#Dogs #Pets Chuck's Dog Part 2

Chuck's Dog

I'm reposting this because I miss this wonderful dog.

What follows is a true story. It's about a dog named Duke. Other key players in this drama are Chuck-that's me, Leanne-my wife, Barb-my sister, and Ed-my brother-in-law.

Duke was a faithful companion for a decade. Early in our relationship, we got up at 3:00 a.m. M-F during the school year and walked about an hour each day. I'd drive 60 miles to work, teach, and drive 60 miles home. Duke was waiting for me at the door from the garage at least 90% of the time. 

He was my dog.

Part 1 describes life before Duke, his adoption, and his early time in the family. This post continues to the end of  Duke's courageous life story. 

Warning! If you cry at movies or when you read books, get your tissues out for this blog post.

Chuck’s Dog - Part 1

Family, Continued.

The biggest difference between Duke and Hogan was their response to the WAIT command. Hogan sits and trembles with anticipation. Duke stood or sat like the Sphinx a steely stare boring into the command-giver.

The Stare. This one is demanding a carrot.

When we got Duke home from the rescue people, we discovered that he hated females. This really upset my sister. If a female reached for him, he’d growl. I mentioned his teeth above. We were worried about this trait.

I must say that Duke ignored most people, tolerated some people, liked a few people, and loved me. Over the years his love list grew to include Leanne and Barb, but not many others. 

As a result of this serious difference in attitude and actions towards me, Ed began telling people, "That's Chuck's dog" when asked about Duke. Not "Leanne and Chuck's dog." Chuck's dog. Period. That never changed from either side of the relationship. 

My wife began feeding Duke. Put the food in the dish. Say WAIT. Put the food down and say OKAY while giving a hand signal. It didn’t take long for Duke to allow Leanne to pick him up. Well, to be honest, he never liked anyone to pick him up. Ever.

For my sister, she began putting her hands on Duke’s sides and saying, “Hug.” We began saying, “Hug,” whenever we picked him up. After about six months, my sister could pick him up. We left him with my sister while we traveled. After that week, Duke and my sister were best buddies. I’m not sure my brother-in-law ever made it all the way to the buddy category.

Saving the world from turtles in Barb's backyard.

The first day we had Duke home, he squeezed under the gate to our backyard. He went around the house. The college student who was renting a room found him on the front porch when she got home. I fixed the fence. Duke never left the house or yard after that to escape—except to chase a pickup truck or two.

Scary Times

The first scary time was a Sunday morning. Duke and I just finished our 2-mile+ walk. As we turned on to the path down the side of the house, I saw two large dogs skulking along the neighbor’s house.

Within seconds, Duke and I were in a pincer move by two Pit Bulls.

I grabbed Duke with my left arm and held him close to me while I pushed on one dog with my right hand, holding it away from Duke. The other dog grabbed Duke by the back of the neck.

I forgot the first dog and poked the attacking dog in the eye with my right hand, screaming all the while.

I heard a sound behind me, as did the Pit Bulls. My neighbor heard the screams and was waving a rake. The attackers loped away.

I shoved Duke through our gate to the backyard and started after the Pit Bulls. They were meandering down the sidewalk. I stopped to watch where they were headed. They caught my scent, turned around, and started toward me.

I took a step toward them, and they stopped.

I turned to head back to my house, and they resumed stalking me.

My neighbor moved between the dogs and me waving her rake from side to side.

The dogs turned and jogged away.

A door to one of the houses across the street opened and a woman stepped out. The Pit Bulls ran up their walk and past the woman into the house. She closed the door behind her.

I went to the end of her driveway.

“Your dogs just attacked me and my dog!”

“My dogs never leave the yard,” was her answer. She went inside her house.

I called animal control. They came out, examined the fence of the Pit Bull house, and required the owners to fix a gate latch and some loose fence boards.

I didn’t take Duke to the vet because, besides hiding in my closet after the ordeal, seemed to have no ill effects. A couple of weeks later, I was scratching Duke’s back and scab material flew out. The Pit Bull had drawn blood.

The second scary time was also on a walk, but this time we’d just turned up the hill at the end of our street. Duke stuck his nose into some appealing smell, yelped, leaped back, and collapsed. His back legs were limp.

I carried him home, loaded him in the car, and drove straight to the vet. The doctor held him under his front legs and pulled his legs toward the examination table. Both feet clunked into the table’s edge.

“That shouldn’t happen,” the vet said. “Dogs will pull their legs up at first contact. I’m afraid this is related to his dachshund physique. Keep him in his crate for a week. You’ll have to carry him out to relieve himself. If he doesn’t improve bring him back.”

We did as directed. Within two days he was able to navigate the dog door. By the end of the week, he was his old self. We still don’t know what happened, but it never happened again.

The next crisis was another oddity. During one of his comprehensive examinations, the blood work came back with a very high titer for a specific antibody. The vet ran the blood two more times, each with the same result. She sent a sample away for more analysis.

The diagnosis that came from the advanced analysis was vague. The vet researched the phenomenon. She couldn’t believe what she found as the most probable diagnosis.

After Hurricane Katrina, thousands of dogs and cats were shipped far from New Orleans because the owners had no way to take care of them. Their fleas and ticks traveled along.

There is a disease known as Ehrlichiosis that is carried by ticks. It was common in the southern U.S. Until Katrina, it was of little concern in California. Duke was diagnosed with the disease.

The vet called a colleague in New Orleans early in the process to ask about the course of the disease and treatments. Her friend reported that the symptoms and complications were so diverse that it was hard to say for certain. A round of antibiotics knocked down the infection, but his titers remained high the rest of his life.

 The Beginning of The End.

One day, I noticed a scaly crust on Duke’s abdomen. Ultimately, he was diagnosed with Cushing’s Disease. It’s a malfunction of the adrenal gland. Too much adrenalin is produced. Symptoms include a calcium crust, muscle loss, and extreme thirst among others. I rubbed DMSO on his abdomen daily for the last 19-months of his life. The DMSO carried the calcium back into his body. He smelled a lot like garlic for about an hour after each treatment, but he didn’t have scaly crust anymore.

Two comprehensive exams before he died, the vet heard a heart murmur. It got worse. His skeletal muscle degraded from the Cushing’s.

Duke was a smart dog. He never tried to get up on any furniture during his last couple of years. Early on, he’d sprint around the living room, banking off the sofa and love seat. He’d launch himself and land on our bed like a box of rocks. To this day, Hogan jumps onto the bed with grace and lands like a feather touching the covers.

Deafness
Duke always came with a single whistle or the "snick" sound I made with my tongue. And, he recognized car sounds as mine or Leanne's vehicle. He lost his hearing very quickly about two months before the end. 

There was a window of maybe a month where more "snick"s or whistles were needed. But, he was deaf soon after I noticed any decline. 

The clincher was one day I came home from working with student writers in Ramona. Duke was at his post on the rug in the foyer, but he was sitting at attention while looking out the tall, skinny window next to the front door. That spot by the window was his letter carrier attack center.

I opened the door from the garage to the foyer. Hogan trotted over from the living room. Duke sat, ramrod straight, ears cocked, eyes out the window.

I "snick"ed.
Duke did nothing.
I whistled.
Duke did nothing.
I walked over to him.
He did nothing.
I squeezed his ear between my fingers, one of the things he loved best.
He gave a start, looked at me, turned, and leaned in for more squeezing and rubbing.

I made sure I did more ear scratching, squeezing, and rubbing after that.

Into the Sunset
He woke up his last day and couldn’t eat his food—too much of the masseter muscle had degraded. He and Hogan were at my sister’s because Leanne and I were visiting our granddaughters in Wisconsin. I came to pick the dogs up around 10:00.

Hogan was outside. That was his normal location at Barb’s house.

Duke was in his bed. Barb had covered him with a light blanket. When I came in, he barked twice. Struggled out of bed and managed to head in my direction.

Barb told me about breakfast.

By then, Duke’s breathing was shallow and labored. I called Leanne and took him straight to the vet. I did not put his car harness on. He didn't give me "the look" like he always did when we didn't strap in to ride in the car. I knew he was worse than I'd thought. I put him in the passenger seat, stroked his head, and scratched his ears while I drove.

When we got to the vet, I sat Duke on the asphalt and started walking. I looked behind me. For about five seconds, Duke pranced just like the day we adopted him.

He staggered. I picked him up and carried him inside. His breathing was labored. I was crying. Somehow I managed to convey to the reception desk that Duke was most likely dying. 

Leanne arrived. They put Duke, Hogan, Leanne, and me in an exam room and blocked off the window in the door. We cried and hugged Duke for what seemed like a long time. One of the vet assistants took him in the back. The vet carried him back to us.

“He’s really in distress,” she said.

All I could do was nod.

Chuck’s dog died in my arms at 11:30 on November 15, 2017, while we told him how much we loved him through our tears. He was probably 11-years old. 

I mentioned the vets above. This day, our vet and I hugged as we cried unabashedly. I cannot thank her enough for her kindness toward Duke, Leanne, Hogan, and me that day. 

We got a sympathy card from Banfield a week after Duke died. I suspect that's SOP. Nevertheless, it was nice to see the vet's name and the others we'd come to know by name.

Epilog

I hope all dogs go to heaven. I'm not convinced of the theological soundness of that position, I posted a Timeless Truths blog titled: Spiritual Lessons I Learned from My Dog on my "Christian Context" blog. The URL is below.

It took me a long time to write the last 12 paragraphs. I had to stop five times because I was crying too hard to see the computer screen. Once, I picked up Hogan and hugged him through my tears and sobs. He licked my face, something Duke might have done to me 10-times in his life.

Clockwise from top left. First hat. On the old backyard steps at our house. With a chew toy--Duke's Godzilla teeth destroyed heady-duty Kongs in 3 months! At Crown Point. Rolling on the new artificial turf while it's warming in the driveway before installation. Sunning on the new steps in our backyard. Center: Chuck and Chuck's Dog taking a nap, which we both liked immensely! I still nap . . .  but it's lonely without my dog.

I think Hogan misses Duke off and on.

I know that I miss Duke all the time. Because

I'm Chuck, and Duke was Chuck’s dog.

Update/March 2022

Below is a photo of our newest dag. Her name is Zoey. She's delightful. I think she and Duke would have enjoyed each another. 

We have photos of Duke and Hogan in this exact spot.
Do you think Zoey was channeling?

She looks like a doxie mix from the side.