ethan.”

How dumb am I? Knowledge is power. Most grown adults are unable to hold a secret for that very reason. Knowledge is strength. And I gave my daughter the goods to be an authority to her four-year-old brother.

A week later my wife calls to mind, “Oh yeah, Abby told Ethan about Noonan in the backyard.”

I was crushed and hurt that my daughter would defy my confidence. Then I realized that one week is a lifetime to hold on to a secret for a six year old.

When I asked Abby why she told her brother about this she made it simple. “I thought he was ready, Dad. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to have nightmare or anything.”

I was not sure of this. Each child is different. Abby is a strong-minded, “big-girl” in a little girl’s body. She doesn’t get frightened, least doesn’t admit to it. Ethan is much different. He champions his emotions and is quite quick to admit his fears. And there’s also a bigger difference. Abby didn’t much care for Noonan. He was a nuisance to her. But Ethan was in love. Ethan still talks about how much he misses him.

So now it was time to talk to Ethan. I needed to make sure he was at peace with this decision. Surprisingly, he had only two questions.

“Is he all broken up,” he says with an inquisitive scrunched face of terror. Then he hits me with question number two. “Did he fall out of heaven?”

Blindsided again! They just keep coming.

When talking to children I find it best to chose few words, sticking to whole truths and definite wisdom. And if I can’t do that…then I lie.

“Yes, honey. Noonan fell out of heaven to our backyard.”

This blog was originally published in March 2010 at http://www.mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/.