3 posts from July 2009

with a beard.

Last week Xander, my male dog ( a.k.a. Renner’s Commander Xander Harris; Xander, Xander, Pants Commander; Pants; Mr. Pants; Mr. Fancy Pants; Stretchy Pants; Captain Pantaloons; Herr Leiderhosen; and Sans-a-belt Slackhound), died.  He was not quite two years old.  He is missed horribly.

 

If you asked me if I would ever endanger or neglect my dog I would be speechless.  Of course not!

 

But that is what I did.

 

Here’s what happened:

Willow went into heat and (since Daisy is still tearing the house to pieces) we aren’t ready for another litter.  Xander went berserk.  We tried putting them in different rooms but you’ve got to open the door sometime.  We tried keeping her inside and him outside but he tore into the back door and dismantled the dog door.  We tried keeping him in and her out but he tore up the other side of the back door.  We had them both on lead tied at different ends of the living room, at different ends of the house, then different sides of the yard.  Even when he wasn’t thrashing about he would whine and keen and generally make us all (human & canine) an irritable wreck.  His regular collar was woefully ineffective for manyally controlling him.  He was 100 lbs. of muscle and crazy.  I am a big lady and he was dragging me around the house like a ragdoll. I felt bad about it but after experimenting with a choke chain we decided that was our only hope of being able to control him.  I have never seen a dog in such obvious distress and  nothing short of a car ride could get his mind off the need to breed.

 

We kept thinking, just a couple more days and he’ll settle down.  I would keep one dog with me and Mr. Monkey would have the other dog.  Then we’d switch off because whomever had Xander had their hands totally full.  Just a couple more days.  Of 24-hour distress.  But we love our big dogs and we signed on for whatever that entails.

 

Last Wednesday morning Xander was in the back yard and things were going surprisingly well.  Willow was sacked out in the bedroom with the Mister.  I looked outside and was pleased to see that he was not wigging all-the-hell out for a change.    

 

Within an hour he was dead from asphixiation.  He was doing something foolish and got his collar tangled up. I guess he panicked and managed to twist it tighter and tighter until he choked. 

 

I should have forseen this.  I left an insane dog unsupervised in the yard.  If anything bad can happen it does.  I really try to not let this kind of thinking to rule my life.  I grew up with it and it guarantees a life of missed opportunities and unnecessary disaster preparation.  Especially at work I am constantly combatting people who are consumed with the idea of preparing for any eventuality.  Well, that’s just not possible. What if?  What if?  What if, my ass.  You prepare thoroughly, have at least one back-up plan, and then get on with your life.  That’s been my advice.

 

So.  I’m having to re-access that whole thing.

 

If I had heard of this happening to somebody else I would probably want the person prosecuted.  People are *responsible* for their animals. “It’s not the dog’s fault, it’s the owner’s.”  This I believe.  My dogs don’t wear couture or go to the day spa, but I feel strongly about man’s my obligation to wise and humane stewardship.  But feeling that way did not keep me from failing in my actions.  Fail. Fail.  EPIC FAIL.

 

Xander was probably the sweetest-natured dog I have known.  He was a natural acrobat and comedian.  Except for mating, he had not a care in the world.  Xander, unlike most rottweillers, was not motivated by food.  He was motivated by play.  He would answer to any and all of his nick-names.  OK. He wouldn't answer to Sans-a-belt Slackhound or Herr Leiderhosen, only the  ones that contain the words "Xander" or "Pants."   You could hug him until his eyes bugged out.  He was a cuddler, a snuggler and, frankly, a bit of a suck-up.  He loved playing fetch and was developing into a fine catcher.  Xander loved to leap and did so often for reasons known only to him.  He was a lover, not a fighter. He was a proud dog-daddy and a fabulous baby-sitter for Daisy, who would chew and bite and bark and growl and climb on him and ride him around for hours at a time.  Xander didn’t mind.  We’d just rub him down with Neosporin so the puppy bites wouldn’t get infected and he was good to go.  I cannot tell you how many times I called him to get Daisy off my sock or out of my face.  They went in and out the dog door countless times every day.

 

Now Willow is sad and Daisy has turned into a total cling-on.   I get up early so I can play with them extra and, with any luck, wear them out before I go to work.  When I get home they glue themselves back to my legs until we call it a day and pile in bed.   

When I read of Elvis’ demise my heart broke all over again.  It took a lot of courage for AmyH to write that lovely tribute him, and it made me think that I need to attempt a similar farewell to the Pants Commander.  I’m not very brave but I know that I have to get this out of my head and into the light. 

 

Now that I’ve written this I should start to feel better.  Right?