Misha

Monday night May 25th, I helped our 12 year old German Shepard up to the second floor where our bedroom is. She’d been slowly losing use of her back legs. She’d only needed encouragement, but tonight, never help up the stairs before. At the top of the stairs, Misha takes, as was her habit, a long drink of water from a bowl in the bedroom. With each swallow, a gentle spurt of water would spray from the side of her mouth out onto the floor. I knock gently on the bathroom door, and tell my wife, “Teri, I think it's finally time we put down Misha.” After a moment of silence, she replies, “Can we see how she does in the morning?” Neither of us wanted to end her life. Back in 2014, after I’d lost the best job I’d ever had, or ever will have, Teri heard that Jerry from Hopeful Tails Dog Rescue had rescued some dogs from a dog mill, and one of them was a German Shepard. She wanted this dog, and Elena wanted the dog too. She, a non dog loving person, wanted to train the dog. The adoption fee was $500.00. I thought we didn’t have it to spare. Teri was still at United Water making a really good salary, but our income had been cut by about 40%. I didn’t think it was a good idea, so we got the dog.

It was a bright sunny May day when I walked out the backdoor of our home alone with this tiny, little dog, with big paws. In the house was Teri’s mom’s dog, Bandi, and the first dog we got after we adopted the girls, Athena. I walked outside on that day twelve years ago with all three dogs. Looking at this new dog, negotiating climbing down the stairs, had no name. I thought she looked just like a bear, so yes, I started to call her Bear. Then Teri came home, and she didn’t like the name. Nancy came to see the dog with her, The girls came home from school, we all threw around names. Every so often I’d say, “Bear”, Sometimes I’d even say,”Look a bear!” (None of that last bit actually happened, except for me calling the dog Bear, and Teri not liking it.) Nancy found out that in most Russian fairy tales featuring animals, the bears were mostly called Misha. It was a bit too close to our first dog Mosha, but she looked like a bear, and we’d had the girls only five years by then, and it just seemed to fit, so the Bear became Misha. In those early years, it was Athena’s house, but as Misha got bigger, and after a few fights, none life-threatening, it was Misha’s house. Misha was a bully, and a coward. She’d let Bandi, a small 30lb dog buffalo her. We took her over to my mother's house when the movie company was filming at the house. She met my mom’s two retrievers, and pee’d on her own tail, she had it so far between her legs. Once there she was so frantic to leave he bit up my mom’s door knob. She crunched it up like it was made of plastic.

With me, she was so sweet, and gentle. She’d give me this look of complete trust, and openness. She’d prefer to walk around behind me, if possible instead of walking in front of me. If I went outside to do yard work, she’d follow. Sometimes when I’d mow the lawn, she’d follow, at least until she got bored. She’d then find one of her favorite balls, and drop it in front of the mower expecting me to stop working, and throw it. If I was near the pool, she’d drop the ball in the water expecting me to stop what I was doing, get it, and throw it for her to chase. She loved going for walks. I never walked her as much as I should have. Whenever we’d take her to the vet, we’d take out the leash, and she, being of one mind set, would expect to go on a walk. She’d walk around the side yard, then head to the road, and finally up the driveway to the car. At the vet,, she’d walk around the grass sniffing, enjoying herself. I’d walk her across the tar to the building, at some point when the door opened, she’d realize this was the vets office, and freeze,refusing to go a step further.

Over the last year or so she’d lay on the couch, and when she wanted attention, she'd flop her head down on the couch next to you making sure to get your attention. She felt she was being very clear about what she wanted. Closer to the end, she started to whine. Teri, or I’d give her attention, it just would never be enough. Sometimes I’d yell at her in frustration, I’m sorry now that I did. Without fail most every night just as Teri and I settled down after dinner to watch TV, Misha, and Cassie would decide, like two six year old children, it was time to rough house. Misha still loved to chase her ball near the end. If I tossed or gently kicked it just past her or right in front of her, she get it. If it went too far past her, she’d look at me with the look, ‘do you really expect me to go get that?’ and just walk away. The outside stairs to the deck, I built, and for some reason those were the ones she started having problems with. I think it is because the final step is just a few inches above the stone walkway. She’d dance around, do a stutter step, and depending on her level of frustration, she’d whine. It was a bit heart breaking. I’d go out to help her in. I’d take the leash with me. In the beginning, she thought she was going on a walk. I put the leash around her neck, and picked her up. I don’t know if her pride or her hips were hurt when I picked her up. Eventually when she saw the leash she’d run away into the yard. For an old dog, she was quick. Her final defense to being picked up was she’d sit down, and refuse to get back up. On May 26th, the day after Memorial Day, and the night I helped her up the second floor stairs, I’m at work. Teri calls, and says Misha fell, and maybe I’m right it is time. The vet says we can bring her in at 3:15. I have lunch at 1:15, so I come home for lunch. I make a sandwich and I have chips with it. I throw one to Misha figuring, why not. I throw her chips every so often to her to spend some time with her.

When it is time to leave I slip the leash over her head, and we go for a quick walk around the property. She lets me pick her up and put her in the car. Everyone seems to be there to see her go. I think to myself there are too many people here, but in the end I reflect that she was that loved. At the vets office, she manages to slide/fall out of the car, still landing on her feet. I walk her around the parking lot like usual, then make my way to the door. She walks in the door and we wait in the waiting room, then into the larger of the exam rooms. THe other room is where we had to put down Athena, it is not a place I want to be. The vet comes in, and tries to put Misha on the examining table, she’s not happy there, and tries to get off. A blanket covers the table. It is low to the ground. Misha is given a sedative that seems to take forever to take effect. During that time she manages to get off the table onto the floor. A few minutes later the vet comes in, shaves a part of her back leg, and inserts an IV. She pushes a pink liquid through it. A moment later she places her stethoscope on Misha’s side and says "She's gone.” It’s quiet, it’s peaceful. It seems so wrong what we had to do. She was so full of life, and if her hips hadn’t given out she should still be with us. That night I walked into the bedroom. Cassie has been lost all day. Misha’s bed is on the floor. We put it there in case Cassie needs to smell it. I read dogs tell time by smell. As the smell fades, they mark time. Mornings are so different now. I don’t have to keep the two dogs separated as I let them out. There is no pile of pills to sort out. At night the couch is empty, and I lay down and fall asleep watching TV. There is no rough housing of two dogs. A week has passed, and Teri picked up Misha’s ashes. She left it for the time being on the kitchen table, I pet it going by. I notice Teri is doing the same thing.