Gus is Gone

Time seems to have stopped during this pandemic. The things that we used to look forward to and fill our time with have fallen by the wayside. No social gatherings, no shopping trips for things that aren't food or essentials, and no hair color, cuts, or manicures. Life really is just about the essential things once we're outside of our home. It seems surreal and, in some ways, an alternate universe. That's how it's been for me the past several weeks. However, the events of three weeks ago snapped me back into the real world. I have a heavy sadness, but it isn't "pandemic sadness". It's "just life" sadness--like the old kind of sadness would have been.  But I am also comforted by the fact that real life does still exist and it's still part of my world.

If you know us, you know about Gus. His full name was Augustus (after my favorite character from one of my favorite shows--Lonesome Dove) Richard (after his human dad) Melton (that's a given). We called him Gus (also, after the bailiff in movie The Judge, another of my favorites). Gus was a challenge since the day he came into our lives.

We'd lost our "once in a lifetime dog", Pepper in June 2015. It was sudden and devastating, and we said no more dogs for a very long time. But in late September, our son in law saw a schnauzer for adoption at a shelter near them in the Quad Cities--the same shelter where we had adopted Pepper. We drove the five hours and met Gus. He appeared a little dazed and was shaved very close. He wasn't particularly happy to see us, but something about him struck a cord with me. The big guy wasn't convinced but I was firm in my decision. Gus was going home with us. The people at the shelter showed us photos of Gus (his name was Dexter then) and he was unrecognizable--not just as Gus but as what kind of animal he was. He was hairy and matted, and you couldn't tell one end from another. They told us his story, and it broke my heart. There had been four dogs in the home--two males and two females. None of them were spayed or neutered, and they were tied at different places throughout the house. Gus was tied to a doorknob for what appeared to be a very long time--possibly many months. The hair had grown all around his collar and it had to be cut out. The owner was an elderly lady who developed brain cancer and had no one to care for her or the dogs. Evidently, all of them went a long time without any care at all. As I was signing papers and paying fees, the caretaker at the shelter patted me on the back and told me that I was doing a very kind thing. They told us that Gus was eight years old. Someone also told me he didn't like his brother and someone else told them to be quiet. Hmmmm . . . it wouldn't have changed my mind. So Gus rode home in a crate and we pondered on what we had gotten ourselves into.

When we got home, he walked all over the house--around and around and around. Pacing, pacing, pacing.  We'd get used to that pacing but, in the end, it would prove to be a signal that it was time to say goodbye. It was the way Gus let us know how he was feeling, that things just weren't right, and he was uneasy, uncomfortable, or in pain.

We got him into the vet as soon as we could. By then, his stomach was inflamed and red, his genital area was swollen, and he was an anxious, bewildered mess. The vet examined him and asked me his age. When I told her he was eight, she shook her head. I said, "Nine?" She shook her head again. "Ten?" She said POSSIBLY ten. I think we settled on putting nine on his paperwork but we both knew that was a low ball. She thought he had possibly had a seizure during his neutering procedure. His teeth were terrible and she was perplexed that they didn't pull them while he was out. The seizure theory would support that action. During his last few minutes of life, we confirmed that this was probably an accurate assumption. We had a blood work-up done, got some meds and directions, and she sent us home. That was the beginning of our journey.

The vet later told me that she really hadn't expected Gus to make it. She said she saw a lot of dogs and she had seen a lot of dogs who were said to have been abused but were really just neglected. She went on to say that Gus was a case of serious abuse. She also told us that he had been transformed by our love and patience. He was a changed dog, and she praised us for what we had done for him. That was good to hear. Gus was definitely a trial on the patience front.

Gus was a dog with serious baggage and a lot of quirks. He had the absolutely strongest and worst smelling urine that I have ever dealt with and he loved to share it. In his first days with us, it was a problem. Everywhere. All the time. After a while, it got better but we were never completely in the clear. It began as a lapse in his training. It become something he couldn't help. But somewhere in the middle, it became the way he communicated. Pastor comes to a small group meeting at our house, pee on the floor. Someone's been visiting my house and they had a dog, pee on the floor. She's got some new furniture, let's just pee on the floor. All I had to do was get out my suitcase and begin packing. That little dude would look me right in the eye and pee in my traffic pattern. Communication, all right. He was telling me he wanted me to stay home. It was infuriating and, at the same time, he was telling me he loved me and he wanted to be with me. Who can be terribly angry about that? During his last couple of months, he sported a belly band at all times and we did a lot of laundry with a lot of vinegar to get out the smell. It wasn't that Gus wasn't house trained. He was. Until the end, when it was simply a lack of control, it was how he demonstrated his displeasure. We heard him. Loud and clear.

Gus was MY dog. I was the one who wanted him and I was the one who accepted the responsibility for him and all of his flaws. He knew this. I was his person and he was my person. I used to look him in the eye and tell him that daily. We had a special relationship. He knew it was me that saved him and he returned the favor by guarding me faithfully and letting me know he was always in my corner. Even when he was embarrassing me. Although he had other people in his life that loved and helped care for him, his devotion and his loyalty was to me.

If you wanted to understand Gus, you had to see things from his perspective. He was THE protector. Once he came home with us, his protective devotion was focused on me. Any time that I showered or spent any time in the master bath, Gus positioned himself between the bathroom door and the bedroom door. He would sit or lay there and stare at the bedroom door as long as I was in the bathroom. Clearly, he was guarding me against any unsavory intruder. Even though he only had four teeth, he would have given it all he had. He was also territorial--the protector of his territory. I was his territory. Our house was his territory. Our whole neighborhood was his territory. He was protecting us all or bossing us all around--I was never quite sure about that one.

To be honest, Gus was famous in our family for a lot of things . . . how his toys were his "family" and he protected them as such, how he despised male dogs of any size, how he despised big dogs of any gender, how ALL the toys were his. He was famous just for being Gus the wonder dog who was difficult to like but hard not to love.

Our Melton family motto is "I do what I want". This motto was created and sponsored by our children. We raised good kids, by the grace of God, because they are so strong willed that we would have been hard pressed to prevent them from doing anything that they really wanted to do. (Gee, I am not sure where they get that.) Gus fit right in. He did what he wanted. Every. Day. He loved me. He was loyal. He was protective. He was still going to do what he wanted. If it made me mad? Well, sucks to be me. I do what I want.

We have laughed and laughed and said Gus was our second chance at raising our first born. You know, when you are parents, that first kid . . . it's a trial run. You make SO many mistakes and you have reactions to things you wish you hadn't had. Gus had some of the traits of our first born child. He was intelligent, extremely independent, and frustratingly strong willed. He did what he wanted. We felt like we could possibly redeem our sad performance a little bit with Gus. I think we did. A little. We were more understanding, more patient, and more accepting--the things we wish we had been the first time around.

We told ourselves if we could give Gus some peace, love, and security for the last couple years of his life, we would feel that our mission was successful. He was with us about 4 1/2. He knew he was loved to the very end as we said a sad, but not regretful, goodbye and he fell asleep for the first and last time in my arms. What more could either of us have wanted?