Tugg

I love dogs.  Anyone who knows me knows I am a dog person.  I’ve had dogs all throughout my childhood and a good portion of my adult life.  There is something so wonderful and magical about a dog.  I can’t really explain it.  All animals are great, even cats, but the uniqueness of the canine is one you have to experience to appreciate.

Have you ever had a dog, or any pet for that matter, that seems connected to you?  I don’t mean lovingly following you around and staying up your ass 24/7 (I have that as well in the form of my German Shorthaired Pointer, Briscoe, whom I adore).  I mean a dog that was so emotionally and mentally in tune with you that is seemed as if it was part of you?  Sounds nuts, I know. Yet I had a dog like that.  He was a sweet red and white piebald dachshund named Tugg. 

Tugg died suddenly six days before I was admitted to the hospital for my stroke.  A few people have said his death was the stressor that put me over the edge that contributed to the stroke. I often wonder if he knew what was coming before I did. 

When we found Tugg he was at a not so reputable pet store and it was clear that he was a puppy mill dog.  Now for all you anti-puppy mill people, don’t get all huffy.  We did not go into that establishment looking for a dog, just some toys for Linus, our other dachshund, who still lives with us happily perched on his throne we like to call the couch.  I wasn’t even aware they sold puppies until we walked in.  There were those sad ass glass cages with rows upon rows of all kinds of dogs.  We looked at them for a few minutes and that’s when I saw Tugg.  He was so tiny and just sat still with his face resting on the glass.  I wanted to see him.  Reluctantly Keane let me ask the salesperson to play with him.  She picked him up and brought him out to me.  We didn’t go into one of those pens with doors, she just handed him to me.  He immediately felt heavy for his size, but not with weight but as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his little tired back.  He instantly rested his head on my shoulder, letting out a long tired sigh.  I am certain to this day, at that moment, Tugg and I both felt we were home.  I looked over at Keane with a tear in my eye knowing I could not leave him behind.  Something was off.  His back legs were weak and just hung down if not supported.  He was a little older than the other puppies there and obviously hadn’t sold yet so we got him for a discount.  $800 later (yes it was hardly a discount) we took Tugg home.  I think it was the best money we’d ever spent. 

Tugg’s background became apparent quickly.  We took him to the vet to be checked out and his back legs were so badly damaged and atrophied that the vet said with treatment and care he might walk but he’d never run.   It is most likely he spent his early weeks crammed in a cage with several other dogs unable to move.  We gave him glucosamine for his muscles and I massaged his little legs every day.  I took off work for a few days when we first brought him home to help him acclimate and also help Linus, who was almost two and an only dog thus far, get used to him.  He was a happy little dog. Everything new with Tugg gave us an inkling of what his short life was before us.  And it didn’t seem good.  For days, every time we took him in the car he cried.  He didn’t stop until we reached home again.  It wasn’t the fear of the car or being out I don’t think.  It was if he was concerned about the destination.  It finally connected for me when I called the pet shop to discuss his legs the day after we visited out vet.

The guy told me that Tugg was fine but if we didn’t like him we could bring him back for a full refund. I asked what would happen to him if we did (not that I EVER considered it for a minute). They told me they’d put him down.  They had lost money on him already.  The light bulb went on.  Someone bought this precious boy and then returned him because he was too much work.  No wonder he cried in the car.  After that call to the store, I cried.  I promised Tugg I would love him and take care of him forever. 

Over time Tugg walked freely and steadily around the house.  Within two months he was bolting up and down the stairs.  He ran like the wind.  I would take him on long walks and he flourished.  We realized over time that Tugg had a lot of physical characteristics of his breed that indicated his mother was grossly over bred.  Hence the puppy mill theory.  He had a lot of recessive genetic markers that would only show in up dachshunds that were of a ninth litter or later.  I wish I could have found his mother and cared for her too. 

Tugg had a lot of difficult habits that I easily overlooked.  When we brought him home it was clear he did not know how to disregard his own feces.  We’d come home from work and he’d be in his crate covered in it. Every single day for months.  Keane and I would call each other on the way home from work to see who would get there first.  It got to the point where I was happy to come home and see him, even though he was a smelly mess and Linus, who for a dog could be categorized as a neat freak, would be all out of sorts wondering what in the hell we are doing letting this dog smell the place up.  Shit covered and smelly, Tugg always greeted us with happy eyes, an excited tail, and shit to fling in any direction with scrappy feet.  He was such a sweet dog that it was easy to see beyond the mess.

Over time we trained Tugg to keep his crate clean.  We rewarded him with love and lots of affection.  Of course, we did figure out that he was shitting in the house and eating it to cover it up.  But like the mess in the crate we were patient with him and eventually he disposed of all of his waste outside in the grass, as was appropriate. 

Despite his training and great behavior, Tugg will be remembered by some as quite the “piddler”.  If Tugg liked you and was happy to see you when you visited, you got sprayed.  It was hysterical to me, and he was so cute and lovable that anyone he would spray, (and there were only a select lucky few), adopted a stance so they could greet him while avoiding the excitement of his urine shooting everywhere.  It was kinda gross but adorable and hysterical too. 

The thing about Tugg was he knew things.  He was very much in tune with me.  I say that a lot to describe him.  When I was sad, he sat at my feet or lay next to me. When I was afraid he would reassure me things were ok with his happy tail.  And when I was anxious, which was a lot back then, he would comfort me.  He followed me everywhere and was always ready to do as I asked and behave in a way that I needed.  Again, I know it sounds crazy but its true.  I said that Tugg was the canine manifestation of my ‘Id”, always looking for happiness and trying to protect me from my saddest and darkest parts of myself.  He always could make me smile, even when I think of him teary eyed today.

One morning I work up and got ready for work.  I went downstairs and Tugg was lying in his crate.  He was slow to get up.  He usually jumped up in the morning and ran around the house as if to greet not only us, but also every piece of furniture in the house. That day he seemed tired and moved slowly.  We thought perhaps he’d hurt his back or hip, as he ran around like crazy all the time.  I always used to think Tugg ran a lot because the vet told us he never would.  His legs seemed to give him lots of freedom.  I also like to think he ran because he was stubborn and wanted to constantly remind himself and us he could do it regardless of what anyone said.  Of course I may be projecting…

Luckily Keane was off work at that time so he was home to monitor him.  I had to go off to work and felt terrible to leave him not feeling well, but I was happy he wasn’t alone. 

The next day he was dragging a leg.  We took him to the vet who said he may have slipped a disc and gave him an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxer.  It didn’t help. Each day Tugg got a little worse.  By day three he couldn’t move anything but his tail. He could lift his head but we knew it was painful for him to do so.  I was distraught.  I was so upset each day that I had to go to work and leave him.  Keane was beside himself as he did a myriad of things each day to make him comfortable without success.  One day Keane managed to wrap Tugg in ice packs and the swelling was relieved enough he slept for awhile.  When I arrived home on day four, Tugg’s neck was swollen.  He couldn’t rest his head.  His chin was forced up by the swelling.  Each day I came home and he would wag his tail at the sight of me.  But on this day he didn’t.  He looked up at me as I cried. I told Keane I was not going to let him suffer anymore.  I called the vet and asked if we could bring him in to be put to sleep.

The vet, knowing what was up, said he would stay late and we could bring him in.  This was his fourth and final visit to the vet over those four days.

I wrapped Tugg in a big, soft, red fleece blanket from the couch.  It was his favorite to lie on.  I held him close to my chest, on my lap in the passenger side of the truck as we drove to the vet at seven o’clock in the evening.  I was crying hysterically.  I could not believe it was coming to this so quickly.  I looked down at Tugg and asked him, “Am I doing the right thing?”  This dog, MY dog, who barely moved anything but his tail in the past 48 ours, used every ounce of energy to pull himself up to my face and began licking me uncontrollably.  I cried harder.  It was as if he was telling me it was the right thing to do, and even in the last hour of his life he comforted me. 

We walked into the vet’s office to a full lobby of people and their dogs.  I, of course was a mess.  The nurse was waiting for us and immediately took us back to a nice quiet room that looked oddly out of place for a veterinary office.  Thank god she was there waiting because I have no idea how I would have sat among those people sobbing over my sick dog.

The room was bright but not obnoxiously so.  It had a nice soft couch where I sat and held Tugg.  It had that Rainbow Road, or whatever it’s called, poem framed on the wall. The vet came in, took one look at Tugg and said, “Wow, it appears he has advanced lymphoma.  This is the right decision, he can’t come back from this”.  It didn’t make me feel any better but it was something.  Tugg gave me all the confirmation I needed in the truck.  Maybe his immune system was compromised and that sped up the lymphoma.  Who knows.  I just knew my dog was sick and I had to love him enough to put him to rest.  

The vet explained the very easy and painless injection.  I looked into Tugg’s eyes and held him as the vet injected the syringe into his hindquarters.  I kissed him and kept telling him I loved him and that he was a good boy.   Within a few seconds he was gone. 

The nurse came in to retrieve Tugg but I was not ready.  I asked for some time. She left us alone with him and I held his little limp body for what seemed like a long time then, but not long enough looking back now.  I don’t really know how much time had passed but I was petting him under the blanket and realized he had gotten cold.  “He’s cold.” I turned to Keane.  He went and got the nurse.

When they came back into the room, I asked her what was going to happen to him. “Well”, she seemed not thrilled to be answering my question, “He will be placed in a mass cremation and disposed of in a sanitary manner”.  Mass cremation?  I looked at Keane and said, “We can’t”.  He then asked what a private cremation would cost and how his ashes would be returned to us.

By the time Tugg’s ashes came back to us, I was already hospitalized.  I read a lot of stuff on dogs and their sensory instincts.  I often wonder if Tugg knew the stroke was coming and that Keane could not take care of both of us.  I know it seems ridiculous to think that my dog somehow accelerated his own death so Keane could focus on making me well.  But that’s the kind of dog Tugg was. He was loving.  He was gentle and sweet.  He was entertaining and funny as hell.  Most of all he was grateful.  Tugg showed me everyday for five years how I could smile through anything. 

I still have Linus and Briscoe.  They are both great dogs and I know that they notice Tugg’s absence every day, as I do.  It’s been two years and I still look at this picture next to his ashes and greet him everyday.  I like to think he is running around, wagging his tail greeting me from wherever he is as well.