RIP, Noble Eddie

.GOOD DOGS GONE—Shaughnessy, left, Eddie the dumb but lovable Golden, and little Lucy are all gone now, but never forgotten.

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Goodbye, Old Friend
Eddie (Edward R. Murrow the lesser), 1988-2001

Right before our eyes, the Old Dog is dying. A devoted friend of nearly 13 years — that’s 91 in people years — Eddie’s lights are going out.

How it hurts to watch him go.

Eddie’s a patient and sweet Golden Retriever. This is the kind of dog that has epitomized “unconditional love” ever since he found us back in Ohio in 1988. All his life he has gently and gratefully accepted whatever came, kind of sloppy and pretty clumsy, but always painfully trusting.

Now that he has to die, he’s doing it with a grace that I hope I remember when it’s my turn.

He’s dying. No more stupid human tricks, like the birthday hats we inflicted on him, or the reindeer antlers at Christmas. He’s a pleaser, and even as the strength ebbs in him, the will to please glows strong. But we can see him slipping away.

It’s cancer, of course. And how ironic: He’s not been sick a day in his life. While the other two dogs went through surgeries and therapy and broken limbs and convalescence, Eddie always soldiered on. He was not an exciting dog. But he has been part of our family since there has been a family. When he goes — any day now, I think — there will be a hole in our house you can drive an Alpo delivery truck through.

At the final moment, I think Eddie will look at us apologetically, because he’ll feel that he’s somehow failing us.

At least he’s not in pain. That’s what the vet says. You have to love a veterinarian who tears up as she delivers bad news. The tumors, she says, are growing and spreading. When it comes, the end will be fast. He’ll just bleed away and be gone.

He’s obviously not hurting, and that’s a comfort. Since he was a puppy, Eddie did a thing we call “circus dog” when he sees his dinner coming. He jumps all four feet right off the ground, grinning and wagging like only a sweet hound can. These days he’s still jumping, but not quite off the ground anymore. When there’s no more circus dog, we’ll know Eddie’s about done, because he loves his kibbles.

He’s endured a lifetime of indignities with grace. His first veterinarian suggested cosmetic surgery to correct his sometimes awesome drooling ability: “Eddie has defective lips.” Imagine. Our daughter, when she was maybe 8, was fighting with her sister: “You’re as dumb as Eddie!” she said. It took him years not to hide in the bathtub, and even now he’s most comfortable under a table or in a corner.

But even if he wasn’t the brightest bulb, Eddie was a sweet boy who always accepted whatever came with sloppy and genuine gratitude.

We and Eddie found each other when we were in grad school. It was dumb to get a dog — grad students can’t afford to feed themselves, so the last thing we needed was the responsibility for a big dog. But one Sunday in Athens, Ohio, we had a weird spasm while reading the classified ads, went out and brought home a beefy 12-week-old puppy, wet, smelly and trembling.

He had been battered as a puppy, I think, and was scared of everything. He sat on Brenda’s lap on the living room floor for two hours while I went to the grocery. When he finally felt safe enough to move, he peed in the corner of the kitchen, sniffed at the kibbles and new puppy bowl I’d bought, and hid in the bath tub. That was his safe place for two years.

Last summer, another of our three dogs, Shaughnessy, died, also of cancer. Eddie and his black Lab younger sister, Lucy, were bewildered by the sudden hole in their lives. They were needy for reassurance, and spent a few weeks lying on each other for company. Every move we made around the house, they were there. Now we worry about Lucy, herself a decrepit 11 years old: What will she do when her best friend is no longer there to flop down beside.

Eddie has had a good, happy and healthy life. The sudden lump on his back a few weeks ago led to two surgeries. Now, amazingly fast, the tumors are back. The vet thinks they are everywhere, and the ugly shaved patch on his back is now ringed with hard, evil lumps. He’s not in pain, I think, but time is clearly short. And when he comes from the water dish to lay his dripping defective lips in my lap, I can’t push him away.

Our friend Mark says he defines periods of his life by his pets. He still can’t talk about a cat he lost in the 1980s. He’s right. This is the end of the Eddie Era, which began more than one-quarter of my own life ago. I know that we’ll always mark the day Eddie died. There won’t be any more dumb birthday dog tricks, but he’s had a good run.

He is a sweet old poop, half blind, stiff, unflaggingly devoted. Even now, as the tumors eat him from the inside, Eddie perks up at a tennis ball. He still lies in exactly the wrong place in the kitchen, where we’ll trip over him. He still breathes eager dog-breath in my face when I’m in bed. He still twitches and chases rabbits in his sleep.

Not much longer to go now. We’ll miss him. Good-bye, Old Dog.