Back in 2016, a few days after Christmas, I was in Escondido with Alyssa and our other dog, Copper (half Shiba Inu, half American Eskimo). At the time, we thought that Copper needed a companion to keep her from going stir-crazy while we were both out and at work, so we visited the local Humane Society and looked over a few dogs. Of the ones we found, there was a corgi mutt of some kind that we were really interested in, because who doesn't want a corgi? Of course, when we came back the next day, after thinking it over, the dog was gone.
Not wanting to leave without anything to show for it, we looked for the least threatening dog we could find and settled on "Schmoopy" a chihuahua / rat terrier mix.
I thought the name was funny at the time, as if Justin Roiland named him as he was passing through. Schmoopy had a characteristic floppy right ear that looked like an eye winking, so I just threw out "Wink" as a possibility for a name. My wife didn't have anything else in mind, so she agreed.
The strange thing about Wink was that, of all the dogs I've ever encountered, he was the sweetest and most mild mannered one I'd ever known. Whereas Copper barked any anything that moved into her peripheral vision, Wink was silent. In fact, the singular time I heard him bark was when I was taking him out to go to the bathroom and he saw a cat minding it's own business on a table across the road. It was a stalky, grey beast of a feline, at least twice as large as him. He froze in place after taking notice and made a low, and muffled, "hhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrr." I was astonished.
I later found out Wink was adopted and returned at least two times before we took him home. Why? He was the easiest dog. He neither chewed, barked, nor bit. In many ways he was more like a cat than a dog. He just found a spot on you and curled up. That's all he ever needed. (I actually found a newsletter of a "successful adoption" story featuring Wink with one of his original owners.)
Eventually, after having Eowyn, we had to re-home Copper. She was beginning to get food aggressive when Eowyn would crawl on the floor and we thought it best to get her into a home with older children before she tried to bite her. Copper is still alive today according to Facebook, living her best life as an obese troublemaker I would assume.
When we adopted Wink, we were told he was maybe 4-5 years old, however it became clear that he was probably a little older, given how quickly his hair began to grey. When he died, he was probably 13-14 years old. Or 15-17 years old. Who knows?
But Wink was having trouble this past year. He was getting confused, walking around in circles and getting stuck under chairs. The symptoms pointed to Canine Cognitive Dysfunction, which presents almost like dementia in humans. After a lot of thought and tears, we decided to let him die with dignity.
I had no idea what it would be like putting down a dog. Even now, the vet visit feels so surreal and strange. I was lead into a quiet room decorated with inspirational quotes and votive candles. As I cradled Wink, the reality of what was about to happen began to coalesce. I was already crying, but now I was scared AND crying. I thought about the pain he would feel as they stuck a catheter into him, or about the confusion he might have felt stemming from my emotional distress. There was a jar of Hershey kisses with a sign next to it saying "No dog should ever go to heaven without having tasted chocolate."
I wailed like a madman when they gave him the shots: one to calm him, the other to kill him. A thought occurred to me that, maybe, I had made a mistake, that I was crossing a bridge not yet finished. I held him, shaking, crying out, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry..." over and over again. Alyssa and I were both sobbing, absolutely inconsolable. When the vet gave me a hug, she asked me if we wanted to stay with him for a few more minutes, but I looked down and I was just holding a dead dog.
That was the moment that I recoiled. I said, "No... I... I can't, please take it away." And we had to get out of there.
The act of putting down an animal is still an enigma to me. How it affects us, what it does to our hearts. So much of pet ownership is exploitative. We own the animal, the animal exists to please and affirm us. That we anthropomorphize and impute human qualities to the extent that we do, it's proof enough of the bond's power. We wish something could love us unconditionally, so instead of God we erect an animal in his place to do so. In the lead up to Wink's euthanasia a friend of mine told me, "if you let your dog live, you are keeping him alive for you, not for him." Without reservation, I would say that I agree.
The strange thing about all this: after we left the vet, Alyssa told me that she's never doing this (owning a dog/putting a dog down) again, and yet I still want one. There's a hole in my heart where he once was and it wants to be filled.
I do pray though that God in his grace would do me favor of bringing Wink back to me in the new heavens and new earth. He has no reason to, as dogs don't have immortal souls. (Neither do we, for that matter, as the idea of a soul comes from Plato and not the bible.) But I would like to think in his kindness he would bring him back into existence for me.
Until then, thank you for being such a good boy, Wink.
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