Had I known it was his last duck, I would have swum out with him in the frigid water.
The mallard fell across the channel near the opposite bank, and Beau gave me a “really?” look. He plowed in anyway and swam over, but when he retrieved the duck he just continued to the far shore. Dropping the bird on dry land, he shook dry, sat down and looked smugly back at me. I scolded him across the water and told him to come. He finally did. Without the bird. I ended up retrieving it on foot, and my hunting partners howled with laughter.
My ardent love for waterfowling can be credited to a pair of refined gentlemen who were friends of the family. They selflessly took it upon themselves over the years to indoctrinate me in the joys of duck hunting, and I hope one day to pay that generous gift forward. They were patient with me and passionate about their craft, and with hand-me-down waders and my grandfather’s Fox Sterlingworth double, I loved every moment of it. Their dogs were fiercely loyal and impeccably trained, and I dreamed of having my own one day. College, career, family and other priorities intervened, but I always made time for our riverine adventures with ducks and retrievers.
I named my dogs long before I had them – Beauregard and Lucien. Fine southern names, but I would use the more diminutive Beau and Luke in honor of a favorite boyhood television show. A black Labrador retriever for ducks and geese, and the second dog could be whatever struck our fancy.
In the summer of 2009, I heard that a neighbor had a litter of Labs from good stock, and we took the kids to check them out. Beau was the runt, and he acted like it – boisterous and meddlesome with an intelligent gaze. I held him and he licked me continuously, and I knew I’d found my dog. My wife’s family came as well, and they picked one of Beau’s brothers. A ball of energy with an insatiable appetite and an inability to be tamed, he was more dog than they ended up being able to handle. My naming plans were shot when they gave him to us, but Buddy and Beau were inseparable.
The licking habit never stopped – it was his love language. My father would get frustrated with him and my wife would frown, but I never tired of it. He retained his sweet puppy smell his whole life, and never struggled with halitosis like his brother does. His limpid eyes were endless in their brown depths. He preferred to sit and lay with his back legs comically stretched out behind him.
I bought a copy of Water Dog (by Richard Wolters and worth reading even if you don’t have a Lab) and trained him myself. He would never win any competitions, but he retrieved a boatload of ducks and over the years, I began to prefer seeing him work to shooting the gun. He was stubborn and tenacious, a quality that could alternatively curse or bless. A Thanksgiving morning on our farm pond stands out – our group enjoyed a great hunt and dropped a number of ducks. Beau found them all except one. It was getting time to retire to our respective feasts, and I finally called off his fruitless search. He was clearly dejected, and I tried to console him as we headed home.
When I returned home from Thanksgiving dinner late that night, the last duck was laying on the back porch.
As the runt, Beau loved a good fight, especially when Buddy was backing him. The two of them tangled with a couple of beavers one night, and Beau came home soaked and limping. One hind leg was useless and the vet diagnosed a ruptured tendon. Surgery, six weeks of near-total confinement and several robust bills later, Beau beat the prognosis and regained full use of his leg.
The kids doted on him. He and Buddy pranced gleefully at feeding time, were content to curl up with the cats and cherished slumbering in our warm basement by the stove on cooler nights. They routinely ventured to my grandmother’s neighboring property to visit her Bassett hound. Recovering from surgery, she welcomed the company and gave them treats. They ruthlessly pitted one household against the other in a war of extra attention and food. We grumbled good-naturedly. Years passed.
Duck season ended, winter waned, and the weather warmed. Beau lost weight and energy this spring, and my wife took him to the veterinarian.
“Ehrlichiosis? Huh.” I hadn’t heard of that one.
“It’s a tick-borne disease. He said it can be serious,” she replied. “Beau’s going to be on meds for a long time.”
It still didn’t register all that heavily with me. We started steroids and immunosuppressants. He had good days and not-so-good days. Subsequent tests didn’t show an improvement, but his condition remained stable. Abruptly on Father’s Day weekend, Beau’s condition worsened and he could barely get up. The vet kindly returned a pre-church call early Sunday morning.
“He’s going to need a transfusion, or his organs will shut down due to anemia,” he said. “It’s up to you whether you think he can make it until tomorrow to do it here in my office.”
Up to me? The emergency clinic was an hour away and much more expensive. We already had a lot of money in diagnosis, tests and medications, and the outlook was increasingly questionable. Beau was eight – not old but no longer a young dog with a whole life ahead of him either. We sat the kids down and talked about possibilities, and I drove him to Richmond. His red blood cell count was dangerously low, but the transfusion worked. When we brought him home, he was like a new dog. Assuming we were out of the woods, I felt foolish for fearing the worst. Modern medicine was truly wonderful, I thought to myself.
Over the next few weeks, he gradually began losing some of his energy again. We did more tests and upped his steroids, and things improved a bit. After another downswing, we had his bone marrow activity tested. The immune system was still his enemy, but there was lots of production. Weight was up. The vet was enthusiastic and we tweaked the meds slightly. The credit card’s seams bulged, but another round of drugs was a pittance compared to everything we’d done.
The following day, he was lethargic again and didn’t want to leave the house – I wasn’t overly alarmed because he’d had several ups and downs over the past few months. I took him some food around lunchtime. He ignored it and a warning bell rang somewhere in my subconscious. Midafternoon, I checked on him again. His tail wagged a couple of times and he sat up, but his legs trembled. I sat beside him and held his head. Beau hadn’t allowed me within a foot of him anytime in his life without licking me continuously.
None of that now, and the bell’s volume increased.
This couldn’t be it, I thought – he’ll come out of it again. Financially, another expensive transfusion just wasn’t in the cards. We prepared to leave for dinner with friends. I pulled the truck up to the sidewalk and decided to look in on him again. He had moved to his favorite place, and it was dark at the foot of the basement stairs where he lay. The familiar thump of his tail didn’t greet me and my heart stopped. I knelt and laid a hand on his side, but Beau was gone.
Barely able to speak, I asked my wife to step outside and told her. We gathered in the family room and I arranged everyone on the couch beside me in a vain attempt to keep them from seeing my tears.
“Beau’s no longer with us,” was as far as I could get. The truck idled in the driveway as we cried.
We pulled ourselves together and decided to keep our dinner plans. Time with good friends took our minds off the awful truth for a few hours. But on the dark ride home, tears rolled down my cheeks as we held hands in silent sorrow. We put the kids to bed and I answered unspeakably kind texts from two friends offering to help with burial. I wanted to say yes, but selfishly wanted my last moments with him alone.
Early the following morning, I laid him to rest under a maple near the water he’d loved. Summer’s drought-hardened clay resisted every jab of the bar and shovel. I dug, rested, cried, repeated. An hour passed, and then some. Before I covered him, I closed his eyes and turned his collar so the brass name tag showed. I apologized to him again and again – could have done more tests, should have ponied up for another transfusion, should have put Frontline on him earlier this year, the list went on and on.
Sometimes thinking of him still chokes me up. Worried that he is somehow lonesome so far from the house, I visit his resting place and talk to him routinely. I’ve asked God why he couldn’t have just let me have one more minute with him. Prayed for a dream that would include him so that I could tell him goodbye properly. Felt childish for such requests.
But each passing day gets a little better, and I know he’s not suffering now.
A fellow churchgoer suggested that I focus positively, and I’m thankful that God brightened our lives with him for what seems in retrospect like such a short time. He taught me how to train and truly love a dog, showed our children what a relationship with a pet should be like and brought joy to everyone around him, whether they hunted ducks or not. Buddy is a blessing as well. It’s tough to see him without Beau, who he reminds me of and who I always preferred. But the two of us are getting to know each other again without Beau around. He likes the attention and I cherish his goofy company. He doesn’t lick, but I think we’re going to be just fine.
My friends recommend another dog. It will likely happen, but not yet. When the time comes, I suppose I’ll go looking for another runt with an overactive tongue. In the meantime, fall is coming. I think Buddy and I will head down to the water, scout for early-season woodies and visit with Beau.
