“...then, we’ll give him a second shot that will stop his heart.”
I was sobbing when the vet tech uttered those words. I couldn’t control my emotions any longer.
She asked if I understood what was about to happen. I nodded through my lamenting.
“I’ll give you guys some time alone,” she said as she tucked her lips and slowly backed out of the small room.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. They burned my skin. I knew it was time to say goodbye to Cpt. Woodrow Call.
_ _ _
I made the decision to put Captain down after a challenging weekend. He was confused and having a lot of trouble getting around. As I helped him walk outside to use the restroom at one point, I put my selfishness aside and started to prepare my fragile heart for what needed to be done.
I knew this day was coming, but I still dreaded it.
Captain’s quality of life had recently started to decline. He had already lost his eyesight and his hearing. His hind legs only functioned properly when was on a mission for an extra meal around the countryside - whether that was the neighbor’s cat food, cubes for the pasture animals or food scraps left near one of our fire pits.
I was terrified that he would wander off, get lost on the property or get into a situation he couldn’t get out of. My biggest fear was him suffering in the elements before passing away alone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
This dog had a profound impact on my family’s life. He was more than our pet. He was a blessing - especially to me and my daughter, Ily Belle.
For me, this blessing had to do with my capacity to love another dog again.
After I lost my dog, Cpt. Augustus McCrae, in 2013, I didn’t think that was possible. Gus’ tragic death rocked my world. I was devastated for years, but Captain made me realize that I could love again. He showed up and immediately made room in my heart. Looking back, I realized that I never stood a chance.
We "rescued" him from a swanky household in DFW. The nice family needed to downsize to one dog, and Cappy was the odd dog out. I can’t remember his name before I anointed him Cpt. Woodrow Call, but he immediately suffered from culture shock when he arrived in Rainbow, Texas.
This city dog wasn’t ready for country living - even though German Shorthaired Pointers are hunting dogs by nature. But Captain eventually settled in, realizing the wide-variety of fare on a farm and leaning into the slower pace.
He loved to eat, including the before-mentioned cattle cubes.
He loved to lounge around. He would chase the occasional squirrel, but his GSP ancestors would have been embarrassed by his lack of hunting prowess. I thought it was cute. He always thought he had a chance.
He loved to be loved on, especially by a little girl who was deathly afraid of dogs before she met her four-legged brother. Cpt. Woodrow Call completely changed my daughter’s life.
At the age of three years old, Ily Belle hated dogs - terrified, horrified and/or panic-stricken didn’t accurately capture her emotions towards them. I can’t remember exactly what happened to her as a toddler, but she wanted nothing to do with dogs.
Captain immediately changed all of that. His calm, laid-back demeanor and his gentle spirit opened a whole new world to my fearful daughter. She instantly fell in love with him. And he fell in love with her.
It’s almost like he was sent to Rainbow, Texas, on a mission, and he was very aware of the assignment.
After I had Captain put to sleep, I went back and looked at all the pictures of Ily and Cappy together.
It caused the tears to flow again, but the images also warmed my heart.
I wanted to share a few of those photos with you:
Note: Four years after Captain came into our lives, Ily asked for her own dog.
Tears.
_ _ _
As I laid on the floor with Captain in the vet’s office, I realized that I had never felt this alone before in my life. The vet tech had given him a sedative to make him sleep. I had about five minutes before the final shot. His eyes got heavy and he slowly drifted off. He breathed heavy, but he looked peaceful.
I said, “Goodbye, old man.”
Tears.
“I love you, brother.”
More tears.
But then something weird happened. A wave of peace washed over me. I stopped crying.
As he comfortably slept, I rubbed his head.
I thanked him for being a blessing for my family. I thanked him for opening Ily’s heart. I thanked him for showing me the amazing power of love.
I apologized for not always scratching his neck or tugging his ears every time I walked past him.
I apologized for being so hard on him when his neurotic brain got the best of him, which mainly happened in the middle of a thunderstorm.
I reminded him that he was a great dog.
I reminded him that we loved him very much, especially Ily and Crash.
As I bean to cherish our final moments together, there was a knock at the door and the vet tech stuck her head into the dimly-lit room.
In a kind and empathic voice, she asked: “Are you ready?”
_ _ _
We buried Captain in the pet cemetery on our property. Gus is buried there. So are many other pets we’ve lost over the years.
My dad used his tractor to dig the grave. After we placed Captain’s body in the 4-foot hole, we used the tractor to cover him with dirt and put a huge rock over the burial site.
While I went to get the kids for a small ceremony - and give them a chance to say goodbye - my dad placed some sunflowers on the big rock.
_ _ _
It was just me and my kids standing next to Captain’s grave as the sun began to set. I cried. Ily bawled. Crash tried to be strong, but he eventually broke down too.
I said a small prayer, and we all cried some more.
Through the tears, I finally said: “Do me a favor… don’t ever forget him. You don’t have to think about him every day, but never forget the impact that Captain had on us.”
They agreed that they would remember him forever.
The three of us embraced one more time before walking away and begrudgingly leaning into "life goes on."
As the horizon swallowed the sun, these words filled my heart: “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all .”
I looked over my shoulder at his grave one more time and smiled. Ily grabbed my hand and smiled, too. It's like she could hear my thoughts.
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