I hear this phrase a lot when working with dogs. We all expect breeds to have some personality traits that are somewhat consistent. Because we expect having a dog in our life to be consistent. We don’t think about the moments rushing to an emergency vet. We don’t think about the moments when you took your dog in for a check-up, and turns out they have untreatable cancer. We don’t think about this when we look to fill the void of loss in our lives. When we finally decide we might be ready for a new dog, we think about the upcoming battles with crate training, with meeting the family (especially if you lived with an “aggressive dog”). Many times we miss the battle raging inside of our hearts, the feeling of guilt, of replacing your last dog. Of opening your heart again to someone new. I want to talk about my struggles with this unseen battle, and how I finally came to overcome it.
Losing a dog is hard, I think about this every day with Trapper. Anyone who knows his story knows a dog who has long suffered from neglect, and health issues. I think that first year we spent over 30,000 dollars in vet care. Shoutout to Newburyport Veterinary clinic for showing my broken buddy a lot of love and care. I still remember just a few short years ago, Trapper was full of life, and energy, and could go from sunrise, to sunset with me.
We did everything together, he would come to work with me for my shifts at daycare, and then would happily trot off to different clients. He would amaze them with his amazing “Stay” cue. I could teach a class full of dogs, and have him just sit or lie down the entire time. But better yet, the times he would slowly sneak up on me during class. One of my fondest memories was the first night of beginner obedience class, I had just demonstrated what the “down” cue should look like, with one of the clients’ dogs, a hilariously energetic chocolate lab. I turned around, saw Trapper John’s disappointed face, and told him red light (his “Stay” cue). From there I went around the room checking in with clients, making sure they and their dogs were getting it. I then heard a giggle from behind me, nothing new to a dog class. Then a few more giggles, and then I heard that very familiar “click” pause “click” pause “click” of a certain Great Dane’s nails on the floor. As I turned around, there he was just wagging at me. I burst out laughing, as did the class “Trapper you naughty dog!”. A perfect teachable moment. That has always been my favorite part of using Trapper as a demonstration dog, he is so good, we have this unspoken bond and he exactly knows the pace of my classes. He also seemingly knows exactly when he needs to lighten up the mood. I like to think this is the right way to show people how to handle it when their dog doesn’t do things the way we might like.
In June of 2022, Trapper John contracted pneumonia. We had just gotten back from a class, where he seemed fine, maybe a bit slow but nothing out of the ordinary. When I realized he was really struggling to breathe. I gave it a minute before rushing out the door, I told my parents to say goodbye just in case. This felt bad, it felt worse than any of the other times I have had to rush him to the emergency vet. The car ride up was silent other than his labored breathing. The grating, laborious tone haunts me. I could feel his life slipping away. He spent the night and I was sure I wouldn’t see him again. Going up to check on him the next day, we spent the entire day just sitting in the parking lot waiting for, something, anything. He eventually came out, rolled on a cart, and they told us to keep him calm. As if in this state, he could do anything but. The next few weeks were tormentous. He couldn’t walk. My 140-pound Great Dane couldn’t walk, couldn’t even stand up. I had to carry him in and out of the house. We had to use a sling to hold him up to pee, and to poop. And there were times I just wasn’t strong enough. Watching him fall flat, meekly struggle to stand up, fail, and that look of sheer panic came across his face. I remember sobbing over him, in his bed after he peed in it for the 4th time that day. “Was his last walk…his last walk? Is this the end for him?” I knew I couldn’t keep living like this, and I was beginning to question if it was fair to make him live like this. Thanks to amazing care from his ever-expanding team of veterinarians, support from our friends and family, and the work Emily and I put in, Trapper somehow got better. As of now, he is seemingly in the best health he has been in years.
His health issues have continued to wrack up though, and so too has our isolation in many ways. Trapper has a condition called Wobbler’s Syndrome, a disease that affects his spine and coordination. This means he can no longer come to daycare with me, go up and down stairs, or spend all day every day with me. Where once I would only have to leave him home every so often, now I find myself leaving him on a regular basis. Looking back what really hurts, is how normal it has become. It really does hurt having to watch him stare at me as I ascend the stairs to a world, he can no longer interact with the way he once did. I grieve for the life he once lived, but also for the life we no longer share. I think like all things we suddenly find ourselves living in a way we once thought unimaginable. Humans are so incredibly adaptable, as are our dogs. Trapper John still has so much joy in his life and still gets to experience all the things he loves. As I am click-clacking away he is chewing on a very large Whimzee.
My current experience with Trapper contrasts heavily with my experience with my puppy Figment! He is young, spry, a boundless ball of energy. A weasel in a dog’s clothing. A sighthound with an enigmatic talent for getting into trouble. We got to meet his half-brother Bonsai, and fell in love with his long weasel face. After that, we knew we needed a windsprite in our lives. After just several months, we found ourselves loading Trapper John into the car, and making an 8-hour round trip to the middle of New York state. We had a short but sweet meeting with some of Figment’s siblings, and his mother Onyx, and then back on the road. We are very lucky to have been able to add Mr. Figment into our lives. Trapper John loved him, Arya (has now warmed up to him), and he loved all of us. We did have some issues with crate training, but we got through them…eventually.
For the longest time watching Figment go from a little potato, into a sprawling adult, there was a feeling gnawing at me. Something felt, wrong. Almost like looking into a twisted mirror. I was taking Figment to work, the way Trapper used to, and going on long off-leash hikes, the way Trapper used to. My own personal Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It felt so wrong, running up the stairs with Figment as Trapper wagged sadly, wondering why he couldn’t go. And again, how quickly this became normal digs at me. I then found the book The Year of the Puppy: How Dogs Become Themselves, authored by Alexandria Horowitz. In this, she talks about many of the same ways that her new dog Quid, was usurping the place of her older dogs. Her prose in this is profound, and I cannot recommend reading it enough. I feel like this post is my attempt at adding my voice to her chorus. One particular phrase stopped me in my tracks.
“It’s as though she has taken those moments from him, stolen them, but I would not let her steal my love from him too. And she did not, yet one day I found myself talking about “the dogs”
Hearing her say those words left me weeping. In a single moment I was taken back to the first day I took Trapper John home, and the joy of watching him explore my yard, to that unbelievable moment he passed the Canine Good Citizenship test, to the moment of walking in my door the day he needed surgery and collapsing crying because it was the first time I had ever gone home and he wasn’t there. To that moment of crying over his bed thinking his time with me was coming to an end. That quote defined that feeling I had. I came face to face with the undercurrent of resentment I felt towards Figment, he was stealing the life Trapper once had. He was taking those moments from my old man. My life had felt so much less like “Matt and Trapper” and more like “Matt and Fig”. This phrase too made me realize that we weren’t stealing from Trapper, but we were giving to Figment. Love is not a zero-sum game, my love for Trapper doesn’t change my love for Figment. Both of them deserve all of my love and all the love I can give, and I need all of theirs. Trapper has been my confidant and ardent supporter through some tough times. I know someday far too soon, Figment will have to be there as I say goodbye to his brother. I hope Figment never knows how much I will need him then. I would no longer be towed by the riptide of resentment.
When I hear that phrase “My last dog…” I know what you mean, I know the loss you feel. But I want you to know the dog in front of you, your new puppy, your new rescue dog, they aren’t your last dog. They never will be. We have to love the dog who is in front of us, and that doesn’t mean you love your last dog any less. They will be waiting for you and your new dog on the other side of the rainbow bridge.
