HARRY: NO SMALL AMOUNT...

THE BRIEF MEMOIR OF A

A WEST-HIGHLAND TERRIER

Harry, b. May 1998, d. September, 2014

 

Harry, in his prime, relentlessly cute

I couldn’t make the call to the vet.  Ken had to do it for me.  But I knew it was time.  One morning last week, as has been the case for the past month or so, Harry was oblivious to the sounds of our getting out bed and washing up, and had to be picked up out of his doggie bed in our bathroom where he has been sleeping for the night.  I could feel that part of him was very wet, and then I saw his nearby water dish had spilled across the floor.  He must have fumbled his way to the dish, upset it, and then, in his usual confusion, sat down in the puddle.  I carried him downstairs and then outside to do his morning thing.   Outside, he simply stood where he’d been put, looking confused.

As Harry slept more and more we had to make an effort to get him outdoors

We had set a date for our vet to come to the house, a day when Harry will be no more.  When Harry will be put to sleep.  (There, I've said it.)  Then we postponed it.  Until today.  It seemed as if Harry just fell apart this morning.  Among other issues that I will not describe here, he fell down while eating, never finishing his breakfast.

The bit of white is Harry.  He would walk a little, then just collapse where he was.

*

After his sixteenth year (the year rounded out some time in May), and even months earlier, Harry began sleeping the better part of the day.  Most of the day.  In late spring and early summer he was sleeping more and more.  He took to sleeping in our downstairs bathroom, very inconveniently draping himself around the sink or the toilet bowl.  Whether his intent was to hide himself away, or be in a space where he wouldn’t be bothered, we really had no idea.  Yet sometimes he would emerge and some of his former liveliness would return.  At least for a short time. 

He always had what we liked to think was a philosophical bent.  Even when he was quite young he would appear to be content sitting and looking at some far-away vista.  When we first moved here he seemed to admire the Adirondacks nearly as much as we did.  I remember when we stayed with him some years ago on the twelfth floor of a high-rise hotel that had floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city of Charleston, South Carolina, he sat looking out on the broad scene, seemingly riveted.  Once or twice he barked at something unseen by us.

In Maine.  Harry liked to wade, but preferred not to swim.

A seasoned traveler.  We took him everywhere.  (Well, almost.)  Hours spent in the car demanded he remain vertical and keep his eyes on the road every bit as sharply as the driver’s.  On long trips, after many hours of this, he’d start blinking, struggle to keep upright, and fight back against the urge to sleep, his eyes unwaveringly aimed straight ahead.  If we tried to block his view he’d move his head––he had to see the road.  When we drove under bridges he would duck.  He developed a motel routine:  stroll in, check the layout, await placement of the food dish, sit, wait, sleep. (Plenty tired after all that driving.)  He was, as far as we know, a well-mannered guest.  Although we often wondered:  What did he do when we left?  Did he bark?  We would never know for sure.   

Just chilling

In his sixteen-plus years Harry visited Maine, Colorado, New Mexico, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, the above-mentioned South Carolina, and all the states in between.  The ocean was as interesting to wade in as a lake, a suburban street nearly as gemutlilch as a field.  Like Thoreau, he traveled widely in Concord, Massachusetts.  And, of course, Lexington he knew like his own backyard.  Which it was, for twelve years.  He hiked in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and conquered at least two of the 4,000 footers as well as many of the lesser peaks.  He needed a couple of boosts up trails like the Caps Ridge Trails to summit Jefferson.  He made it up to the top of Mount Lafayette unaided, but not too happily as I recall, since the day was warmer than he liked.  He preferred cold.  More than once he strolled into icy waters in winter as small icebergs floated around him.  He climbed Buck Mountain behind our house many times, even in years before we moved here.  In his earliest days he sometimes accompanied us camping.  It wasn’t the best arrangement, however, as he hadn’t yet gotten the knack of hanging around the camp and tended to wander. 

Ken carried Harry in his backpack for most of the hike.

One wandering while we were camping was not a lot of fun.  For us, that is.  Our tent was in the Okefenokee Swamp, a National Wildlife Refuge bordering Florida and Georgia, where you will find plenty of alligators, snakes and whatever else is likely to inhabit one of the largest protected wetlands in the South.  We were nearly the only campers.  Dogs are not permitted there (alligators! snakes!), so during the day we had to leave him in the car.  (It was late November, days were chilly and he was in the shade besides.)  In the night we were all zipped snugly into our tent.  Ken cooked bacon one night and left the bacon pan outside the tent atop the fire pit.  In the middle of the night something came to lick up the bacon fat.  We could hear it chewing.  So, of course, could Harry, who pushed up the zipper with his nose, and bolted out of the tent in no time flat, vanishing into total blackness in pursuit of––we didn’t want to think about what.  Haaarry!  Haaarry!   No response.  That, we thought to ourselves, is the end of Harry.  What with alligators, snakes and goodness-knows-what-all, we knew he couldn’t survive for long. We searched, we called, we waited.  Suddenly, my flashlight caught a pair of eyes.  Harry, out of nowhere, was transfixed in the beam of light like the proverbial deer in the headlights.  I kept the light in his eyes while Ken grabbed him from behind.  We took him back into the tent and Ken attached a leash to Harry at one end and to his wrist at the other.  No more taking chances.  This was not the only time he bolted, but it was the scariest.

Crawling back after an unexpected dip in the ocean.  He was game.

Harry, after a particularly enjoyable roll in the mud and grass

Would Harry actually have caught whatever he was after that night?  We doubt it.  (More likely it would have caught him.)  The prey would have had to be a real patsy.  We remember a time we were walking in the Concord woods when he became fascinated at discovering a hole beneath a tree.  After some serious sniffing and a few minutes of furious digging a mouse emerged directly under his nose, ran between his feet and escaped to freedom.  Harry seemed more surprised than frustrated.   His hunting skills never improved. 

He preferred the cold and especially loved rolling in snow.

Mark, our vet, came to the house this afternoon along with Ashlie, one of his vet technicians as well as our dog and house sitter to bring Harry to his end.   It was gently and lovingly done.

There will never be another Harry.  Every dog, I suppose, is unique.  Each in his own way.  Harry was unlike Skyler, our Brittany, in countless ways:  different in size (obviously), shedding ability (Westies never shed!), in the amount of petting and/or cuddling he would stand for (a measured amount for Harry).  Moderation in all things, could have been his motto.   A description of Westies that we read before we got Harry said Westies have “no small amount of self-esteem.”  This was evident in his apparent all-around confident bearing.  He was intimidated by very little.  He was tough.  He never complained when ticks were pulled from his skin, or when he was combed and groomed, or when he was taken to the vet. 

He was, it must be said, his own dog.  

“The West Highland Terrier possesses no small amount of self-esteem.” 

“Said to be ‘all terrier,’ this breed possesses a large amount of spunk, determination and devotion stuffed into a compact little body.” –– American Kennel Club