It started in 1998. Our family tradition had always been to adopt a dog in need: generally a stray dog or the product of an unplanned breeding. We had adopted three Golden Retriever mixes, and each one convinced us more strongly that Goldens are the highest life form. This was the comfortable and established situation when I volunteered to drive on a CUR (Canine Underground Railroad) run for an irresistable Golden boy traveling between Pensacola and Austin. From the time I dropped off that gorgeous boy named John, I couldn't help but peruse the Internet listings of needy Goldens, despite having two beautiful and healthy Golden-mix sweethearts. And then came the day that I saw Elliot.
Elliot grew up in the wine country of California and was used for stud several times, despite his loud heart murmur. In a car accident he lost ennervation of his right eye, which sank back into his skull. No longer marketable as a stud, Elliot was relinquished to NORCAL Golden Retriever Rescue where he was placed in loving foster care. They said he had a serious heart condition that could take his life at any time, even though he was only 3 years old. Unfazed, he gazed into the camera with a rakish tilt to his head, much like the model with the eyepatch in the old Arrow shirt ads of the 1940s. A beautiful and loving purebred young man who might never be placed, simply because of human fears.
The challenge was one I could not resist--even though we had doubts about how well he'd get along with our older neutered male, Alex; even though we lived far away in Louisiana; and even though our home seemed quite satisfactorily filled by 2 dogs, 4 birds, and a five-year-old child. We knew that since his heart condition prevented neutering, that keeping him celibate was a serious responsibility.
Elliot flew cross-country and joined us on October 29, 1998. Although he and Alex had their differences, Elliot won our hearts. He always greeted us at the door, singing loudly, with either one of our shoes or one of Katie's toys in his mouth. The E-Man loved to chase tennis balls, and he showed no signs of heart disease in his stamina or behavior. He took no medication. He was a big, goofy baby who lived to snuggle. I called him Elliot, King Silly of Hump Land. Every day he reminded us of how happy he was to be alive and why we should be too.
Shortly after his arrival in Louisiana, we took Elliot, Goldie and Alex to a Santa Paws shoot at a local feed store. Elliot yanked at the leash so hard that he sent Joel sprawling on his back across Oak Avenue. Thus we were introduced to the prong collar, and Elliot earned the sobriquet of Psycho Dog. For years, when Joel or I needed a privacy question to establish our identity for a password-protected website, we used "Who is Psycho Dog? Elliot" as our question.
In the year 2001, Elliot completed basic obedience for the second time. The reason that he was re-enrolled was primarily because he kept humping (me) his mom unmercifully. After completing beginning obedience class, we moved onto intermediate obedience and beginning agility. I cannot adequately express the degree to which going through obedience together--even with this young adult dog whom I'd had for years!--enhanced our relationship. When you see a dog go through such contortions and efforts to gain your approval, it cannot help but touch you. Here I had had Elliot for 3 years already--but I forgot how intense it felt to have a dog ache VISIBLY with his entire being to please me. My Ellie-Man, my shweet-shweet! Mister E.
"Who's the silliest of dogs, the silliest I've seen? E-L-L-I-O-T--He's the one I mean!" Elliot personified all the silliness and loving for which Goldens are renowned. Had Elliot not been the prototypic, perfect Golden, I never would have been inspired to organize a Golden Retriever rescue. It may be that he never sired any puppies while in my care, he most certainly gave birth to Old Gold Senior Dog Rescue of Louisiana. Happily, he was a gracious host when foster dogs would stay at our home. Many older Golden ladies basked in the glow of his attention.
On those rare occasions when one or more of the dogs would escape from the house, Elliot would usually be the instigator. He would bolt outside with all of his strength and would not return for an hour or two. A couple times he and his sister would return to the house soaking wet. We never figured out whether they had been swimming in the lake or the canal. When it was possible to determine which way the dogs had gone, I would often follow them in my van. Dear Elliot loved his obedience classes so much that, even years later, he would happily jump into the van whenever the door was open, even if it meant the end of an illicit run.
Unlike every other dog I've ever had, Elliot genuinely enjoyed having his toenails trimmed. It was not the process so much as the result: he loved to chew the trimmings, as if they were tiny cow hooves. In the last year of his life, I saved the trimmings of any of his siblings and brought them home to him. He always accepted them gratefully, just as he did meals. Generally he would run outside for a potty break immediately after eating, and then return to me as if to thank me.
On the horrible day of September 11, 2001, my daughter and several of her classmates came to our house when their classes were dismissed early. I sat weeping, glued to the television, as the girls ran in and out. In the middle of this misery, I looked over to Elliot, only to see him locked to ten-year-old Sweet Pea, pumping away as if to provide comic relief. We had been told that Sweet Pea was already spayed; we soon thereafter took steps to prevent conception.
When Elliot was about eight years old, his testicles suddenly appeared discrepant in size. Afraid that he might have testicular cancer, we decided to have him neutered despite the elevated surgical risk. Mercifully, it turned out that one of his testicles had simply shrunk. But the important thing was that he passed through the surgery with flying colors. During his pre-op workup, however, the specialist discovered that he had endocarditis (or pericarditis, I don't remember which.) He never showed any deterioration in behavior, and after some months on ultra-expensive antibiotics, he made a full recovery.
So Ellie matured. His face grayed. He was healthy and active past his eleventh birthday. He was less eager to chase a tennis ball across the yard more than a time or two, but his status as alpha male was unquestioned. His demeanor was statesman-like, and he exuded a calm wisdom that befit his status as alpha male.
On the morning of March 3, 2006, he refused his breakfast. I watched Elliot shift position over and over as he lay on the bathroom floor during my shower. Finally as I finished my shower, he went outside. He ignored my calls, and it took several minutes and help from Joel before I found him lying under a bush against the fence. He smelled slightly of feces and would or could not move. First I tried to lift him with a geri-sling, but I couldn't remember exactly how to adjust it to bear his weight. Joel raced nextdoor to ask for help from our neighbors. As they do home-schooling, they are usually home. We lifted Elliot onto a bedspread and carried him to my van. During the trip he roused himself enough to lift his body onto the back bench seat. I turned on my emergency flashers and drove with a degree of urgency totally unlike me.
When I got to work, I left the van running, parked at the end of the ramp, and, crying, ran inside to the first cash register. I commandeered the intercom and asked for a vet and a vet tech to meet me outside for an emergency. Vets and bosses came running. My boss Ben and David the vet tech helped carry Elliot via stretcher to the vet's office. Elliot's blood pressure had dropped, his gums were pale, and his pulse impalpable on his extremities. Two of the vets assumed his care, and the third later checked in on him. Although he was a "bad stick" just like me, IV fluids and inotropic meds were administered. I demanded to stay in the treatment room with him, speaking words of love and encouragement to him as we waited for blood test results. The labs were bad: his platelets were low, and his red blood count as well, suggesting internal bleeding.
Joel came in time to keep me company when they took Ellie away for x-rays. When the films came back, Elliot's spleen was so large that I mistook it for his heart. He apparently had a massive tumor there--very likely one from hemangiosarcoma, a common and fast-killing cancer in Goldens. If it had burst, it would explain the internal bleeding. Given Elliot's sub-aortic stenosis and his poor bloodwork results, it was unlikely that he would survive surgery. Even if he did, post-op survival would be brief. The decision to euthanize was a no-brainer, and we just as quickly decided to have him individually cremated. The veterinary staff was far more delicate than they needed to be with this rescue-savvy family. Joel and I sobbed openly, knowing that our grief at this loss would be well understood there at the store.
I picked up Elliot’s ashes a few days later; they were in a lovely engraved wooden box. I took them into the store's grooming salon to show them to my coworkers. Since Elliot was visiting the salon again, Amanda gave me some more toenail clippings for him to enjoy and I sprinkled them into the box. I almost cried, but I knew that it’d make Elliot smile.
I finish this account on October 29, 2006, eight years to the day that I picked up Elliot IV, King of All Dogs, from Louis Armstrong International Airport. Godspeed, Ellie!
