Last year, specifically in October 2007, our 14-year-old companion, Pepino LeMutt, suffered a heart attack that paralyzed his right hind leg.
The old man refused to be picked up and hugged, dragging himself to his plate and his usual spot by the front door. Cucumber was a normal-sized Shih Tzu, stubborn to a fault and with an independent streak that was more human than canine. “Come here” for Cucumber meant “Go the other way”. He sometimes thought he was stubborn instead of stubborn.
No matter how often I tried, I could never teach her anything manly.
After retiring from business, where I was a successful investment banker, I became an adjunct professor of economics at the university. I have been teaching rebellious college students the rudiments of macro and microeconomics, and I am sure I have a great talent for teaching.
For years I felt that Cucumber had a high IQ, or above average to say the least. At times I have felt that he could perhaps outperform some of my own students. However, although I managed to teach him many tricks, the noble beast refused to learn how to lift his leg.
“Oh well,” I said to myself, “at least I talked him out of growling, barking, sniffing our guests’ crotches, and other high-intelligence tricks.”
Being apartment dwellers, in the mornings we let Cucumber urinate in his washable sanitary pads, but in the afternoons I took him out for a long walk. We are fortunate to live on Park Avenue (a beautiful avenue in New York City) where one can find trees in the median. For many days, or in the late afternoon or evening, I might be more precise, I tried to teach Cucumber to urinate like a male dog.
Repeatedly I raised my leg and placed it against a tree at the traffic light intersection north of our building, hoping Pepino would finally notice and follow suit.
Being an investment banker requires tough skin, and I’m proud to say I’m not easily embarrassed. So I turned a deaf ear to the taunts, jeers, indignities and insults of taxi drivers and other motorists stopped by the traffic light, when they saw me in that ridiculous position, trying to teach the dog how to act like a man. .
Cucumber never made it and in the end I gave up. “There’s no point in changing Cucumber’s basic instinct, he’s a maverick!” I thought. However, I knew that he had absorbed and internalized what he was trying to teach him, not because I am smart, but because Pepino was not a good poker player; every time he learned something, he would stick out his tongue and hold it back. out for about 5 seconds.
Dr. Grossman, Pepino’s regular vet, carefully examined my beloved dog and, shining a light on the old man’s pupils, said, “Pepino is in pain and suffering. It’s best that he be put to sleep.”
Stunned by what Dr. Grossman was saying, I could barely contain myself, fighting an internal wave of violence building inside of me. I remember thinking, “You callous, incompetent fool, for fourteen years we’ve fattened your wallet and all you have to say is ‘put him to sleep’.”
But instead I just muttered, “Isn’t there something you can do, surgery? I’ll pay for it!”
Grossman just shook his head to say “No.” He then said, “I’ll leave you two to talk for a while and cry. It’s time for Cucumber to go to dog heaven.”
As soon as Grossman walked out the door, my wife hugged me and started crying. I held her close to her to ease her pain, my heart pounding and my throat voiceless.
Only twice in my life have I shed a tear: the first time was during the TET offensive in Vietnam, when I held one of my men, who had been mortally wounded, in my arms and he asked me to call his mom. in Missouri and tell her that he loved her. Being a young lieutenant in the army, and my life still shapeless, I couldn’t contain my emotions and cried bitter tears, cursing the war as I sobbed, my man’s body still warm in my arms.
The second time was during the Dot.Com crash, when — following a gut impulse to the contrary — I shorted Cisco and other Dot.com stocks and made millions; a maneuver that allowed me to buy this duplex on Park Avenue. When I took out my winnings, sweet tears rolled down my cheeks and I thanked Cucumber more than God. Why is this? Because I realized that I made all that money by following my instincts instead of reason or what people said, just like my dog Pepino.
Dr. Grossman returned with an assistant and the two of them busied themselves setting up the cold aluminum and steel table where Pepino was to be sacrificed.
Afraid I was going to break down and let out a primal scream that ran down my spine, I asked Grossman to wait five minutes while I ran to the corner market and bought a pint of vanilla ice cream. Without waiting for a reaction I left.
Moments later, looking into my eyes, Cucumber let me know that he had enjoyed his last taste of ice cream more than ever in his life. The dog left this bitter world with a sweet taste in his mouth.
The assistant laid Pepino on his side and Grossman found a vein. And just as he was injecting himself with the hemlock or whatever agent they use, Pepino raised his left hind leg—just as he had shown her many times by that tree on Park Avenue—and urinated like a male dog.
Speechless, all I could do was cry, and I cried for the third time in my life.