THE BRIEF MEMOIR OF A
A WEST-HIGHLAND TERRIER
Harry, b. May 1998, d.
September, 2014
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Crawling back after an unexpected dip in the ocean. He was game. |
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| 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.
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| 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
