I didn't name Gil-Galad, my wonderful partner did when he bought him from a local breeder when the lil' guy was about 10 weeks old. Gil-Galad couldn't have been a better name for him, because Gil-Galad—the name of a character in one of Tolkien's books—means Star of Radiance. And that was Gil: he was a shining star, full of radiant, infectious happiness. Though it will give me solace at some point, right now I'm heart-broken my dog is at Rainbow Bridge. Heart-broken. Below the jump is his story (and some pics) which by writing I hope will help me ease my sorrow. Thanks in advance for reading the most personal diary I've written.
My life took an amazingly beautiful turn when I met my partner. Keith and I fell in love and now—almost seven years later—I am deeper in love with him than ever. In addition to that awesome gift—the gift of his love—my partner also bestowed upon me Gil. The first time I met Gil he was three years old. Keith and I had had our second date (or was it our third?), and afterwards, he invited me over to his apartment to meet his dog. As I recall Keith very unsuccessfully tried to keep Gil off of me. But as soon as I walked into the apartment, the 70-pound male boxer was jumping on me like crazy, licking any part of my face he could find. He also punched me a time or two with his front legs. (Although there is some disagreement about the origin of the name "Boxer" as a dog breed, some believe that the dog is so named because of the characteristic "boxing" it does with its front legs when it is playing). Gil fell in love with me at first sight; I could see his heart racing through his beautiful brown eyes as he looked into mine. Over the years I would watch Gil fall in love with just about everyone he met!!! Radiant. Shining. Star. Oh, how I miss you, my baby boy.
Here is Gil as a young dog, before I lived with him.
Two Homes, Two Dads
As my relationship with Keith developed and we spent more time with each other, Gil came to learn that he had two homes, both stocked with food, treats, dog beds, and toys. At one house (where he and his daddy moved to shortly after we met), Gil had a fenced-in yard to roam around in at will, patrolling for squirrels; at the other, he could go for walks to a nearby small, private college where he slobbered sometimes on willing co-eds and where once he "boxed" a few members of the school's football team and a campus police officer. It was at that point, I think, Gil realized he had two dads who cared for him very much, because it was then—if my memory serves me after years that blur together—that I fell in love with my partner. It wasn't long after that Gil stole my heart as only a dog can do.
In his book, The Truth About Dogs, Steven Budiansky correctly notes that we would never put up with a human roommate who pees on the floor, yet we afford dogs that level of acceptance. Gil wasn't one to pee on floors, but wow did The Kid vomit! He horked regularly—two to four times a week. Cleaning up his vomit seemed to happen as regularly as starting the dishwasher. We told vet after vet about this, but it was only later in his life—after he aspirated on the operating table when he was having some non-cancerous tumors removed—that we learned from one vet Gil suffered from acid reflux. Like me, Gil had GERD. His vet prescribed him Pepcid after his surgery, and she instructed us to give him 20mg twice a day. It turned out to be a miracle drug, one that improved the quality of his lovely life tremendously because his vomiting stopped immediately. Gil got his Pepcids right up until the end.
I learned too that Gil was afraid of thunderstorms and fireworks, and that he always woke up in a good mood. I learned that (except for thunderstorms and fireworks) he remained in a good mood pretty much no matter what. He loved people, loved them, and he was completely curious about how we humans live. Like an anthropologist, he studied everything I did; he followed me everywhere. Regularly, Gil's big head would pop through the shower curtain, startling me. He'd watch me in the shower for a few seconds, big-eyed, then his head would disappear as quickly as it had appeared. Almost always he'd sprawl out on the bath mat or just outside the bathroom waiting for me to emerge from the shower, ready to watch my next move.
Gil was so people-oriented, so charming, that many immediately were taken in by his intoxicating spirit. After meeting one friend for the first time, all 70+ pounds of him plopped on her lap, and Gil then proceeded to produce long, loud farts...all the while kissing her face. She couldn't stop laughing! Gil tried to sit on the lap of another friend he had just met...at our dinner table! He didn't do it for food, but to show Roland that he was his best friend. That was Gil: you met him once and you were his best friend. So smitten was he by Roland that Gil would regularly pout and stop eating for about a day after each visit Roland made to our home. I called them his 24-hour depressions.
And oh how Gil loved going to the vet! He loved the attention there, loved to be examined. He watched intently when he would get stuck in his shoulders and hips with vaccines. While he always pulled on his leash to get into the vet's office building, Gil would actually need to be coaxed to leave. The folks at his vet clinic loved him too. One vet tech even asked me once when my partner and I would be taking our next vacation, because the staff missed having Gil boarded there. They wanted their fix of Gil, and who could blame them?
Another thing I learned very quickly about Gil was his non-stop desire to play (a charming boxer characteristic). He always wanted to play fetch, catch a frisbee, run through fresh snow, or—typical of the bullbaiter that he was born to be—play tug-of-war with one of his array of rubber toy rings. He had his green toy ring in his mouth so frequently that Keith and I joked that the toy was like one of his body parts.
Being a Boxer, Gil always wanted to play tug-o-war. Here he is offering a game of tug with his ring.
One Home and a Sister
My relationship with Keith led to me moving in with him. No longer did Gil have to wait days between dates for the three of us to be together! Those were blissful days for Gil. He was with two people in love with each other, and two people who loved and fawned over him. But, life is change, and Gil was in for a huge one. My partner thought it would be a good idea for Gil to have a playmate and that did not seem like a bad idea at all. And so, after Gil completely charmed the socks off the volunteer from Adopt-a-Boxer-Rescue who came to our home for a pre-adoption home assessment, we were fortunate enough to adopt our boxer-girl, Spice, Gil's "sister" who was three years his elder. Chronically malnourished, Spice's growth was stunted and she was severely underweight. Worst of all, Spice had been an Amish puppy mill breeder dog formerly enslaved in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. That meant she did not know how to be a dog; she only knew how to be livestock. She'd never known human love, she was never part of a social "pack", and between giving birth to litters of puppies, she was kept in a barn year round without heat or air-conditioning. That is the routine evil that Amish puppy mill breeders do to dogs. (Although the Amish are notorious puppy mill operators, all puppy mills are places of greed-based animal cruelty).
It was Gil who taught Spice how to be a dog. They didn't hit it off right away—he tried to mount her upon meeting her and, by God, Spice was not going to let herself be raped anymore, so she put him in his place with some serious growling and snapping. But, they soon realized what they had to give to each other: canine-canine companionship. Spice watched everything Gil did. She watched him play, she watched him roll around on the floor "laughing", and she learned from a pro how to enjoy the good life of a loved dog. Ever the non-dominant dog, Gil always deferred to her wishes. Spice transformed from being lost and depressed to being as exuberant (and as spoiled) as Gil. That's what he did for her, and it came at a cost to him: he had to share the love and attention of his two dads with Spice. He had to give up being an only child. He did it with grace and class.
Here is Gil trying to stop his bossy sister from stealing his frisbee (he always gave in and let her have it).
Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon.
Clumsiness Becomes a Fatal Diagnosis
It was in July, 2008, after several discussions Keith and I had about Gil's seemingly increasing clumsiness, that I finally announced I was making an appointment for him to see his vet. I wanted to know why he began to sometimes slip, sometimes fall, when playing fetch. As he hugged her with his two front legs and lapped at her face looking like the picture of health, the vet asked me why I had brought him in, and I said, "He's getting more clumsy and I think something is wrong." Within an hour I was home telling my partner precisely how Gil had failed the neurological exam. Shortly after that, on July 28th, Keith took Gil to a neurologist at a large animal hospital for a comprehensive work-up. Gil had the best health insurance in America, his two dads: no co-pays; no paperwork; free meds; no denied coverage ever; door-to-door "limo" service to each doctor's appointment all of which were free; comprehensive preventative care. At the hospital Gil had spinal x-rays, an MRI, a lumbar puncture, and another neurological examination. He also had genetics testing for degenerative myelopathy or DM. Prior to his extensive diagnostic work-up, I had scoured the internet to try to learn what was the matter with Gil, so I was vaguely familiar with DM. From what I read on the internet at that time, I was led to believe that DM was similar to multiple sclerosis.
When I picked up Gil at the hospital the day after Keith took him there, the neurologist told me that it looked like he had DM, but that the genetics testing results would take a few weeks. She and I were talking about Gil's future paralysis—should the blood test come back positive for DM—and I remember telling her that I understood that DM was like MS, that the paralysis—if it would come at all—would not extend beyond his hind legs, and that at some point—if he did become paralyzed—he would walk around fine in a wheelcart. No, she corrected me, "it's more like ALS." The neurologist explained what I already knew about Lou Gerhig's disease: if Gil had DM, then his paralysis would ascend up his body. She said that a wheelcart would be pointless. I was numb.
Gil and I had a long ride back home, and when we got there, I came unhinged. Upon seeing Keith I burst into tears and cried over and over and over, "Gil's gonna die! My poor baby boy is gonna die!" I sobbed. For the first time in my life, I sobbed in my lover's arms. That weekend was very depressing.
A couple weeks after Gil returned from his overnight stay at the hospital, in August, 2008, we got the call confirming DM.
Degenerative Myelopathy is a Hideous Disease
By the early winter of 2008 Gil was struggling to stay on his feet when he walked around in the snow in the backyard. Standing on patches of ice and snow while trying to poop, sometimes Gil would slip and fall. His athleticism had been replaced with the wobbly, fragile gait of a newborn deer. Out loud I had predicted that he would be dead by the end of January. I didn't realize then, as I do now, how hideous degenerative myelopathy is. Although I guess I should have, I didn't know then that DM robs you of your life in slo-mo, just as human neurological diseases do like Alzheimer's Disease, Huntington's Disease, Parkinson's Disease, and ALS. It's merciless and I hate it so much, I hate what it did to my little man. Before winter's end, Gil was being carried up and down the stairs, and at the vet's suggestion we never allowed him to walk on asphalt (the dragging of the back feet on a hard surface would make them bleed). We began driving him to the park for walks in the snow and grass, and he would compensate by walking in a way that was mistaken for hip problems. Though he was clumsy, he loved each of those walks, cherished the time there with his dads, even though his running-through-the-park days were over. Those walks stopped when Gil's paralysis advanced to the point where he could only drag himself around the house.
At some point in the late spring of 2009 Gil was not eating much. By that point he needed to be held when he ate his meals or drank water, and he had to not only be carried outside and held when he pooped or peed, he had to be carried everywhere. Not surprisingly Gil seemed somewhat depressed. DM was extinguishing his spirit. Was he giving up? My partner and I thought maybe it was time for Gil to be put to sleep. I called the vet; we agreed to bring Gil in for a consult.
At the vet's office, we learned that Gil had lost about ten pounds. But, the vet was impressed that he had no bed sores on him. I explained that I mentally took note of which side I was laying Gil on when I'd lay him someplace, and that I would flip him over regularly so he would not develop any pressure sores. His vet asked, "Have you thought about a wheelcart?" I told her that the neurologist had advised us against that. Gently, the vet told us that we might improve the quality of Gil's life if we got him a wheelcart, and if he accepted it. She gave us contact information of a place about four hours from our home, a place called Eddie's Wheels. It was, of course, up to us, she said.
A Glorious Rebound Before the Final Descent
The bell on the door jingled as we walked into Eddie's Wheels, Keith carrying Gil. Though he couldn't, Gil struggled to get up off the floor, struggled to lift himself high to lick the face of the woman who bent down to greet him. His boxer butt-wiggle was going like crazy as she got down on the floor and hugged his crippled body. In addition to being custom-fitted for a wheelcart, while we were at Eddie's Wheels, we paid for Gil to have a massage by a trained animal masseuse. Surprisingly, Gil laid completely still for it and he soaked up the woman's touch. He was relaxed and at peace. After he had his nails done, we all drove home and waited two weeks for his wheelcart to arrive via UPS.
By late July, 2009, Gil was mobile again and taking walks, better than ever, in his new wheels! He ate more, he perked up alot, and he looked longingly at us everyday, as if to ask, "Is it time for my walk?" It was a thing of beauty to see Gil no longer realize he was crippled. And when he was going for a walk in his cart, he wasn't the least bit disabled! He was a normal dog again.
Soon the neighborhood knew of Gil's condition and so did a good number of people at the park. It's hard not to ask "What's wrong with your dog?" when you see one in a wheelcart. The wheelcart served as a magnet at the park. People came up to meet him; he was in the spot-light and he loved it. He shined. I wish we had not been advised against a wheelcart by Gil's neurologist. I wish we had purchased Gil's wheelcart months before we did, that's what a great investment it was for him.
DM was not finished with Gil. It would have the last word. After months of wheelcart walks, increasing weakness and also incontinence began to creep slowly into the picture, as we knew it would. Gil's incontinence worsened, and my partner and I found ourselves bathing Gil and cleaning up after him more and more. Keith also came home from work every day at lunchtime to carry Gil outside so that he would not mess himself and then have to lay in it until his dads came home from work. Also regularly Gil would awaken us at night to let us know with soft sighs he had to go to the bathroom. In the darkness my partner or I would walk Gil around the backyard, wheelbarrow-style, until he found just the right spot to go to the bathroom. Sometimes he wouldn't be able to hold it, and he would poop in the house as he was being carried outside.
Then, Gil's two good legs, his front ones, ever so slowly began to misfire, just like the back ones had begun to do several years before. He'd stumble during a walk. On occasion he'd sort of lose his balance while drinking water—even though I'd be holding him in a sitting position in front of his water bowl. Apparently too afraid he would fall (even though he was being held) Gil stopped drinking water. Except for the last day of his life (when he finally drank water while laying down), no amount of effort on my part would change that. For about a week Gil was getting all of his water from the canned dog food that he ate (plus the small amount he'd allow us to mix in with his dog food).
Gil was giving up. I couldn't blame him. I told him so as I hugged him. He sighed alot that last week. Sighed and let out high-pitched, very soft whistle sounds, like he wanted to cry, but didn't have the energy to do so. Very shortly before we had decided to put him to sleep, Gil stopped eating much of his food. We knew then that the dreaded day was upon us.
For a short while, Gil was (literally) in clover after he got his wheelcart.
"Well I've never met anyone with your courage/And the way you enjoy life puts me to shame/Just an hour with you and I understand why we had to meet/...You're not the first and you won't be the last/But you are the one I'll remember" --Joan Armatrading from the song "Everyday Boy"
I'm a Spiritualist. Spiritualism is a religion based on a set of beliefs about the soul and the afterlife with an emphasis on spirit communication; and, like all Spiritualists, I "get in touch with Spirit" (as I like to say) from time to time. That is to say, I visit bona fide mediums who channel spirits—spirits who when they had a physical form (a body) knew me.
Many years ago I was having a "reading" or a "sitting" as these channeling sessions are called, and the medium (a Spiritualist minister) said that the most forceful spirit coming through at that time was a dog. The minister was bemused by this and began to describe the dog in great detail. It was a daschund, I was not it's owner, but it knew me a long time ago. The daschund spirit communicated that while I did not live with it, it felt really bonded to me, and it wanted me to know that it really appreciated all I did for it. The medium stressed that I did not own this dog, but that the dog was like a pet. He specified that I was a child when this daschund was in my life. The medium (who is used to channeling human, not animal, spirits) asked me, "Does this make sense to you?" "Yes," I teared up. You see, when I was a boy there was a daschund that I named "Spunky" who lived at a home whose property abutted my home's property. This dog was all alone, laying around in its backyard, much of the time. I felt sorry for this lonely guy, so I would regularly jump over the fence and play with "Spunky." Over time, Spunky would run to the fence and wait for me each time his owner(s) would put him in his backyard. I'd see him waiting for me, and I'd run outside, jump over the fence and play with him. He and I had some great times together. I relate this story because I truly believe that "all dogs go to heaven" as the expression goes. In my heart I believe Gil's spirit is wherever Spunky's is, and that one day we'll all be reunited. For now, though, I miss Gil terribly.
No longer able to walk normally, Gil could still sit and enjoy his backyard in the early spring of 2009.
Chillin' on the sofa with advanced DM. As the Jackson Browne song lyrics go: "At the moment that my camera happened to find you/there was just a trace of sorrow in your eyes."
Spice giving Gil some quiet companionship in Gil's final days.
A final look at my boy. "You'll always be my baby boy." A big "thank you" to kossack not this time for re-touching this photo.
Gil-Galad: May 16, 2000-November 25, 2009
And so fellow kossacks now you know why I call myself BoxerDave.