Taylor’d Fokker

This post is not about travel, really although it talks of a journey.  This post is about a dog.

After the trip to Vegas RP and I returned to our work life.  The work routine settles in and the days go by.  And per my routine, a curveball comes across the plate.

Taylor (the reason my name and this blog is called Bigfokkerdog) spent our week off at his grandma’s  (Leslie Taylor of Taylor’d Canines).  She was worried about Taylor’s loss of weight, diminished appetite and a general malaise.  She brought him home the day after we got back and i immediately scheduled a vet visit.

I have noticed him losing some weight and not wanting to put weight on his left hand leg over the last few months, but just fed him a little more and he always seemed to shake off the weight bearing after some exercise chasing a ball.  We know that he would do anything to please me including working beyond his comfort level many times through the working years.  I now was able to look at him from an objective standpoint and realized how much he was hurting and how much he was hiding it from me in his desire to please me.  Pain in his eyes , but that overwhelming desire to please that he has always had.  Pain in my heart (non cardiac).

Vet appointment was Saturday morning.  RP decided to go with (thank god) and I take him out to the truck.  First time he has ever looked at me for help getting into the back seat.  Arrive at the vets office and get into the treatment room.  True to his training and life, he immediately searches the entire room.

Vet comes in and evaluates him and asks if I’m ready for the decision.  In the back of my mind, I have been dreading this moment since I first met and loved him.  I choke, I tear up, water streaming down my face, I ask about quality of life…knowing that I can make him live in pain for a while longer just so I don’t have to decide now.  Vet says, sure we can keep him going on pain killers that would make him a zombie for the next 6 months or so.  The tears stream down my face and some unrecognizable voice utters from my chest, not words, but something gutteral.  I try to keep it together to make an informed decision.  RP tearing up beside me, arm around me, as I hold my friend and companion and consider his life.

FLASHBACK

Talor’d Fokker Des Campagnons, born 10/2004, a Belgian Malinois who was never little.  Jokingly called “big dumb Fokker” by his breeder and those who saw him.  Named Fokker for the movie “Meet the Fokkers” renamed Taylor to be more family friendly in conversation.  I got him in summer 2005 and in September 2005 he became the youngest dog to pass the Washington State Narcotics detection class through the Department of Corrections under Barbara Davenport on McNeill Island.  He served with me as a team for the next nine years, winning distinction all over the state and working with local, state and federal investigations putting bad guys in jail.  He retired in December 2014 and lived at home with us after retirement.  I still get questions about his well being from people who knew him.  My friend, my silent confidante, my moral meter.  He and I spent more time together than RP and I during those 9 years.  He kept me safe every day and I returned the favor.  With all the prestige of having a canine partner comes the responsibility of keeping him safe from harm (to copy Ford, it’s job one).  We have shared meals, cold, heat, rain, snow, ice.  We’ve fallen, we’ve been in scary places.  I always knew he had my back, god help you if you messed with me or RP cause there is no mercy in a mad maligator.  Come to my house, be prepared to be greeted by his bark and mistrust of anyone not in his pack.

Now I have the job of keeping him safe again.  As I hold my friend close, I tell the vet to put him out of his pain and take him from our corporeal lives.  I help him onto the table and the deed is done.  I hold him as the life ebbs from his body, it’s over quickly, and I feel the moment his heart stops.  I hold him and bawl like a baby.  RP gets the truck and i carry him out to it and we go home.  One last task to accomplish.

Under the big maple tree in our front yard is where RP’s dog Sam and our cat Chevy are buried.  I dug those Graves and laid them in them.  Now to do one final act for the T-Dog.  I begin digging and sobbing.  Sounds come from me as I dig, anguish and loss.  RP joins me with a shovel and we dig a hole, true and deep for our protector, next to his companions in the shade of that maple.  RP and I agree that we know now why the ritual of burial is worldwide, there is a cathartic feeling in digging the grave.  A sense of closure, the work cleansing your body and muscles while allowing you to remember the life.

Finished, I retrieved him from the truck.  His 80 pounds as light as a feather as I climb into the grave, sitting on the edge, holding him in my lap as of yore and stroking him, not wanting to let go, wishing it were all a dream and that we had another 11 years together.  I lay him on his side, facing the street so he can watch over us and drop some handfuls of dirt upon his fur.  The grave fills and he is laid to rest.

Tears, unabashedly stream down my face as I write this.  I miss my friend, companion, protector, buddy, pal.  He enriched our lives with his love and dedication

REST IN PEACE

1 year old in training

May 2016