Memories of Hand-Drawn Eyebrows
Memories of Hand-Drawn Eyebrows
A Facebook memory recently reminded me of one of my boldest creative moments. After a morning spent writing, I turned to look at our puggle, Gertrude 'Gertie' Lola, and noticed something missing—her eyebrows. So I grabbed a Sharpie and did her a favor.
Gertie was a spirited dog, but in no way did she qualify as a “good girl.” She was no Miss Millie Butterbuns, no Captain Banjo Butterbuns. These are dogs of character and grace.
Menace, shit bird, dick—these are the words that come to mind when I think back on Gertie. Still, despite her hell raising tendencies, she left us with some pretty good stories. Below is a eulogy I wrote for her, but upon rereading it, I see that it’s less like a eulogy and more like a criminal record.
This morning we had to put down Gertie, our puggle. She was suffering from complications due to craziness, crustiness, and general assholery (not exactly the clinical terms for what was described to us as doggy dementia). She wasn’t always like this, but we’ll get to that.
First, let me tell you about her last meals. Yes, meals, plural. Gertie teetered between 19 and 23 pounds for most of her life even though she would have preferred to have been somewhere in the 30-pound region. The bitch could put it away, and in her 12 years, we were unable to find her bottom, as it were. We always said when it came time to arrange Gertie’s grim reaper consultation that we’d let her indulge her cravings to the fullest.
To prime her for her last meal, I gave her four days' worth of her normal food for breakfast. She ate all of it in a time that would have impressed Usain Bolt and Takeru Kobayashi. Later that night, we ordered her a medium, thick-crust, meat lover’s Brizio pizza—eight pieces—and she finished it all. In fact, she even growled at Becky’s attempt to reach in and cut up the last piece so that it might go down a little easier.
Before the pizza, Gertie had hips; after, she looked like a cylinder. The same size belt that would have fit around her chest would have fit snugly around her waistline. She looked more roly-poly than puggle. Still, we had not hit Gertie’s bottom, but she did whine and pant a little, no doubt from the carb IED that was working its way through her colon.
Throughout the night, she managed to keep the pizza down and in (those seem like the right prepositions), and because she still seemed hungry in the morning, we went to McDonald’s and ordered her the Deluxe Big Breakfast. She ate all of it—scrambled eggs, a sausage patty, hash browns, hotcakes, and an English muffin. Actually, she only managed to get down half of the English muffin. We had finally hit bottom.
I’d love to tell you that it was a glorious moment of ecstasy for Gertie—fulfillment at last!—but it was not. She was ashamed of her own gastrointestinal inadequacies and spent her last moments at our home pacing the backyard until she decided on a place to bury the half an English muffin for later. Or so she thought.
We put her in the car and took her to the vet, her rotund fattiness making it difficult for her to stay balanced each time we took a turn. I won’t describe too much of the rest of the experience as even my morbidity has its limits. But even on her death bed, Gertie aimed to impress.
The vet administered propofol to relax Gertie—the same drug that made Michael Jackson beat it—and for a brief moment Gertie gave us kisses the way she did before she was an anxiety-ridden, aggressive little turd. But then, ever the glut, the vet had to give Gertie more propofol, three times the dose for a dog her size. She indulged all the way to the end.
Now that she’s gone, and in the interest of celebrating her sweet little life, let me regale you with some of Gertie’s greatest hits before the doggy dementia turned her into a psychopath:
She loved crayons. That is, she loved eating them. And afterward, she would paint the lawn with rainbow-colored turds—a veritable canine Pollock. We may auction some originals once her death inflates the price.
Ever motivated by food, Gertie—in a single day—learned to sit, lay down, speak, shake, roll over, play dead, and army crawl. She could have learned calculus if peanut butter was involved.
Gertie loved to rough house, and many times I put her in a head lock and performed a professional wrestling-style suplex. During these same bouts, I would also launch her into the air and onto the bed, her floppy ears catching the wind like wings in her descent. She flew (or fell...?) with the grace of a Blue Angel.
She often asserted her dominance and humped other dogs’ faces. Sexually, I guess you would say she was dyslexic. Most notably, she humped a relative’s dog who was named Armani. Seriously, though, if you name your dog Armani, it deserves to get humped in the face. Also, Armani, why couldn’t it have been you?
She once ate a blueberry muffin, the big Costco ones with the thick, waxy wrapper. She ate the wrapper, too, which passed the next day. Actually, passed is too passive a word. The wrapper launched out of her ass. It was a projectile. The Allied Forces could have used her to hurl mortars on the Western Front.
She also swallowed a half a corn cob when a kid dropped it at a picnic in the park. Six months later, we thought she had eaten one of the heart meds my mother-in-law had accidentally dropped. When we had her stomach pumped, it turned out that she had not eaten the heart meds, but she did expel the corn cob, which her stomach acids had whittled down to the size of a golf ball.
When I took her on runs, I often used one of those long retractable leashes. She would run up ten yards ahead of me, lay down, wait while I ran ahead of her ten yards, and then she’d catch up and do the same all over again. Like any great coach, she could taunt and encourage simultaneously.
After each of our kids were born, we brought them home and bundled them up on the couch. Gertie jumped up and licked their bald heads, lovingly and sweetly. Every instinct she had told her that she was theirs and they were hers.
As it turns out, Gertie’s ashes will be returned to us in a couple of weeks, and they will be encased in a small pot that, if buried and watered, will turn into flowers. I didn’t ask, but I really wish it could have been Venus flytraps instead of flowers. Seems more appropriate given her appetite.
For the record, I wanted to stuff Gertie and keep her around the house. She’s always been something of a conversation piece and that would have continued the tradition. But Becky’s limits on morbidity are stricter than my own. That said, my genes did seep into Sammers who wanted to have Gertie skinned and turned into a bathroom rug so he could warm his toes on her after his showers. My boy.
I imagine we’ll bury the ashes in the same place that Gertie buried the English muffin. She’ll have those calories one way or another.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy some of my other stories about pets and wildlife:
Bats, Buttloads, and BB Guns: the time we left for vacation and returned to find our house had become something you’d expect in Transylvania.
The Lifesaving Virtues of Super Glue: a story about DIY chicken surgery.
Claw and Disorder: a young man’s career in hospitality leads to crustacean hijinks.
Or if you’re wondering how to approach the inescapable creep of death as it looms over you and your loved ones, consider reading Conversation Pieces, Keepsakes, and Death Wishes.
Another funny, snarky, yet touching piece. I may want to be planted the same way--with snapping dragons.
This was so funny. I remember your mom telling me about the shoes she bought for Gertie ,and how hard she laughed. as alway's Minerva