Elegy for a Dead (Great?) Dane

Darby wasn’t my dog. Technically, Darby wasn’t anyone’s dog anymore; at least if Darby were still capable of a quality of ownership-as-dog, I’d suggest Darby was God’s dog now.

Or, from another point of view, Pat’s dead dog. Dog-ownership and dead-dog-ownership requiring certain transitions that Pat’s absence at the crucial and subsequent moments seemed to leave lacking certainty on that note...

My point being, Darby was neither my dog, nor my dead dog. And had never been my dog. For one, if Darby had been my dog, they wouldn’t have been Darby. They? Yeah I’m not claiming Darby was gray-gender, though Darby was largely gray come to think of it; nor that this was the dog’s preferred pronoun because heck it was a friggin' dog, I'm not that touchy-feely-flakey. But out of respect for the dead, I declined to investigate the genital situation that ultimately seemed irrelevant even before death, given their asexual reclusive Big City lifestyle. In some regards “it” seems more applicable given the lifelessness angle, but respect for the lives once lived and the animacy once applicable intervenes.

But I digress. If Darby had been mine (dog or otherwise), Darby wouldn’t have been Darby. Darby would have been maybe Hamlet. Great Dane and all. Har har. Thanks for the courtesy laugh. It’s been a long afternoon.

I did have the onus of care for Darby the dog, having formed a sufficient oral contract with Pat, Darby’s owner and my neighbor. We had never discussed Darby the dead dog. Such contingencies had simply been neglected in that all-too-important exchange of consideration, offer and acceptance.

Great Dane seems like a reach for poor Daby/Hamlet. Their life was small. Very compact, even for a midsized cat. I never knew Darby/Hamlet, but they must have been a saint or very very lazy/sick to endure such a itty bitty life. 

Their routine, as I’d gleaned from Pat’s fastidious oral walk-through of dog-watching-duties-never-to-be-realized, was drudgery punctuated by occasional walks at a local dog park. And the occasional family visit. Maybe the odd social moment cavorting down the narrow and generally cramped streets.

For a "Great" Dane name, I like Hammie, because then it could be Hamlet or Hammet, like Dashiel. Now Dashiel is also a lovely name for a living dog, but works somewhat well in its noir tendencies for a freshly dead dog. Dash. Maybe Dash. Ironic, because there’s no way that dog had ever had the opportunity to do so and certainly wouldn’t be doing any dashing going forward, except maybe in doggie heaven, which I certainly pray exists… I’ve never formally met Darby/Hammie/Dashiel, but I bonded with their remains over this last while. I sincerely wish them well.

Darby’s/Hammie’s/Dashiel’s greatest task in life was likely helping Pat get tail of the non-canine (but heavily wagging) variety. I mean Pat was a package on his own by certain starndards - cuteish for his age, well off for any age, not totally socially inept, and lacking in any obvious psychological disorders or infectious diseases. But a mild-mannered elephant-dog: Tractor beams and melted hearts left and right I am sure. There were pictures in the apartment. Owner and doggie beaming and embracing in a big melange of unthreatening adventure. Bet I could find that style of photo heavily pawed over on every dating site in the area.

Chances were that Darby’s/Hammie’s/Dash’s wingman (wingdane? Now that sounds like a Marvel sidekick waiting to happen) status would not well endure past post mortem stiffness.

Loving a dog is endearing and shows a vulnerable side. Carrying around a dead dog is… the beginning-middle-end of a Criminal Minds re-run.

“You think the dog is stiff, just wait until you see... “ yeah, clever but only with really disturbed goths and burgeoning sociopaths. I won’t say Pat’s ever struck me as having the best sense of humor, but even he has limits and his genre is more like single-guy-dad-joke-lite with a tiny little snort some must endearing. 

***

Standing on the stoop in Fortbrassian anticlimax with my dingy lulumon knock-offs and ex-boyfriend-hoodie (move over boyfriend cardigan, though I guess you already went so out of style you aren’t even retro), I had to wonder: how long had this behemoth of a beast been so dead? Something was most definitely rotten in the state of Denmark today.

Pat. Did he set me up? Unable to cope with the death of his oversized companion (or worse, having snapped spoisoned his one true companion), call the cute neighbor girl (when I’m not wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, I swear I’m kinda cute… I doubt he thinks so, given the slightly paternal tone I vibe from him but… that’s cool… he’s not really my type anyways... at all... and after this dead-dog thing, I think that's pretty well settled into oblivion!) and ask her to “sit” while fleeing the city in tearful panic??

I don’t know Pat that well. He’s had a few parties that permeated the neighborhood. We’ve shared extensive colloquies consisting of nods and you-first gestures in the elevator. Sometimes we get each other’s mail. He gets a lot of magazines for smirking hip professionals that don’t necessarily read his style, but I can see why certain algorithms would target him as such. We’ve done a smattering of small talk. Who knows what truly lay beneath that affable benign veneer? Did he have any prescription bottles indicating extreme anxiety or psychosis in the cupboard? Naw, he’d have taken them with him I imagine.

Dare he leave the task of shetland-pony-corpse cleanup to a girl conceivably smaller than the stiff Dane sprawled on the floor?

Dare I walk out and share with Pat the enlightening experience of discovering what 10 days (depending on the as-yet uncalled time or death) of decaying Dane looked and smelled like?

“Oops,” I rehearsed in my head, “I thought you said the week of the 27th! Oh man I’m so sorry!”...

No that definitely put culpability on me.

“Weird, dog seemed fine to me. Lots of walks and cuddles. I might have to get a pet myself here. We bonded. I'm so broken up. Will there be a service?… what they call a time of death on dogs? What is this Law and Order: Vet Files?” Wow that got lame.

“Oops I thought Darby was just really sleepy… how am I to know the difference? The only pets I have are sugar ants and some surprisingly unattractive lady bugs and I don’t spend much energy checking in on them!!!”

Flee. There was still time to flee. There was very little evidence I’d been in the apartment.

I could drop the keys out the window. Run. Call Pat in a panic (already there, so not a problem) explain I’d lost his keys and leave it to everyone else from there! At least maybe he’d call in a friend for back up.

Here’s what I knew I wasn’t gonna do: call Pat and tell him I’d somehow killed his dog.

Because that’s what it felt like. Ultimately. I’d always had a black thumb. Plants always died on me despite rigorous adherence to plant care protocols And well, I’d never tried with a dog. Maybe it’s the same thing. At this stage Darby/Hammie/Dash was basically plant food, so circle of life and all. Like Pat just gave me these keys and the world reacted according to natural rules. BAM dead dog before I could even forget to water it. 

I did, I really did, try to contact Pat. Hands shaking so much that I misdialed several times. But the phone was off. He was flying to Australia or Austria of somewhere super far away. I could NOT, just couldn't leave him a welcome-off-your-flight message about his dog's new transcendental state.

What the heck do people do with dead dogs? Can’t just leave them sprawled on the floor. Can’t - I looked it up while sitting on the floor staring at my new dead friend - just toss them in the trash.

Can’t show up with them at a Pet Store and ask for a trade-in. I didn’t look this up, but I considered it. Great service though. Really should consider it.

Maybe in some country village, you can just bury your monstrous canine in the garden or something, but this is the city. Compost? Eyeing the compost bucket that was slightly smaller than my tote, I opted against this as well.


Scenes of Breaking Bad and really gross bathtubs triggered a small bout of nausea. No.

***

"God. Damnit. Pat. God Damnit. You’d better take me out somewhere nice when this is all over. Or pay my rent or something. Promise to never ever make me sit for your dead dog again!!" I muttered this to my dead dog friend, but I’m fairly sure it immediately formed a binding contract. It gave me at least some motivation.

Edging to the fridge, I found redemption: Zima! Ok, Pat, not the best taste, but booze is booze. En route I found a note with contact information for the vet. I don’t anticipate that veterinary medicine has reached the zombie-dog stage, but lacking other options I braved my first decisive move. After a bottle of Zima, which does … a job? Sort of? Next time I pet sit, I’m adding an alcohol selection clause.

I don't particularly care for the telephone all told. I would have very happily emailed the vets but in my experience this would have resulted in several hours to days of waiting and I was fairly convinced the the best thing I could do was to wrap this situation up, head out for a "study binge" and leave Pat a conciliatory little note explaining my valiant handling of his affairs so that he could continue his… whatever he was doing. Some kind of conference I think. I am pretty sure he’s in a hobby or career that involves use of the word “conference.”

Needless to say, the panic of the dead-dog situation added to the general disorientation of the telephone and things, and.I was not my most articulate self, if such a self exists. But several on-holds later and a vague understanding that Darby was in fact an ex-dog and not a spouse or child, I got some basic instructions: wrap the dog in a blanket, but the blanketed dog in a garbage bag, bring the dead-dog package to the address provided.

I wrote these things down in a surge of gratitude that led me to fail to ask many vital follow ups. Like WHY? WHY ME? WHY THIS? 

A few others that sprung to mind moments after:

What blanket? Do I have to use one of my blankets? One of Pat’s? How do I choose which of the various throws and quilts and knit things about the house to execute this final resting task. Will Pat get it back? Is there dead dog blankie etiquette pet owners just all instinctively know? Should this have been in the contract?

What the fuck kind of bag does a Great Dane fit in? I mean I’ve got heavy load garbage bags. I’ve fit an amazing amount of stuff in those on move days, but who the fuck has ever just tossed a small horse in the kitchen trash? This should be a size of garbage bag. Small-livestock bags for the active pet-owner. Something like that. So many business ideas that'll never see the light of day due to my being broke and generally incompetence at business.

How, just how, is a sporty but petite twenty-something going to get a gigantic dead-dog across town without a car.

After some serious consideration, I at least attempted the wrapping with a few sheets and blankies leftover in the spare bedroom. This was scientifically interesting in between moments of pure revulsion. Dogs leak fluids when they’re dead turns out. I don’t want to go into details beyond UUUUCK.

Having taken a break and changed into a whole new brilliant athleisure (hey, girl, it screamed - I do yoga, very hot hot yoga), I quite proudly attempted the second bag-wrapping task with loads of duct tape (never can have enough though a few artistic project misfires had left me with about fifty rolls, a number which well might have been very close to enough) and a few hefty bags.

Zima the second. Not like I was gonna find a car to drive anyways.

Uber? I just couldn’t somehow. The same applied to most of my friends who were likely available Too many conversations I was just not ready to have. Too much chance of more dog-leakage that I'd have to somehow clean. Plus I was a little broke. No. If I was going to make it, I was going to have to take the metro. Better than busses anyways.

But still I couldn’t just lug a smelly corpse-sized garbage bag monster around the streets.

The third Zima and a frantic pace around the apartment yielded Eureka moments. That’s right. Pat was some kind of DJ or musician or something. Whatever he was, he obviously did not do it as his main gig, because he afforded some NIIIICE equipment in his niiiiiice apartment. A whole second bedroom (what kind of rent did this guy afford to have two bedrooms and a giant dog deposit and then to replace the roommate with stereo equipment? However he pays me back had better be niiiiiice too). He had some cases. Wheeled even. And gigantic.

I was running on fumes (fourth Zima and a cup of coffee) at this point and shaking with energy. Garnering all my strength, I propped the largest case open against a wall and rolled the dog-corpse bag towards the case, grunting like a WWE champ on PPV night. A running start and I got them tipped into the case. Several more grunts and a flying leap pushed the mass in further. Some serious sitting and pounding (howling and crying not technically necessary, but atmospheric) got the case closed.

***

I was gonna do this damnit! Darby/Hammie/Dash, you were meant to be in my care.I was your angel, sending you to your final rest. Or some stop along the way. Cremation? Pat has no idea what a resourceful pet-sitter he hired on with a smile and a promise of “I’ll make it up to you sometime” (definitely binding consideration if I’ve ever seen any).

It was tight getting into the elevator, let alone out the door, but I managed, dripping sweat stained with grit. Feeling awfully cool with my gear and my hip “yeah, I’m just heading to rehearsal” smirk. People noticed and they weren’t thinking “now that’s a girl who looks like she just killed her neighbor’s dog.” I don’t think. In all the packaging the smell was pretty minimal, especially compared to the eau du Zima that hovered about my regal personage.

It was a lug, but I managed through the station with a little help from some friendly guys I’d acquired on the way. Liability of these cute yoga pants, I tell ya. Well, one of them I accidentally rolled my case over his foot. He was pissed for a sec, but then I guess I have that winning of a smile? Or curiosity just got the better of him. Whatever it was, my insistence that I’d have to make it up to him after this gig I had to get to, turned into him deciding to get me there.

Man, Darby/Hammie/Dash: a hottie magnet even in death. Even wrapped in damp sheets and bags and stuffed in a case. This was turning my way. I apparently was awfully cool with just the right dash of helplessly approacable here. I hope hottish guy number one appreciated the new clothes Darby’s discharge had forced me to change into - oh yeah, laughing drunken cobra pose, I bet I know what that is and how to do it! Dude and his friend helped down the escalator. We somehow MacGyvered through the turnstyle even. And all the while making conversation about “the scene,” which they clearly didn’t know much about or they’d have figured out I have no clue what I was talking, about besides a few reiterated lines Pat and pals had wafted past me at times.

As I got to my stop, they were still with me and I was at a bit of a quandry. If they kept tagging along, how did I explain my final destination at the Vet? I had to lose them at some point to circle back later, and I was at least willing to bookmark the circling back.

Man, I liked these guys. Well the one guy. He was cute and kind of funny. His friend, whatever. He lifted heavy things. But the welcome was running out a bit. I was getting a bit worried that I’d have to keep walking and walking for hours until somebody had an actual place to be (not me, not without my dead dog - musical arte at the edge of all genres, was what that was). Natural stopping point when the hotter guy asked if I’d like to stop for a cup of coffee at a place he knew. It was getting late. Who knows if the vets were even still open. I was thirsty. I was not planning on bringing Darby/Hammie/Dash “home” again (dead dogs have no homes, I’d posit), but maybe there was like a drop-off spot in front of the vet’s?

I didn’t care at that point, so I followed his direction through what looked like a trail in the park. Not uncommon, to end up on some random side trail through the trees, but a bit on the dark and cold side with my dead and dampening dog box. Second thoughts lay in as the Zima cleared out. Though man I could have used that coffee.

No coffee. I’ll tell you that much.

I don’t really know how it played out in detail. So one point we were walking. Next BAM - a numb reeling lights-flickering thunder clap, tons of pain, a little wet feeling and total black out.

***

Who does that? What was I gonna do? Ok, take my cell phone too, but bash me over the head? Me? Did I look like I was gonna sprout a super cape and fly them to prison with my handy super utility belt or something? Was my implied yoga superstardom just too intimidating?? Just fuck. Where's the dignity in knocking out a cute girl in yoga pants just to get her giant dog coffin.

Am I still bleeding? No? No good thank you. I look pretty grubby though, I gotta say. Brand new outfit too. Damnit. This city is just going to hell.

What happened? Apparently I fell in with the wrong wrong crowd again. My mother would be sooooo vindicated right now. Yeah two strangers. Isolated place. Thank god Darby/Hammie/Dash was with me or lord knows what might have gone down. Good dog, Darb, good dog.

Poor Darby/Hammie/Dash. I really really had pledged to get them to their final resting place. Do you think they’ll turn up maybe? I mean I doubt there’s a huge black market for blankie-wrapped-dead-Danes. Then again, maybe I just don’t travel in the right circles. I guess if so, I’m glad of it.

Man wonder if we could move the scene of the crime to Pat's house somehow? Maybe somebody broke in there, knocked me out, drank his booze and stole his dog in a giant case? And left the five bajillion more obviously expensive objet de hipster strewn about the place? Strains credibility. Whatever. Serves him right for asking me to pet sit anyways. I tell you I always kill plants? Though can’t say I’ve ever lost a corpse before. That takes some something. And who keeps a Great Frickin' Dane in a downtown apartment?

Rest in one stinky plastic-wrapped piece, Darby/Hammie/Dash. You were not my dog, but we had some adventures that make me feel robbed of a dead-dog, sitting here alone. Here’s two fingers and a couple paws crossed for doggie heaven and divine retribution for dog-corpse robbery. Good night sweet dog-corpse. May flights of angels sing thee to thy giant dog house. Hope wherever you end up, there’s plenty of room to run (Dashing room, dare I say) and tons of lusty whatever-you-prefers up there waiting to add some greatness back into that Dane.

I don’t know, but man is some asshat criminal gonna have a fun moment when he opens up that “high end equipment” he just stole from me.