My Dog Dag

My Dog Dag

Scott Jarrett

As I sat looking out the bay window practicing the drums, the neighborhood middle-schoolers would gather outside to listen, and Roscoe my cat would vomit his way around the living room suffering from cat Leukemia. Sometimes I would invite the kids in for a bit to listen, but with Roscoe’s illness I didn’t really want to expose them to his struggles, or he to theirs.

The day finally came when it seemed like I would have to put the poor cat down. I intended to stay with him through the end, figuring that our pets sort of look at us as gods. We magically make food appear, turn lights on and off, and provide affection and care; and what could be worse than being deserted by your god at the very end.

As I packed Roscoe into my camperized delivery van, the kids came by and asked what I was doing. I told them my plan and they expressed curiosity about how the process of pet euthanization might work, so I invited them along.

We arrived at the Bideawee Animal Shelter and asked if we could bear witness to Roscoe’s passing. The attendant was agreeable, so we walked into a lean-to, he opened a box, poured some liquid chemicals into the box, gently placed Roscoe in the box, secured the lid, and a few seconds later Roscoe had noiselessly and peacefully died. It was relieving and somewhat elevating to know that the process was humane.

I had a revelation which I shared with the kids: “When you have to take a life, it only seems fair if you also save a life, so let’s find an animal here who is destined to be put down if not rescued and let’s take it back home to my place.” The idea really resonated in the hearts of the kids who were saddened by Roscoe’s passing.

We were directed to a dog that was on his last day before they would need to put him down. He was scrawny, had bad teeth, and looked in every way as forlorn as a creature can look; as though he knew his time was near. He had the brown and black markings of a doberman, but smaller, with slightly longer hair than a doberman, with longer hair on his tail, like a saluki. They told us that he had been found wandering around a jewelry shop in Nanaimo and they had no idea where he came from before that.

I adopted him and named him Dag Hammarskjold. My dog Dag.

He became the smartest and most faithful companion imaginable, and seemed never to forget that I had saved him. He spent months hiking and camping with me in the free open country of Vancouver Island. he learned that he could keep up with me, even when there was a small climb involved.

In hot weather I would keep the sliding doors on the van open for ventilation. Once Dag fell or jumped out of the open door on the side of the van at a stop sign. When I finally realized he was gone, I drove back to where we had stopped, and looked for him for hours till it started to get dark. I sadly drove the 5 miles home and there he was sitting on the front porch with a look that seems to say: “Where the Hell have you been? I was worried sick about you.”

Soon my career forced us to move to New York City. We moved there in the camper van, and that’s where we lived for the first 6 months in New York, parking wherever we could overnight, sometimes on alternate sides of a street—and when we could afford it—in a pay parking lot on 8th Avenue and 50th street. Dag had never been leash trained, and NYC has very strict leash laws. I didn’t want him to feel that suddenly he and I were no longer equals, so daily I would attach the metal leash hook to my belt loop and hand Dag the leather loop saying: “Walk me”. At first he would take the leather for a few seconds and then drop it. So when he dropped it, I would run away (in the direction I was already headed). He would panic, chase after me, and finally grab the leather. And I would heel. He soon came to realize that I would stay with him as long as he kept the leather in his mouth.

We walked all over Manhattan with me on the business end of the leash. We went to bars, studios, rehearsals, and everywhere. He would walk or sit quietly next to me for hours and never let go of that leather. People passing by would mostly not even notice, seeing only a young man with his dog under control on the end of a leash. When people noticed the actual way we were hooked up, they would always laugh or comment. I never got a ticket.

Not having anywhere to run around freely, Dag would walk me to the playground. He learned to climb the sliding board ladders and slide down with the playground kids on command.

“Slide, Dag.” “Ok, now Walk me.”

My dog, Dag was a good dog.

Eventually I had to give Dag away, not being able to provide him the comforts of home a good dog deserves. I gave him to a retired bachelor and Dag learned to bring him his the paper and his his slippers. Now he had a big back yard to play in and lots of love and attention for the rest of his life.

My dog Dag was a good dog.