In Memoriam- Samuel Phineas Snoot

My dog died on Thursday. His name was Samuel Phineas Snoot, and he was our dear friend for thirteen years. I first met Sam when he was launched at my still-sleeping chest from the foot of the bed. My wife disagrees with that part, claiming erroneously that I was already awake. I was not. I woke to a face full of tiny, highly excited dachshund and my wife telling me that “His name is Charlie, but we are going to have to change it because I have a niece named Charlie.”

We considered a number of names. Sam was what stuck. And he stuck with us through some bitter times. 

Sam was ungovernable. Loveable, but he quite literally refused to play ball. All the training advice says “Use the dog’s natural instinct to play.” What natural instinct to play? Have you ever seen a shin high dog look down on you for littering? I have. That’s how Sam looked at me when I rolled a ball across the room towards him. Tug of War? More ocular condemnation. A chew toy with peanut butter inside? Well, he licked the hole where the peanut butter was. And that was about it. 

We were able to housebreak him. We had to. He slept in the bed with us for most of his life. He would climb over the pillows, burrow under the blankets, and wedge himself between my wife and I where he would happily remain until it was time for breakfast. 

He quickly became “The Snoot.” There certainly wasn’t another like him. Then the term spread. “Did you snoot The Snoot?” became shorthand for “Did you walk the dog/let him out into the yard?” He wasn’t investigating, he was snooting around. It became part of our shared language.

Speaking of food, is it cannibalism for a daschund to run off with a sausage stolen from a coffee table? Because he did that. Perhaps it doesn’t count because it was an Italian sausage, but I still worry. It didn’t seem to do him any harm. Nor did beheading several rabbits (we found the bodies sans head, and him bloody mouthed,) nor did bodying three woodchucks his exact size and weight over three consecutive summers. 

One of which we found beheaded, which started making me worried my dog would end up on a watch list. Another I found displayed proudly, neck broken, laying perfectly parallel to Sam as he sprawled in victory in the shade of my car. He was a lap dog, an apartment dog, fed on the finest kibble, and a born hunter. Dachshunds, he consistently reminded us, are a hunting breed.

He was sweet. He was stubborn. He loved running around my dad’s place in the Green Mountains, the open acres calling to him, the tall grass full of smells, the big piles of dirt to dig in, the stone walls inhabited by all sorts of unfortunate vermin to oppress.

Running was often not the right word- he would make these bounding hops through the grass, like a dolphin in the water. We decided that way of moving was called galumphing. The genteel city dog turned into a shredded jock galumphing over the steep hill, warmed by the summer sun.  

That’s how I want to remember him. Running happily through the tall grass and the wildflowers, tail proudly in the air, nose close to the ground. Alive, vibrant, stubborn, loving. Not willing to come when called, but still happy to run up wagging when you came home. Still wanting to climb between us in bed, not willing to settle for one side or the other. 

A little over a year ago, he got prostate cancer. We got him every kind of treatment there is, and it worked, kind of. The disease stopped progressing. But he was diminished. Not gone, but lesser. Fading. Sleeping more, running less, not willing to join me for long walks in the woods that he loved only a year before. He became incontinent. We couldn’t let him sleep on the bed with us anymore.  

In the end, it was kidney disease that killed him. He wasn’t eating. We had to syringe feed him, which is an awful thing. His digestion had basically stopped. He wasn’t in pain, but he wasn’t going to get better. We kept trying, hoping for something to change for the better, right up until the end. He passed outdoors at my dad’s place, next to a bird fountain, surrounded by those who loved him. My wife, daughter and I buried him up on the top of the hill he loved running around on. We buried him deep and safe. 

It’s an odd thing to put into words, but I don’t seem to process emotions at quite the same speed as the people around me. They always seem to arrive much later, as though they were sent by boat across stormy seas. By the time they arrive, I have usually been expecting them and have places to neatly put them. It gives me a pretty flat affect. Smiling slightly, mellow, unbothered. 

Digging the grave, finding a traveling vet, comparison shopping coffins, they were all just chores. Things to do before the storm was on us. Knowing that Sam was dying, knowing the day of his death was coming hour by hour, knowing that we were doing our best and it wasn’t helping- that sent me sliding into a depression that I haven’t come out of yet. I will, I know that, but not yet, and not for a long while to come, I think. 

Smiling slightly, mellow, unbothered. A flat affect. And now I want to sleep all the time. Things that brought me pleasure are dull, or even stressful. Getting irritable over trivial things, finding the necessities of life an unpleasant burden. But I have lived with depression and anxiety for a long time. Their little ways are very familiar to me. I know how to cope.

Writing has been a blessing. As you might imagine, I haven’t done much writing the last couple of weeks. I’ve been rereading unreleased chapters. Finding problems, finding things that need fixing, and fixing them. Problems I can solve. Forcing my mind to work, to use those tools of creativity and empathy. Forcing myself to follow the advice I have my characters give each other. 

It is summer here in Vermont. I am still at my dad’s place, still watching the wildflowers blowing in the wind, still seeing the chipmunks running flat out in case Sam turns up again. Waiting to see his wagging tail amongst the tall grass, and listening for the jingle of his harness down by the old stone wall in the gully. 

I don’t know what comes hereafter any more than the next person. But I want to believe that my good dog is at peace, sunning himself on the front step and chasing chipmunks where he was happiest, and most truly himself- up on the hills and down the gullies of my dad’s place in the mountains. Not gone from us, just a little changed. I will grieve, in my fashion. Slowly, wearing a faint smile, trying to settle my feelings down in the places I have prepared for them. Writing, because meaningful work helps. 

Writing this helps. 

Thank you for reading this and mourning my dog with me. His name was Samuel Phineas Snoot, and he was, and is, loved.