28/03/2022
A beautiful tribute for a very special dog, written by his owners
Remembering Atticus - 3/9/22
Tuesday, March 8th, was an excruciatingly sad day: we decided to put down Atticus, our gorgeous, patient, calm, sweet-natured, regal Labradoodle. He brought joy to countless people, including children with cerebral palsy living at a local residential school, whom he visited teamed with his “mom,” and to whom he demonstrated his characteristic kindness and patience as a therapy dog. So, too, were many in our coop, especially some of the older people, for whom he had a special fondness and sensitivity,
Alas, Atti had several health issues. Initially they were manageable, but they began to worsen at an increasing rate. He didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain, but we were dedicated to avoiding that unacceptable outcome. He was uncomfortable the last night or two, moving around in search of a relaxing position. Mostly, he was just tired, and ready to go. Keeping him any longer would have been a decision driven by our needs, not his.
We chose a patient, compassionate euthanasia vet who came to our home, and the process was as non-traumatic as possible. We were surrounded by the people he loved most and who most loved him, support that was immensely helpful. That, knowing we picked the right day to put him down to avoid the worst fate for him; plus knowing we gave him a great life – especially a great last day of marrow bones and chicken strips, lying in the park, lying by us on a bench on Columbus Ave watching people walk by, seeing puppies (he always loved puppies) – all provide some comfort.
But we are all absolutely shattered. “We” includes his brother Radley. An incredibly zoned in dog, he never knew a day without his older brother, his constant companion and source of confidence. Disoriented, he curls up by our front door, where he never used to lie, waiting, futilely, for his brother; or in Atti’s favorite spot in our living room, another place we previously never saw him. It is pathetic to see.
Many people have dogs they describe as loving everyone. Atticus was sweet, but not like that. Since he was such a huge, beautiful, fluffy dog, people always wanted to say hello and pet him. In contrast, Atti was discriminating about whom he directed his affection to. He was never unpleasant to anyone, but as a general rule he was relatively indifferent to those who hadn't earned his affections. To strangers effusively fussing over him (there were many), he typically responded: "Excuse me, do I know you?" (There were exceptions to the general rule. He had an innate sense of who deserved his affection immediately. And he was always intuitively kind to his dog therapy “patients.”) But he adored those who had earned his affections, pulling them in by the wrist when they visited the apartment, bathing their faces with kisses (if they let him!), sometimes hugging them or singing to them.
Many people who don't even know each other awarded Atticus the title: "Mayor of the 77th Street." Some called him "King of the Jungle." My wife called him her protector. I called him "The Fluffalo." He was so majestic, many who walked him -- dog walkers, friends, visitors -- told us how proud they felt walking him.
People who don't have dogs often don't understand the intense connection. But while dogs lack some capacities humans have, they are fully sentient beings -- and they have capacities that humans don't have. If the world were populated by people half as good as most dogs, it would be a better place.
I keep a mental checklist of what it takes to be a dog. A creature doesn't need to tick every box, but does need to tick a minimum number. Towards the very, very end, it was clear Atticus could no longer do that. He couldn't be a dog. That's why it was the right time to put him down, even before -- especially before -- he deteriorated further.
But when he was fully a dog, he was one of the greatest.
