The cruelty of silence

One of my sons just rescued our ancient collie from the bottom of the basement stairs. He had fallen, and couldn't get up. Sadly, he doesn't have a lifeline available to him. See, he's been debarked.

We didn't do it, I bought him as an adult from a breeder in a suburb who had a lot of neighbors, and a strong desire to keep peace. You couldn't meet nicer people, they loved their dogs, they bred and showed collies for over 40 years until finally succumbing to age and ill health, but in order to live there in the 'burbs, they silenced their dogs.

Over the years I became used to the hoarse little noise Victor made when he was barking his alarms against marauding bicyclists and joggers as they passed, although it always made me sad. He would work so hard to get our attention, sashaying right up into our faces and huffing at us, telling us all we had failed to do to reach his standards, or telling us about his day... but the saddest thing about the loss of his voice was his inability to whine, or groan, or make all those little noises that signify so many things.

Tonight was the worst, though. Victor is old. His body is giving up, though his spirit is still strong. The only reason we found him tonight was that he was panting so hard my son could hear him across the yard and came in to tell me something was wrong. He couldn't whine. He couldn't bark. All he could do was fricking breathe loud.

Our plan was to put him to sleep before another winter could make his bones ache unbearably... But I guess it's time to say a final good night to our good boy. What a terrible decision to have to make. It just breaks my heart to finally silence such an indomitable spirit--One who insisted on being heard, although you had to listen just a little harder to hear what he had to say.