Losing Oscar

My hound Oscar is no more. After a 16-day illness of undetermined origin, I gently led him on his last journey down the walk to the vet. He had not even taken a sip of water in over a day. 

In his last hours he rolled over to have a belly rub. He rose from his bed, stood on his legs to touch noses with his best dog friend in the world, my daughter’s Garbo. Both dogs wagged their tails as they had one last moment together.

Oscar came from the SPCA as a grown dog. He had been left at an Interstate 81 rest stop. I have speculated many times over which of his multitude of sins he might have committed before his owner dropped him off. Was it the streak of aggression I managed to tame (only partially) with a can of doggy deodorant? When he started defending the sofa, the rawhide sticks, and the cat bowl he commandeered, I accidentally stumbled onto the technique of spraying him with doggy cologne I had purchased to try to tame his wild odors. It stopped him in his tracks. It was as offensive to him as a can of skunk spray would have been to me. (I can’t recommend it to anyone else; do not try this at home.)

Maybe it was his scent unleashed in a closed car. A Basset hound/lab mix, he could have used a bath every day.

Maybe he found a dead squirrel and tried to take it along with him. He prized dead animals and would not easily give them up. If he found a deer carcass in the woods, there was no way he would part from it without a fight. I just had to keep moving until he got bored. I can well imagine a scene with Oscar, his mouth full of something utterly disgusting, being denied re-entry into his owner’s car.

Whatever happened, he needed a second chance. The day my daughter and I walked past dog after dog down the long row at the SPCA, we both stopped in front of this completely calm hound that just sat there and rolled his big Bassett eyes up at us. Begging was not in him. He negotiated. He stated his case. He held his ground. Two more visits later, I took him home.

We had a great eight years. Oscar had a weird charisma. I have had people riding in cars stop in the street to ask me what sort of dog was on the end of my leash. Despite never seeming to work at it, he attracted the affection of a whole host of friends. “The Oz” had the Basset, hangdog look that makes people smile.

The day he died the ground was frozen solid. I had planned to bury him on the land of a friend, but there was no way to dig a grave, so he has been cremated. After I left the vet, I wandered around the county in my car. I had no idea what to do with myself. After my father died, there were a dozen details that had to be taken care of. People arrived with flowers and food, but saying goodbye to your hound is solitary by comparison. Friends did call. My children were bereft and kind.

I had planned a trip to see my mother, and I went. She is a great movie buff. We went to see two films, including “Marley and Me,” the story of a Labrador and his family. When Marley was taken to the vet to die, and the syringe was filled with that pink liquid I had seen just two days before, my mother grabbed my hand, worrying that I would not be able to take it. Of course, it seemed all too familiar, but I told my mother I had known Marley for only two hours; I knew Oscar for eight years. I would be all right. And I will be. Just give me time.

Patricia Hunt, of Staunton, is a chaplain at Mary Baldwin College.