A ‘SMALL’ DEATH IN REAGAN’S SHADOW
Rocky Mountain News (Denver, CO) (Published as Rocky Mountain News (CO)) – July 31, 2004Browse Issues
- Author/Byline: Mary Winter
- Edition: Final
- Section: Home Front
- Page: 2E
We lost Taz on June 5, the day Ronald Reagan died.
But the coincidence was just that. The former president and our 14-pound Boston terrier had little in common, unless you count the trickle-down theory, which Reagan used to kick-start the economy and Taz used on fire hydrants.
Their passings saddened multitudes, although Taz’s touched me much more personally.
When I come home from work, I still look for Taz at the vertical window next to the front door. I remember him stationed there, his front paws planted firmly on the windowpane, his ears at strict attention, his dour little black-and-white face radiating reproach. His bug eyes would follow me up each step, sending a clear message: “Yeah, you. Late. Again.”
But he always forgave me.
I knew this because the minute my key unlocked the door, Taz would run in circles at my feet and his expression would change 180 degrees, from thoroughly disgusted to “Boy, am I glad to see you!”
I would bend to rub his head, at which point he’d stand on his hind legs and flail away with his front paws at my arms and hands. His whole head became a wide grin, exposing his gums to his ears, and he’d turn into one big tongue.
How can you not adore a creature who loves you so desperately? A creature who asks for nothing but a few pats, a little belly-scratching, a little food and water, and a daily walk around the block?
Taz brought us such joy. He was a gift, a flower, a tender mercy in a hard world.
We got him eight years ago from two young women on the west side of town. He was a stray who’d wandered up to their house, and they didn’t have room for more pets.
So we never knew his age or background, although we guessed he was about 9 years old when he died.
So young.
But he had a pretty cushy life. He had the run of the house, as well as a big back yard in which to play. He slept every night on a soft bed with my son. He had regular vet visits. Children loved him. Often, on walks, they would come up and want to pet him because they thought he was cute and cuddly. Which he was.
But not everyone appreciated his brooding good looks. In fact, many of our friends thought Taz was downright ugly, I guess because his smashed-in nose and protruding eyes made him look more like Peter Lorre than George Clooney.
He was no classically proportioned Rin-Tin-Tin, to be sure, but that was part of his charm.
As was his habit of burying things. We often found his chew toys at the bottom of the clothes hamper or under a sofa cushion. Once, I found a hot dog under my pillow, even though he wasn’t allowed on our bed.
He was never really naughty, although toward the end, he figured out a path to the kitchen counter by jumping on two chairs.
About three months ago, he cleverly pilfered a huge steak I’d grilled and left sitting on the stovetop for my husband, who had a late appointment. We weren’t even aware of the heist until three days later, when I was doing laundry in the basement and uncovered a strange brown disc, a piece of steak, squirreled away in the dirty-clothes basket.
Today, it brings a smile to my face.
I’m glad Tazzy got to enjoy that steak. Just as I’m glad he got to enjoy a couple of flings on the town, including the time he waltzed into the bustling Cherry Tomato restaurant four blocks from our house after we accidentally left our back gate open.
When he got sick in late May, we somehow knew the end was near. He’d slowed down so much in the previous weeks. He didn’t have the energy to jump onto Will’s bed anymore. He tired after short walks. He was always emptying his water bowl.
His kidneys were failing, the vet said. He hydrated him intravenously and took X-rays of his stomach, which became increasingly distended. Tumors were growing on his lungs and stomach.
At the end, the vet put Taz in what looked like a small aquarium with piped-in oxygen. He could no longer breathe on his own.
I asked whether we could bring him home to die, but Dr. Garcia said he wouldn’t make it and he’d only suffer.
So Dr. Garcia gave him the shot while we patted him, sobbing.
We left his body at the vet’s to be cremated. I regret now not burying him in the back yard.
Doug Kelley, director of the Denver Municipal Animal Shelter, tells me it’s not legal in the city, but he suspects that lots of folks do it anyway.
Burying pets in the yard is an old tradition in many families, including mine, starting with my mom’s earliest memories of her pet parakeet, Dickie, who went to his eternal rest in a yellow-satin-lined box. Not too many years ago, my big brother left an unforgettable impression on a waiting room full of poodles when he walked out of the vet’s office carrying the 50-pound body of his beloved pit-bull mix, tears streaming down his face.
Instead, in memory of Taz, we rifled a big pile of rocks and found a good headstone. It’s round and black, like he was. We’ll paint his name on it, since we didn’t get anywhere trying to chisel it.
We’ll set it near the lilies lining the brick garage, where Tazzy liked to sun himself. It will help remind us of our little buddy who died in the shadow of a legendary world leader, much less heralded but just as cherished.
