Memories of Duke

I'm not much of a crier. Nothing against the involuntary reaction, I'm just not wired to let tears flow without alcohol working as a prerequisite. The last time I lost it came about nine years ago at 1 a.m. at a dive bar in Greencastle, Ind. Four years of DePauw wound down. The real world loomed. I didn't want to go. I sobbed. Two days later I left college for good, ironically stuck behind a funeral procession on the way out of town. My tear ducts have been on vacation ever since through, joy, sadness, loss and death. Sure, there's been a misting at funerals, the occasional lump in back of throat, the cutting of onions to make a lasagna for one. But no wailing, no inconsolability.

Then came Duke. More on point here, there Duke goes.

As this blog's masthead hints, part of life here centers on labradors. That swimming, sepia Cody is our permanent animal fixture, a rescue dog that joined the family five years ago while we lived in Chicago. He is our child, albeit one turning into a curmudggeon set in his K-9 ways. We're taken so much more joy from Cody that we've returned, why we work with a rescue agency to help other labradors find homes. It's the Different Strokes of dogs around here, our temporary residents ranging from J.D., who stayed two weeks before finding a home, to Ryder, who spent two months here before his adoption.

Then Duke, a two-ish black lab, slipped seamlessly into our home. He arrived six weeks ago, no doubt scouting our property beforehand, taking notes on our behaviors. He knew as much what not to do (counter cruise, jump on furniture, pester Cody) as much as what to do (walk kindly, rest his head on your leg, work as night watchman). Duke had more love to give that we could accept, although we tried. His excitement knew no bounds, but it did know blood. He wagged his tail so furiously when we'd let him out in the morning or serve his dinner that he broke the skin and left red wisps on our walls. Gleefully, we debated keeping him for good.

Yet Duke had a background we never understood and probably didn't want to know. He arrived fresh off surgery to both hind ACLs that forced him to sit awkwardly and made him skittish near strangers. But most days his affectionate personality wouldn't let him stay away. If you'd sit on the floor, he'd seize the opportunity to lick your chin. If you'd sit next to him in a chair, he'd sit too, raising one paw to place it on your leg. He craved the connection. I did too. But the mistrust remained inside Duke and showed to strangers. There were lunges that made you question who did what to Duke in past months. But then he nipped a friend on the nose, drawing trace blood. The moment forces you to think of kids, the real ones of friends and the hypothetical ones of your own. They would not fully be safe. Duke could not stay, nor could we honestly offer him for adoption.

We alerted the rescue agency. Twenty-four hours later, they informed us Duke could be put to death.

I cried, the kind of cry when tears blur vision and speech turns to blabber. I apologized to Duke as he nestled into my lap. A frayed wired in his circuitry led to the bite, but the real Duke was the one who had placed his paw on my knee in an act of consolation. They say there are no bad dogs, only bad dog owners. In that case I was wretched for letting Duke coo his way into such danger.

Later that night my wife returned home. Duke licked the tears off her face.

Finally the rescue agency found a place for him to receive training in the hopes to finding the right fit of a home. It turned every walk into 30 minutes of savoring the steps, every pour of kibble turn into a tap dance for food that Duke master while waiting semi-patiently. Drop-off day came Monday, as Duke left us for a spacious boarding kennel in nowhere northern Indiana with yard to run around and other dogs to chase. His crate sits empty near our kitchen. Cody wonders where his friend with that exuberant tail has gone. That tail and everything attached to it will be missed.