Here Comes the General…

I really wanted a puppy. The pandemic was hitting me hard. Summer stretched out before me like a cheap scratchy blanket, no respite from the cacophony of politics and the hot dry Colorado weather. No hope of Caribbean beaches, Italian cafes, Sri Lankan temples. No live music, happy hours, or Broadway show tours. Life as I knew it had been cancelled. I plucked through daily gratitudes – my health, my job, my family – but still I emerged dissatisfied and restless. I tried not to slip into despair or denial. I limited my viewings of Hamilton to once a week.

An idea budded in my head: A puppy could take up my time and energy. I would get a big dog and name it after a Hamilton character: Hercules Mulligan! I began my puppy search on Craigslist and found the perfect pick: Great Pyrenes. I coerced a friend into coming with me and set a day for the following week to pick out my Hercules.

But a few days before our magical meeting, I was up too late, drinking too much wine (haven’t the liquor stores made a killing during this pandemic?) I was scrolling Facebook non-stop; this is known as doom-scrolling. I came across a post: Can anyone help this dog? The dog in question was a mini-Schnauzer owned by a couple who were moving into a retirement community and were unable to take the old guy. They had an appointment to euthanize him the following day. I wobbled into action; they lived mere blocks from me. “I’ll take him!” I posted, thinking of a friend who had recently lost his beloved dog. He liked small dogs (me, not so much!) and it could be a fit. I’d nab the old-timer – Lucas was his name – and work the details out later.

I met the dog – one-sixth the size of my Pyrenese – and took him home. He was fourteen. I couldn’t ethically rename him – He’d had his name for almost one hundred dog years – but what of my Hamilton connection? So I gave him a title, and he became known as the General.

He earned many nicknames: General George Lucas, Doogie Schnauzer, Tripping Hazard. He was a funny little guy, nearly deaf and half blind, and he proved to be a source of never-ending amusement. He had bushy eyebrows and a droopy moustache. He followed me from room to room relentlessly. I would lift him up onto the couch (he refused to use the doggy stairs I bought for him) but he would leap down – splat! – if I got up to go to the kitchen or bathroom.

Speaking of the bathroom (a usually most private place), it was fair game for the General. He had no boundaries. I learned to firmly shut the door if I did not wish to be watched in the shower. If any door was ajar, he would crack me up by walking into the angle made by the door and the wall, where he would get stuck, nose in the corner like a wind-up toy, until I gently turned him around.

He insisted on two walks a day, and what else did I have to do? I’d leash up my big dog, Jagger, and the little General, and off we’d go. He had a funny little marching walk with straight legs like a dressage pony, and he leaped over weeds in his path and up onto every curb like a bunny. I scarcely believed he was one hundred dog years old! Sometimes he and Jagger would sniff the same spot until Jagger would unceremoniously step forward and lift a leg, resulting in a narrow miss of pee in the General’s moustache.

The General made me laugh every day. Here he was, loving life, having avoided a premature death. We were both grateful to have found each other. He got me through the summer and into the fall. We weathered the holidays. We had a doggy New Year’s Eve party: me, one human friend, four dogs, and several bottles of wine.

But in January, the General started to fade. The small lump under his chin grew. He stopped eating all but a few hand-fed morsels. He slept all day, no longer asking for walks, no longer following me around. He would go outside but become disoriented. He was on a rapid decline.

I’ve never had to make the decision before. I was overwhelmed. I managed to get an appointment with Lucas’ previous vet. Due to Covid protocol I could not go in; the vet tech came out with a leash. I shook my head. “He can’t do that.” I carried him to the doorway wrapped in a towel. The vet came out within minutes. The lump was lymphoma. The General was actively dying.

I was allowed to be there with him. I held his paw. I stroked his ear. I kissed his head and told him I loved him. He left his body, free from pain.

It’s difficult to say who rescued who. All I know is that we brought light into each other’s lives.

Sweet dreams, my dear General. See you on the other side.