We put my dog down today.
I loved Hudson the minute we met. He was a tiny little Chocolate Lab, with boundless energy and love for anyone he met- whether they wanted it or not. We brought him home in May of 2003 and we thought he was the perfect puppy. He wasn’t perfect, though, and for several reasons, but those reasons were why I grew to love him even more. He was like me. My buddy.
If Hudson or I were born in a different time, or if we were born in a different place or to a different family, neither of us probably would’ve seen summer of 2004. We brought Hudson into our family not long after I beat cancer.
In the Spring of 2001, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I had the distinct pleasure of going through several months of chemotherapy, radiation, and plenty of surgeries. But in the end I was done, I was cured. Despite having a genetic defect that threatened my life, I made it.
By the time Hudson was 2 years old, all of his siblings were dead. All but one of them were put to sleep not long after their birth, and his sole surviving brother met the same fate about a year later.
They were all born with a bizarre genetic defect that meant their esophagus had no muscle, so they had nothing to push food into their stomach from the mouth. Hudson and his siblings would inevitably throw up almost everything they ate- it was very hard for them to keep anything down.
I don’t know why my parents were as patient as they were. Maybe it’s because the family was already in love with him, and they couldn’t bear to put down a puppy. I know I was staunchly opposed to it- I felt an immediate kinship with him. Here was a dog who wouldn’t have been alive at 3 months in most circumstances, and much of society probably would’ve given up on him soon after.
But sure enough…he made it. I started calling him “Survivordog” for his amazing ability to beat the odds. As a puppy, we fed him standing up all the time. He vomited it back up, frequently. But we persisted. He started keeping it down better as time passed, and sometime along the way, I don’t know when or how, he learned how to eat like a normal dog. His condition hadn’t gone away- it was one of those moments that makes you marvel at nature and each creature’s ability to adapt- he figured it out.
Hudson was too smart for his own good. We took him to puppy school, and he passed with flying colors, except for a few little mishaps here and there. Hudson knew all the commands that we taught him, but knew when we were serious and when he could ignore us.
We’d tell him “lie down” “sit” or “shake” to show off to friends. He’d give us a look- something like, “are you serious with this shit?” before begrudgingly laying down. If it was clear from the tone of voice that we meant business, or of course, we had a treat in our hand, Hudson would comply immediately. As a retriever, it was in his DNA to love to play fetch, but sometimes when tired, he’d run after the ball or frisbee, grab it, and then put it on the ground and stare as if to say “Now you come over here, human.”
When I was in second grade, I was summoned to meet my teacher before lunch. Every Monday we had a spelling quiz on 20 words. We’d do exercises throughout the week using those words (vocabulary, grammar, etc) and then take a re-test on Friday. If you got an 85% or better on Monday, you were given additional words to work on throughout the week.
For at least a month or two, I had consistently gotten an 80% every single Monday. And yet amazingly enough, every Friday I was earning a 95% or 100% grade. On the one or two occasions that a 85% or better meant a longer recess, well, suddenly I was a genius. It wasn’t very subtle.
My teacher told me she knew I was deliberately misspelling enough words to avoid doing extra work, so no matter what score I received on Monday, I would have to do the extra words. My response was something along the lines of “Why do I have to do more work if I do better? They’re the ones who need extra work to catch up.” It didn’t work. My teacher told my mom that I had a mischievous grin when I thought I was clever, similar to the grin Hudson had when he got away with eating or doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
Hudson outsmarted us, frequently. There was the time somehow he managed to actually open a doorknob (none of us still know how he did it) and my personal favorite, his acting ability in winter.
Western New York in the winter is an unforgivable place- cold, snowy, icy. We had a line on our backdoor going into the yard that we’d put Hudson on to go out, get some fresh air, and do his business. Hudson didn’t enjoy being out in the backyard by himself, probably because he was such a social dog who loved to be around people.
During the winter, we’d put him out on his line, and he’d come back up 30 seconds later, ready to come back inside. Hudson would crouch down, looking all small, and start shivering. If they resisted his sad puppy eyes, he’d paw at the door slowly, begging to come inside. Within a few minutes I’d hear my mom or my sisters say “awww, look at the poor cold dog!” and bring him inside. The moment we opened the door, Hudson was immediately racing around; that cold, lethargic mood magically lifted instantaneously.
We soon figured it out. If you stood in the kitchen, he would look down sadly, make himself look small, and shiver. If no one was in the kitchen, and you looked at him from another room, Hudson looked absolutely normal; he’d stare around the backyard, looking bored, while keeping an eye on the house to see if anyone was walking by the door. If someone did, well, immediately Hudson was a cold, shivering, sad little dog. Even when we knew he was acting, we still couldn’t resist his pleas.
Hudson and I went on many walks together. When he was young, no walk was long enough. We’d do an hour and a half through the swampy forest, around the elementary school I attended years ago, to the Erie Canal and back, and he’d still want to keep going. We’d return to the house and he’d stare at me with a look on his face that suggested “that was it?”
Survivordog was a very inquisitive dog. Being a Labrador, he loved to go swimming in the creeks and swamps behind our house. On our walks, he’d smell flowers, plants, woodchips, other dogs, poop; he’d chase after squirrels (or sometimes young children) and he loved to be chased.
During those walks, I’d frequently speak in Italian to him. Or French. Or Spanish. It was a nice way to practice my foreign languages to my little puppy dog. I used to call him “canino” which isn’t a correct translation (kind of means little dog) but I liked it anyways. My little canino. I’d say “Ma cosa facciamo, canino? Dove andiamo? Abbiamo gia passato un’ora! Torniamo a casa.”
In his later years, Hudson had plenty of medical problems here and there. And it often didn’t look good, but being Survivordog, he somehow would always pull through. The walks started getting shorter as he’d start to tire out. But even then, if I asked him “Do you want to go for a walk?” his eyes would dance with excitement. Our family actually had to spell the word“W-A-L-K” out loud if we weren’t taking him on a walk to avoid both the over excitement and the look of disappointment in his eyes when he realized we weren’t actually going for a walk.
One of my favorite things about coming back to Rochester was seeing Hudson. He’d go ballistic, I can’t forget the sound of his tail thumping loudly against the washing machine when I walked in the door. For however long I was home, Hudson would follow me everywhere- no matter what I was doing. If I moved from the living room to the kitchen, he’d follow me. If I moved from the kitchen to the living room to sit on the couch, he’d follow me.If I went to the bathroom, he’d try and follow me.
One time, a bit exasperated by his frequent attempts to follow me into the bathroom, I let him in as I went to pee. He looked around unimpressed, like, “this is it? This is what you leave me for?” My family found it a bit odd, but I’d sleep on the ground next to him when he took a nap. He’d occasionally open his eyes to see if I was still there, and then drift back to sleep.
In the end, time came calling. Hudson was acting lethargic and tired, and we took him to the vet. The vet announced that he didn’t have cancer, and we thought Survivordog had dodged another bullet. Instead, he had developed anemia, which at the time, we thought was the best possible option, but he didn’t react well to the treatment. His walks went from being short to non-existent. As the anemia got worse, he looked perennially exhausted, and spent more and more time laying on the floor. Towards the end, he was unable to eat much and got thinner and thinner.
Labradors typically have a life expectancy of 10–12 years, so for Hudson, with all his genetic defects and medical problems, to have made it to 12 1/2 is quite remarkable.
But it’s one of those things. Hudson beat the odds, he lived longer than he was supposed to, and we all knew he didn’t have much longer left. But none of that, no facts, no sober realities can really prepare you. My heart still broke this morning when we took him to the veterinarian for the last time.
It was a beautiful, sunny Fall day. The trees were still a brilliant summer emerald color, the corn was fully grown and ready for harvest, and apples fell from the trees into the leafy, green grass. My dad drove the van, my sister sat in the middle, and I was in the back with Hudson. He used to jump so eagerly into the car to go wherever we were going (he didn’t care where) but as anemia had robbed him of his strength, we had to help him in on his last trip.
The drive was mostly silent, I tried to talk to Hudson cheerfully but my tears betrayed me- I wonder if he knew on some level that this was his last car ride. We sat there and watched out the window, with his head resting on my arm, me patting his head and us watching the world pass by.
I’ll miss you dearly, Hudson. You were a survivor, like me. My little canino.
My buddy.
