This is my favorite photo of him: pure English Setter, clean and brushed. He was hard to keep clean and brushed: all the angora-bunny-sort fur and the long feathers in his tail and between his toes! he was a big boy, too, nearly twice the size of the average English Setter standard. He was at the top end of the standard in both height and weight (well, OK, he was overweight. He was a pig. He was a lazy pig).
He lived a wonderful life in the 8 years and four months that he lived with us, but we’re fairly certain his first year (or so) was not so carefree. I’ve read up on some English Setter rescues, and our experience with Harvey would indicate that he was like so many of them: isolated as a pup, not socialized properly, alone for many hours at a time, possibly kept on a rope or in a small kennel, and very little training. He was probably field bred, but he wasn’t the smartest light on the Christmas tree.
Harvey had a nose unlike any other. He could out-hunt Murphy with his nose, but since we never bothered to train Harvey to hunt, that remains up to debate. Hunting was Murphy’s job. Companion was Harvey’s job. He was the best companion.
He became sick sometime at the end of the last year. I noticed it in January, after I returned home from vacation: cough-cough-cough-haaack! X-rays showed fluid on the lungs, a normal heart, and nothing else. Blood tests pointed to a thyroid issue, but that could have been due to his hacking cough. We ran through three rounds of different antibiotics, with no improvement.
I made the cold-hearted decision to withhold any more research into his illness and to let him live out his days as best as he could, and as happily as he could. It was a financial decision as much as a practical one: how much money do you pour into a dog? I won’t judge someone who pours a lot of money into their dog(s) and I hope you won’t judge me from pulling back. We didn’t even know what was causing him to cough, we only knew what was not: heartworm, heart disease, thyroid disease, something stuck in his throat. Further tests would have been invasive and added to his dread of the vet.
Choosing to not pour money into him paid off when we had to put Murphy down, and we had the money to invite a vet into our back yard to do it. It was far more expensive than our vet, but Murphy died where he lived and loved: under the sun, in the arms of his master.
Harvey slowly declined. He had good days, mostly, but soon he couldn’t manage a mile walk or even a half mile walk. We cut down to walking around the block. He was huffing and puffing by the time we came home. He reminded me of when I have an asthma attack, but I sensed this was deeper than asthma. I feared cancer. His belly began to distend.
I almost put him down in August, but he rebounded. Then Murphy died. Harvey lived. How is that fair? Harvey eased my husband through the early stages of his grief: he was there to talk to, even if he was mostly deaf. He had cataracts, but he could see motions and shapes.
I said that he wasn’t smart. that isn’t entirely true. Harvey learned new tricks. He learned how to “speak” for treats and how to use it to manipulate the treat jar. he loved puzzles, such as when I’d put a treat under one of three paper cups and he’d have to guess – and flip the cup over to retrieve the treat. I could set a biscuit on his nose and he learned to flip it off (but not catch it). He loved sign language. I didn’t have to speak to him. but could just point, and he knew what I wanted or where to go.
He developed seborrhea (a dandruff like condition that mimics hot spots). No matter how often I bathed him (not often, as you can imagine with a 90# dog that hated water), he continued to develop scaly spots and lose flakes of skin.
His last month was the hardest: I blocked him from the stairs to my studio because I caught him collapsing on them and I had to help him down. He no longer had Murphy to pester him. We got a new bed, and while he could figure out how to climb onto it (it’s taller than the old bed), getting off was a chore. I banned him from the bed.
His last week was up and down. One day, he’d eat nothing, not move, not go outside until I came home from work and hauled him out there. The next day, he was fine. Another day, down. Up when I came home and took him out, sat with him on the hardwoods in the hall, and hugged. Harvey loved to hug.
He had a congenital spinal column disorder, where his spine narrowed over his hips and pinched his spinal column. It appears like hip dysplasia, but isn’t. I discovered it when he was around 5 years old, and we treated it with anti-inflammatory drugs and pain meds. Usually, he recovered quickly. Sunday, when he refused to get out of bed and I helped him up, he couldn’t keep his back legs under him. His back was out, plain and simple. I helped him out to pee and poop. He quit eating unless it was under his nose.
I dosed him heavily with pain killers. I made the decision, and made the phone calls to cover myself at work.
Harvey knew. He balked at getting into the car, but that was because of the pain it caused him. He entered the vet’s waiting room like the gentleman he always was, never threatening any of the other waiting dogs. He refused to relax and lay down, but, instead, hid his face in my armpit, hyperventilating. I sat on the floor with him. A poodle puppy tried to make friends with him, but he barely gave it a glance as it sniffed around his feet. He hugged me, over and over and over again.
Dogs hug by rubbing their heads against you and butting you. Harvey’s tail occasionally wagged as we sat there, him with his head against me and me petting him. He smelled like the seborrhea.
He weighed 86#. We were led to an examine room, and Harvey collapsed. He’d been standing for far too long, and he was just done. He was no longer hyperventilating. He allowed me to pull him over to me, and lay his head on my lap. He knew. He didn’t look up at the vet when she came into the room, but simply snuggled closer as she gave him a sedative. He relaxed into dreams with a hearty snore.
One of the things that stands out to me is that the vet commented on how distended Harvey’s belly was. He’d been sick since January. I suspected cancer of the lungs. I never followed up on x-rays, because – what’s the point? Chemo? Radiation? Money out the door, and the dog is uncomfortable throughout the process? The part of my mind that makes practical decisions kicked in. No. No tests, no invasive procedures, nothing that would ruin his last days on earth.
He passed peacefully. I believe he passed knowing what was happening. I believe he made the choice. I think a broken heart played into his decision: who could have had a better brother-from-another-mother than Harvey had in Murphy (or visa-versa)? He was nine-ish. He’d had a really good life with us. He was loved. He loved.
I threw out the dog beds the same day. I’m still crying when I look at his picture on the Internet. I haven’t taken down his Facebook page. Don is collecting photos of Murphy. We are both grieving. It means a lot to look on Facebook and see all the comments, likes, and more. I can’t begin to check the little “like” box next to them all for fear I will miss one. But I have read every single one. I appreciate every single one. Some of you don’t even like dogs. Thank you.
Harvey taught me how to trust dogs. Murphy taught me how to love dogs. It’s been a rough summer’s end.
Jaci Dawn 