Whirl

Did you know that basset hounds were originally bred to track and kill badgers?

Think about this for a moment. Badgers are nocturnal carnivores who live in elaborate tunnels which they defend with absolute ferocity. A badger hound would require a strong sense of smell to track the animal during daylight. It would also need to be short enough to fit into a badger’s den, and stout enough to drag the animal out. Most importantly, the dog would have to be stupid enough to actually go down that hole in the first place.

In this regard, humble Stanley was the crowning achievement of his breed.

He was our first basset and-like most things I’ve purchased in my life-he was bought on impulse. I don’t mean to imply he was found on an end-cap at the grocery store. It’s just that we brought Stanley into our home without a heck of a lot of planning. I’d always been fascinated with the breed. I knew nothing about them mind you, but they looked so cool and laid back-how could you not want one?

However, the official justification for Stanley was my son. He’d never really had a dog and, allowing that we had just moved halfway around the world, it seemed reasonable to get him one. Since I had just taken a job that would keep me on the road 70% of the time, it should have occurred to me to ask my spouse what seemed reasonable to her.

Stanley clearly received his genetic cards from the bottom of the deck. Our first inkling of this was his first round of vaccinations. Everything was fine at the clinic, but by the time we got home his face had swollen to twice its’ size. We quickly rushed him back to the vet and learned he was allergic-to everything I think, including air.

From that moment on we kept Benadryl on hand at all times-just in case he ate something dangerous. And he often did: poison ivy, flowers, carpet, mulch…even rocks. In one spectacular feat he managed to catch and devour a sizzling brat as it moved the very short distance between our grill and the ground (resulting in second degree burns). He even evolved a passionate taste for bees-which of course he was allergic to-and would snatch them from the air as they worked the flowers in our back yard.

We were able to keep this under control because the dog was agoraphobic. He was terrified of walks and even hated to spend time alone in our fenced back yard.. We took him to the basset waddle in Troy Michigan, hoping he would take to the other dogs. But poor Stanley could not handle being around so much activity. He and I ended up spending our afternoon together in the car.

But the fact that he spent 99% of his time inside never seemed to deter this houndish instincts. For instance he loved to bury things. My daughter and I once watched him dig an imaginary pit in the middle of our couch-using both feet. He would take a coveted object, pick a spot in the carpet, and dig a hole. He would spend hours digging these holes-they must have been huge! Then he’d nose the object into the hole and use his nose to cover it with imaginary dirt. He did this so often that at times his nose was worn pink.

Despite these disadvantages (and the added veterinary bills), he was an absolute joy for all of us. He was loving, and funny, and kind. He held a central place in our family and the years passed quickly. We loved him, and of course he never failed to return the favor-always waddling over for a petting whenever we entered the room.

Our first sign of trouble came when he ran into a door at full speed. Stanley had never been all that graceful so this had happened before (he once ran into a wall with a stick in his mouth; lodging it into the back of his throat; prompting yet another trip to the vet). But this incident had a different feel to it. I noticed his left eye was sort of glassy, so we scheduled another trip to the vet (we were on first a first name basis, by then).

It was Glaucoma. A very common problem with bassets as they age. As this disease causes a buildup of pressure against the optic nerve, he must have been in terrible pain for weeks. The doctor removed his eye (a procedure called enucleation) and all was well for another couple of years. But eventually, even with regular trips to a specialist and daily medication, he lost the other eye. My first instinct was to have him put down. I couldn’t imagine how he could function in our world without his sight. Thankfully, on the morning of the procedure our son talked me out of it.

So Stanley entered a new phase in his life just as our family entered one as well. My wife and I were splitting up, and my son was starting college, our daughter had fallen in love and the whole world was spinning for all of us.

But in many ways, Stanley was happier. He could find his way around the house, and later my apartment-so well in fact that visitors often failed to realize he was blind. And his agoraphobia was cured! He enjoyed being outside and taking walks with me. I could let him go on the large grassy yard behind the apartment and at last he was a dog: able to wander, roll, fart and sniff without fear (something every guy should have a chance to do).

It was a brief respite. Stanley was ten years old now and fading fast. He was losing control of his digestive tract (it had been through a lot over the years) and could no longer make it through the day. His hips were failing him and he could not get up to greet me when I came home. After another year I realized a couple of things: first I could not devote enough of my time to his care, and second he was suffering through each and every day. I had Stanley euthanized in May of 2003. I held him in my arms as the doctor gave the injection. He just seemed to fall asleep.

The intervening years have brought relief and guilt. I feel my children believe I did this for my own convenience and truthfully, I cannot look them in the eye and assure them this is completely false. At the point that questions of lifestyle and responsibility cross, the lines become very blurred indeed. I loved Stanley and I treasure the gift he gave our family. I knew that I could not take him forward into the next stage of my life because that new life was too unsettled to ensure his care. So I chose the time and place of his demise. I cannot, to this day, say it was the wrong choice, nor will I ever know for sure that it was the right choice.

My choice is to remember Stanley with love and believe I did well by him.

© 2007 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.