Farewell, Fergus

The Fergus Farewell Tour concludes today with answers to the question: How the heck do dogs (and cats and birds and I suppose, even pet ball pythons) do that voodoo that they do so well and capture our hearts?

Since the death of Fergus three weeks ago I’ve thought of my Mother’s words back in 2010 after she fell under the Fergusonian spell: “When that little dog goes they’re going to have to put you in a straitjacket.”

Don’t you just hate when mothers are right?

The past few weeks have downright sucked. My ability to function was basically limited to the bare basics and even then some personal care activities fell by the wayside.

The little dog who had been my life for 15 years and three weeks was gone.

If you have a pet, especially a dog, you know that bond. Walks in torrential rain, faking sleep when they come in at 5:30 a.m. to see if you are awake, vet visits, doggy play dates, picking up crap, wiping up barf, the belly rubs, ear rubs and baths which they either love or hate and oh, by the way, they know you’re not really asleep.

They are your napping buddies. They are your dining buddies, who live in hope that something, anything, will fall to the floor. With Fergus I don’t think I ever peed without his big, brown eyes on me. When I showered he faithfully waited on the bathmat.

When Martin was ill Fergus was there. He was the best listener ever as I complained about effing dementia. He never complained about my New York potty mouth.

To throw out the garbage was to come back five minutes later with Fergus deliriously happy as if I had been away for years. Dogs do that.

The house is now quieter without him. Not that he was a loud dog, but suddenly the sound of his nails clickity-clacking on the floor or the sounds of him slurping water are no more. The radio by his bed—tuned to country music—is now off. 

“Hey, Fergs, brekkie is ready!” and “Yo, Pergs, dinner!” are no more.

No more “Walkies?” No more “You’re so handsome and pransome, too!”

No more robust singing of “Fergus of Pergus” to the tune of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.”

No more “Hush little Fergus don’t say a word, PawPaw’s gonna buy you a mocking bird” before bedtime. 

Fergus loved being read to. His favorite book was “Good Boy, Fergus” by David Shannon. 

I am sad, too, because Fergus had been ours and with his death I was reminded that there had once been an ours. For the past four years Fergus was mine and he nobly stepped into the role of doctor, nurse, therapist, friend and driving buddy.

Ten days after he died, I dreamed about him. In the dream he pranced into the bathroom looking for his bed and it was gone. In real life the night he died I cut up his bed and sewed it into four pillows including a neck pillow which I sleep on every night.

In the dream I explained why his bed was gone and felt badly that he was back and had no bed to sleep on.

In the dream Fergus bounded upstairs and found his little cloth dog house still intact and went inside. He circled his usual three times and barked at me. It was one of his happy barks.

I had had similar post-death dreams involving my Dad, my Mom and my husband where they showed up and let me know that they were OK. This I do believe.

While they came to me in dreams weeks and months later, Fergus showed up sooner, I think, because he knew his Momma was a-wallowing and a-wailing and not flossing as she should because she was just so sad. A few days after his death I had found enough strength to vacuum the stairs and slumped on the floor in tears as I cleaned the handvac filter only to find it filled with Fergus’s hair and bits of his dry food.

After the Fergus dream, I did begin to feel a bit better. This I know.

I am tearing up now thinking of this. Fergus’s last hours came quickly. He was not able to walk or stand and the only sound he made was a mournful, heart-breaking wail as I gently rocked him in his pawprint blankie. It was his way, I guess, of assuring me that I had made the right decision to make a 4 o’clock appointment with Dr. Kate, his wonderful vet.

In the hours before he died, I told him again and again how much I loved him. I thanked him for being such a good boy. I told him to say hi to Snagglepuss and Buster and Buggs and Hannibal and Andrew and Sadie and Bumper and Heidi and Cornbread and Pookie and Seymour and his best bud, Fishy. 

Here’s the thing about dogs: they don’t judge and they love you no matter what. 

Here’s the thing about humans: when it comes to dogs (and cats and birds, and I suppose, even pet ball pythons), we don’t judge them and love them no matter what. 

And that, my friends, is why we miss them so, so much because when they die the world loses one more of the good guys who don’t judge, who don’t ask for much, who love unconditionally and who give so much in return.