The Free Radical

This week’s topic: Grief and Loss

The Story of Jazz

D’oh – Ray – Me – Fah! – So? – La – Tee – Rrrroooo!

“Rrrrooo!” was the only note she could sing. She’d tip her head back until her ears flopped open. She sang the note often… and always at the most appropriate times.
But this isn’t really about singing; it’s about Jazz… my dog.

 

Although we lived in the same house together all of Jazz’s life, she only became ‘my dog’ after the divorce… not mine, my housemates’. I lived in the basement, and Ian, the bass player in my band, lived upstairs with his first wife. Ian and I had purchased the house– and detached garage– together, so that Missing Peace would have a place to jam. The wife was a later addition. Ian already had a dog by then, a big, beautiful golden retriever named Randy– a name corresponding to the perfect adjective to describe him. Oh, he was a randy devil… and subsequently Jazz’s father!

Jazz’s mother was a husky-lab mix, named Kokanee– the local big-name beer out here. She was a good dog, and her owner had done such a diligent job of keeping her out of the reach of the male dogs during her heat. He’d only left her tied up for a few minutes outside of the local general store, at the very end of her fertile period. And that’s all Randy needed; he sniffed her out in an instant. Right in front of the store? That was Randy’s turf, so yeah.

Months later we received the fateful phone call from Kokanee’s owner; he was on his way to take the puppies to the Invermere pet store for adoption and wondered if he should stop by on his way. Sure… no harm in seeing a few puppies. Ian and I had discussed that we were both agreed that we had enough to manage already in our household without adding a new puppy to the mix. When Ian reminded his wife, as the puppy-mobile drove up, of the agreement for “No new dogs!” I backed him up.

And then, alas, it was I who cracked. As I turned to walk back into the house after viewing the litter of adorable pups– especially the mostly black one with the cool white markings in her face nestled in her new mommy’s arms– as I turned away, I said, to no one in particular, in a modest– almost quiet– voice “I wouldn’t mind it so much if there was a puppy around here.” Ian loathed me for a moment, and of course good-naturedly berated me for it ever after.

So it was my fault that Jazz was admitted into our household.

And it was I who came up with her name too. I suggested Jazz, which was adjusted to Jasmine by Ian’s wife, but everyone called her Jazzy. And once she was mine, she was just Jazz again.

Jazz was three when the divorce finalized. Ian was not prepared to take on the responsibility for another dog when the first wife split. Randy was already more than enough, and he asked if I would take Jazzy; otherwise, he would have to find her a new home.

It was the only home Jazz had known. She’d lived nearly her whole life in the constant company of her father, Randy. He taught her how to lift her leg when she peed; as a result, most of the people in the neighbourhood mistakenly thought Jazz was a boy. I couldn’t fathom Jazz having to disentangle herself from such an idyllic circumstance, so despite my fierce reputation for being very selfish with my time, it was only natural that I agreed to be Jazz’s new dad. (I usually go for the least disruptive solution.)

Jazz was a good dog and a very wise soul, and like every wise soul I’ve known, she could really piss you off too. She was an odd mix of polarity. Due to her abandonment issues as a result of the first wife exiting her life suddenly, Jazz appeared to be the most loyal dog ever when I brought her to parties and other social engagements. In crowds of dozens of strangers, she stuck to me like glue, always waiting right outside the bathroom door for me whenever I had to pee. This earned her the reputation of a ‘daddy’s girl’ among the Fairmont socialites. But this contrasted markedly with the other side of her nature which featured a fiercely independent aspect.

All her life Jazz had the run of the neighbourhood. Our community bylaws don’t allow for fences and we didn’t ever tie our dogs up, so they were left to roam. Everyone knew Randy and Jazz as they daily patrolled the community. Jazz eventually established a routine circuit wherein she’d visit certain local businesses whose owners and employees were in the habit of giving her treats whenever she came by. The corner gas station, the local pub and the Greek takeout place were consistent haunts. Jazz visited them all every day; I barely had to feed her any food at home.

And then out in the woods, Jazz didn’t think anything of it to just go off chasing deer or elk, yelping excitedly as I’d hear her from miles away. Unfortunately, she could be gone for an hour or more. I never worried much about her in the woods after the time I saw her chase a big black bear, only to come running back a few minutes later with the bear chasing her. No worries; Jazz was very fast! She learned the forest’s dangers, even having been stalked by a very large cougar one winter while we were living in the bush. I had to persuade the cougar not to eat my dog; it was a tense conversation, face-to-face, only a few meters apart. (That complete story can be found HERE.)

Throughout our relationship, Jazz and I communicated very effectively with each other. I always told her exactly what I was up to throughout the day. If I had to go somewhere without her, I always told her exactly where I was going and when I intended to come back. Friends who witnessed this thought it odd at first, saying “She can’t understand what you’re saying, you know.” I never argued, but eventually those same friends after witnessing the whole routine several more times would invariably say “Holy shit! She understands exactly what you’re saying!” Like most dogs, Jazz only understood a few key words in my speech, but she always understood the overall tone or the gist of what I was telling her. She honestly appreciated my forthrightness with her.

And it was Jazz who first got me into researching nutrition. Her first suggestion to me was that I should try cutting down on my wheat consumption and reducing my grain intake in general. How did she communicate this to me? By playing hide-the-bread over the span of a few weeks. It happened several times in quick succession that I’d go to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich only to find that there was no bread. “I could have sworn I still had bread,” I would mutter to myself. Finally, during a rare thorough housecleaning, I located all the partial loaves of bread craftily hidden throughout my basement suite. She had taken them off the counter when I wasn’t looking, never eating any of it herself, and stashed them in hiding places I would never think to look. Once I took Jazz’s advice on the overconsumption of grains, my health and weight really improved. Smart dog! And satisfied with the adjustment to my diet, she never stole and hid my food again.

Being single and having no kids of my own, as you might imagine, Jazz and I became extremely close. I’ve likened it to a non-sexual spousal relationship– a constant companion for life. She lived to the age of thirteen– not bad considering her steady diet of sausage rolls, donairs and leftover pub food, or whatever else the neighbourhood was feeding her. Nevertheless, her end came unexpectedly, and yet she dragged it out, for my sake, so I could get used to the idea of being without her.

The first indication of Jazzy’s distress came one day when we were out on a Sunday walk in the woods near my parents’. As we were climbing up a short steep hill, she suddenly let out a distinct yelp. I quickly scanned her for any signs of injury, but found nothing. For the rest of that walk however, she stayed right on my heels the whole time– a very uncharacteristic behaviour for my Jazz.

I had nearly forgotten that incident when a couple of months later we were out on a forest walk again with the other dogs and the next indications came rapidly and undeniably. The two-hour walk had proceeded normally enough, but when it was time to jump into the back of the truck, Jazz couldn’t do it. She insisted that I lift her up. And then as we got home, on the way from the truck to the door, Jazzy wavered in her walk– stumbling– until she suddenly collapsed in the grass. She couldn’t get up; I had to carry her to her bed downstairs.

Of course I didn’t want to admit to myself that anything could seriously be wrong, but after a couple more times of her stumbling like a drunk and collapsing defeated and exhausted to the ground, I knew I had to make an appointment with the vet. The diagnosis was made through deduction and a few inexpensive tests. Her symptoms were mimicking severe anemia. The doctor explained that he was reasonably sure that she had a cancerous tumor and during certain strenuous maneuvers it would cause ruptures which would bleed internally. It was a condition that she’d probably had already for quite some time. Only now, that she was getting older, her body was unable to produce new blood cells at the same rate at which the internal bleeding depleted them. Furthermore, it was surmised that the cancer was somewhere within or alongside her digestive tract, as eating her regular food often gave her discomfort.

I pulled out all the stops. When she wouldn’t eat for days, I would feed her with an eyedropper filled with liquid spirulina and chlorella. I went to a local farm to procure for her raw goat’s milk too. It kept her going for another month, but there really wasn’t much overall improvement. She was slowly withering away.

Jazz already knew that she would soon be gone… and she also knew that I was still in denial, hoping for a full recovery. She co-operated with my efforts for my sake, not hers. Every morning I got out of bed and immediately went to Jazz’s bed to see if she was still with me. I laid down beside her a while each morning, always asking her for a kiss. She would look me in the eye to acknowledge the request, but she could scarcely lift her head. I didn’t get any kisses those last two weeks… until the day she died.

It was the Thanksgiving weekend. That morning, before I had to go to work, I routinely asked her for my kiss… and this time she complied! I didn’t know until later that she was saying her final goodbye. Throughout the day, I made arrangements to come home from work periodically to check on her. She was standing up and moaning in distress each time. After work I tried to lie with her to see if she might get some rest– she was exhausted from standing most of the day– but it pained her too much to lie down. She was most comfortable standing, but she was utterly depleted. I could finally see the writing on the wall.

“Do you want me to call the vet?” I asked with tears spilling from my eyes. We both knew what the question really meant. She answered me with her eyes. It was an unequivocal “Yes!” It was then that I realized that this morning’s kiss was a farewell.

Being the Sunday of a long weekend, I had to make some phone calls to wake up a vet, not in my hometown though. I had to take her to the nearest city; our local clinic was closed for the holiday. That was a long journey through the darkness, knowing that my best friend and near constant companion would not be making the return trip home. I kept one hand on her the whole time as I drove. I carried her into the clinic where the vet was waiting alone. We briefly went over the medical options, but when the question was posed as to how to proceed, there was only one answer I could give. “That’s not my dog anymore. That’s not Jazz,” I answered, looking at her frail form on the clinic floor. The vet nodded and assured me that I was making the right decision.

The vet gave us a moment alone. I curled up with her on the floor and kissed her goodbye. Through the obvious pain, she understood. Moments later I watched as the animating life that I’d known as Jazz slipped quietly out of her body and into the infinite night.

The drive home, alone, with my already terrible night vision, and now with tears crowding my sight every moment, was probably pretty dangerous. But now there was a special angel watching over me; I made it.

In the weeks which followed, I reminded myself perhaps a million times to not focus on the loss and instead to celebrate the life she’d lived. Jazz had lived the most spectacular life a dog could ever hope for… and where’s the sadness in that?

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