How Much is that Doggy in the Window?

On May 22, 2008 two fathers crossed crystal skies on very different flights. It's funny how life leads us down familiar roads to new lessons.  Even when we think the lesson has been learned somehow our knowledge base is expanded teaching us just a little bit more.
The capacity to love rears itself in many ways, shapes and forms.  Hopefully it begins the moment a mother and father cradle you in their arms.  The first burst of a baby's cry enamors us.  Though that cry may sometimes wear thin love overides. Love, ever so powerful, finds it's way to our doorstep. It knocks and is welcomed.  Life challenges us. Life stares us down and wounds us. Through it all the ever present capacity to love soothes even the most wrenching infliction and heals the heart.
 Parenting comes in multiple forms.  The traditional role of the parent is to nurture tiny bits of DNA that cluster together and grow to be miniature replications of us.  For some that is an easy task, for others it is far more challenging.  For me there was little choice.  Gay men were not readily looked upon to be biological or even adoptive fathers; thankfully that has changed.
The best possible scenario for parenting was through my pets, primarily dogs.  I was able to expose a loving side and fulfill a burning desire to nurture.  Parenting extracted all the lessons taught over the course of my life. The greatest of all was to be selfless. Recently I learned just how selfless love can be. 
I cared for her as anyone would their child. We spent our final days together sharing far more than we had in the years during our relationship. There were battles, wars of will and I usually won. Now it had become a chore for her to find the strength to carry on.  As I looked into her eyes, dark reflective pools of a life well lived now speckled with age, I cradled her in my arms. Fear would no longer be hers as she rounded the bend to the completion of life.
Like a small round tuft of mink her head slid against the strength of my thigh. She was seeking the tenderness of a fatherly hand. On bended knee I crouched to the floor and leant a protective nook for her to rest the weary body that had once run ambitiously through life. She looked to me as if to say, "Help me daddy".
"Don't worry little girl. I'll never let anything bad happen to you, I promise." Her eyes glazed over as she  looked to me trustingly. A tear found it's way down my cheek. "Yes, I promise."
How can it be that a love so pure, so gentle, can supercede all else? Against my body she would position herself, quietly breathing in and out.  The tranquility of her breath resembled that of a contented lover, a trustworthy companion.  How can it be that a life such as hers could have touched mine so deeply?  Clutching my bed pillow I remembered a time when I'd first known the joys a pet could bring.
As a little boy I loved to read. The shelves above my desk were filled with a plethera of books in numerous shapes and sizes. The heroes and heroines were embodied in whimsical forms: geese, cats, mice and little boys and girls.  My favorite was a small pocket sized book named "Spot the Pocket Puppy". 
With it came a tiny blue gingham stuffed animal who represented the namesake of the story and soon became my closest friend.  It was love at first sight.  "Spot" went everywhere with me, the grocery store, my grandparent's house and even on long walks, stopping along the roadside to "do his business".  Of course the action was simply a figment of my vivid, overactive imagination.
"Please mommy, pleeeease, can I have a real puppy?"
"You're not going to take care of it and I'll be left cleaning it and feeding it."
I threw a tantrum inwardly. Slinking off with Spot I cried.  My older brother Randy, in a fit of annoyance with me, once ripped Spot from my hand and threw him into the fireplace.  Crying, I rescued my pocket puppy but not before his "coat" was soot stained and his side seam had burst. The problem with pocket puppies is they can't defend themselves. They depend on their owners to do it for them.
"Come on Chip, we're going to be late." My mother helped me into my coat and pullied the navy blue knit cap onto my downy head. "Where are we going?"  I'd just settled in with my Lincoln Logs and Matchbox cars for the duration of the afternoon. "Just come on."
We turned into the driveway of the tiny white ranch style home on the very busy street, with cars whooshing by. "Go on," she said, "Ring the bell." Timidly I pressed the silver button. A rotund man opened the door. From behind, a woman with jet black hair in a beehive hairdo presented me with a gift.  It was two days before Christmas and my wish had come true; my parents had gotten me a living, breathing, "run through the grass", puppy; my childhood was complete.
As the years passed there have been many pets who have touched my life: Holly, Archie, Ashley, Raisa, Kara, Amber, Ozzie and of course, Spruce. It was Spruce who touched my soul the deepest.
Admittedly Spruce and I got off to a rough start. In the early days when Robert and I first met, Spruce was his brother's dog.  Having a digestive disorder, she was thin as a rail and had "bathroom" issues.  The first time caring for her I came upon odor so pervasive I thought I would die. Whatever had erupted in my home left it's mark, wafting through the air while permeating the senses.  Down the hallway, down the stairs and into the foyer lay a trail of mud.  Upon closer examination I realized it wasn't mud at all, it was fecal matter.
That evening did not bode well for Spruce. She panted and raced over my cream colored carpet with soiled paws leaving permanent stains along the way. Thankfully the smell dissipated. I vowed never to let this animal near my home again.
"I'm going to take Spruce," Robert said. His brother, recently divorced, could no longer care for her. Since we'd met he'd spoken extensively of the Springer Spaniel puppy with the "head too large for her body". He'd shared a fondness for her beyond any other pet he'd known.  It was true, she bore a quality, a certain "je ne sais quoi" which set her apart from the rest. Her easy going nature and friendly demeanor drew people in.  Beneath the black and white markings of her glistening fur coat she loved unconditionally and with adoring eyes clung steadfastly to the man who'd taught her to "speak".
Admittedly I was leary. I wanted no part of loving something only to have it taken from me through the cruelty of life. My parents were battling terminal illnesses.  I'd loved and lost before.  My Cocker Spaniel, Amber. My partner of ten years, Dean. With the daunting challenge of caring for my mother and father I simply couldn't prepare myself for one more emotional entanglement.
Time marched on as our lives unfolded.  My parents eventually died and my grief, so overwhelming, suffocated my once robust life.  Robert and I, hoping to repair a crack in our foundation, kept house and kept Spruce. She was now our child.  Most of her habits receded like the quivering tide of the ocean as she learned to accept and trust our love.  Still, when she crept to the counter and snatched away a whole cooked turkey I wanted to build a dog house, exile her to it and occasionally send out  a morsel of bread and some water.
Like the crying baby she was the apple of her master's eye. He ensured she wanted for nothing. Long hikes through wooded trails, the sound of her flopping paws surging through the stream, "splish, splash, splash".  Grooming appointments and cushy fleur- de- lis printed beds, along with steak dinners and party hats on her birthday, kept Spruce in fine style. We even took her on excursions to Florida and she kept still for hours as we made the long trip along the Eastern Seaboard.
Robert and I ended our relationship and once again Spruce became the product of a divorce. She split her time with both of her dads understanding implicitly when she saw my car it was our "special" time together. "Come on little girl," I'd say as she leapt into the backseat of my car,"We're going now."
The hardest choice for Robert when deciding to leave Connecticut and find new horizons in Los Angeles was leaving his friends and family behind. Harder was leaving behind his "child".  We could visit him, she could not.  On the day before he departed he wept, clinging to his furry friend.
"I miss my dog," he said stroking her softly and kissing her snout, "I miss my pup-pup."
Over the nine months since he'd gone I'd become Spruce's new master.  We waged a war between one another in attempt to determine the alpha dog.  She used overt methods to gain attention. Peeing on the floor and pooping during my dinner caused me to stand upo and take notice.
Her devotion to Robert resonated throughout the house during those first weeks of seperation.  From room to room and window to window Spruce would run. She'd peek around each corner and sniff under every door.  She would pace, panting as though something of the utmost value had been taken from her; in a sense it had. Once, when Robert and I lived together, we were lying on the couch watching television.  Spruce, waking from a nap, could see only my silhouette since Robert was resting soundly behind me.  She bolted to the bedroom like the hunter she was, her nose working overtime as she sought her master.
After exhausting every possible inch of space she came to me looking forlorn. I pointed behind me. "Here he is."  Stepping up and leveraging herself against me she leaned in to his body, "Sniff, sniff, sniff". Spruce had  found happiness; her father was close at hand.
While my nephew Christopher slept soundly in his crib, his parents, Randy and Maria, sat speaking with me in the kitchen.  They'd traveled from their home in Florida to Connecticut to enjoy the resplendent colors of autumn in New England. We spoke for what seemed like hours when I noticed Spruce was missing. Searching the house I glanced into Christophers' room only to find her asleep at the foot of his crib.  She was protecting her little "cousin" from any harm that may come his way. Their tiny breaths moved in and out in unison. The two bonded quickly and became as thick as thieves.  If Christopher went to the door Spruce stood by his side.  If Christopher played on the floor Spruce played alongside him.  Long talks with her in his own language kept him entertained and she seemed, to the naked eye, to understand every word he spoke.
As the months passed, Spruce, now sixteen, began to slow dramatically.  Her daily routine had shifted from a protective awareness of my home to an aloof wandering. From room to room, like an Alzheimer's patient, she wold shuffle.  The frequency of her "accidents" increased while my patience began to wear thin.
The stress of wondering what would be waiting for me when I arived home from work or an evening of dinner with friends became consuming. "Check, please" became common terminology before frantically driving home to let her out. Hopefully I'd make it in time and avoid a urine soaked floor. It wasn't her fault. She was old. Secretly I prayed that when I'm too old to control my bladder no one will kick me to the curb. As I watched the frailty of my pet increase my mind became flooded with memories of my parents as the days preceding their deaths droned on.
I spoke to the Veterinarian and to Robert about the changes.  I spoke to anyone who would listen so a justified decision could be made about ending Spruce's life with dignity.  I spoke so much I couldn't hear myself think any longer.
 "She has Diabetes.  This is a good thing.  We can manage her urinary issues because we can control her intake of water."   The Vet's words seemed to make sense.  She'd been drinking excessively and that would lead to increased accidents. I knew it wasn't her fault. Poor little girl.
I had a lesson on giving insulin injections to Spruce and became a pro.  Everyday we'd wake, eat and she'd get the tiny vaccine placed beneath her skin. "Poke in, squirt, pull out". I was indeed a pro. Still, Spruce's life was waning.  Her mental capacity was drifting out to sea. She was floating from whitecap to whitecap as she stood, statuesque, staring blankly at the wall or into the wind. I often wondered what she thought of as she looked into the vast expanse of nothingness.
Each morning, without fail, the clock glared 5:30 a.m.. It was time to wake and let my child out before she had an accident either in her bed or down the hall. "Come on, little girl."  I'd rub her head and softly wake her so as not to startle her. She'd yawn and look into my eyes. Those two charcoal indicators appeared more and more distant everyday. I'd carefully lift her from her bed and ease her down the hall to the front door.
 At night we had our routine.  It was dinner, television and then bed.  Over the eight remaining weeks of her life an intense bond and responsibility to "my girl" took over.  I went to the bathroom, she'd lay beside me.  I'd shower, she'd lay at the foot of the tub. I'd dress, she stand rubbing against my leg making absoutely certain her dad was still there.  She went to bed, I'd lie beside her caressing the now skeletal body that had once housed a gorgeous specimen of Spaniel heritage. The routine varied little.
When Spruce decided to stop eating I cooked.  I stood at the stove and scrambled eggs. I made her steak pizzaiola, chicken and rice or anything that might tempt her.  Eventually she began to eat but without the verve she once had.  Her appetite had now become extremely finicky.  This wasn't the same dog who'd come bounding at my breakfast and dinner plate sniffing to see what she could steal from it.
On May 22, 2008, as two parents crossed the clear blue skies on two seperate flights a common choice was made.  Their little girl, brave and loyal, trusted that her two fathers would make the right decision.  Had she the ability and I believe she did, she would have asked for mercy.  Though grueling, Spruce needed the courage and strength of love to end her life with both dignity and tranquility.
I was in Florida with my boyfriend Rob when the text came. Thank God he was there to calm the swell of the tide of sadness in my heart and my soul.  Robert had flown from California to care for Spruce.  "She's nothing more than a shell of the dog she once was. It's the right thing to do." He couldn't have been more accurate. My desire to protect her from suffering was justified. Pocket puppies aren't the only ones who depend on us to defend them. Robert and I together made the difficult decision to end her life.
He stayed with her ensuring those final days were comfortable and filled with unending love.  I'm sure she knew her favorite dad was there. The Veterinarian came to my home in order to spare Spruce any anxiety.  "It was very peaceful," Robert said, "She was lying in her bed and she just went to sleep." It was dignified which was a paramount factor for both of us.
Spruce's final days set off a firestorm of emotion within me. My voice had been crippled by her impending fate.  I sat, night after night, staring blankly at my computer unable to write.  My heart, which I thought was solid, was once again breaking.  In my state of sadness I focused on what was being lost rather than what had been gained.
I thought of all we'd done especially as she aged and how she effected change within me.  I'd thought I could never love again while facing the pain of loss. I thought of how I'd put aside any feelings of paternity because I never saw myself as a father and here I was just that.  I thought of how someone, anyone, even with four paws and drool, could love so completely and I wept. I'd been parenting her far longer than I knew.  Robert had parented her far longer than me. She taught a valuable lesson on the everlasting art of love and companionship. A little Spaniel, with floppy ears and a selfless nature, taught me to be selfless as well.
I look around and she's gone.  Seated at my table or on the chair in my den I miss the head that used to sniff out whatever I was eating and catch any crumb that may fall to the floor.  No longer does the black and white face gaze out the kitchen window as my car pulls in the driveway after a long day at work. Her tail no longer wags as she greeted me prancing like a ballerina.
 I miss the small friend who kept me company when all I felt was loneliness and fear. I miss people telling me what a beautiful dog I own; they only saw the outside. Even Ozzie, Rob's dog, who spent the weekends with her looks forlorn while curled in a ball on the chair. And oddly, I miss our battles with one another when she annoyed me to no end but brought a smile to my face just the same.
Opening a small drawer in the garage my heart skips a beat; "ba-bump".  In search of something insignificant I find something of great significance: the Coach collar she wore every day with her name tag attached.  "How much is that doggy in the window?"  Priceless. 

Spruce Brezosky, with her father Robert beside her, was given the ultimate gift of love on May 24, 2008 peacefully at home.  She lived a fantastic life filled with love for sixteen years. The choice to spare her any suffering was not taken lightly but made following lengthy discussions and deep, soul searched emotion. Though I was not with her physically as she left this life, my heart followed her during her journey. She had become, afterall, my little girl~~ Keith