Saying goodbye to Scout, my top political consultant
I lost one of my top political consultants, Scout the Wonderdog, last week at the worst possible time.
My family said goodbye to our beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback on Friday, and I am not ashamed to say I’m an emotional wreck. How will I get through the November elections without Scout at my side?
For the past 13 years I used our early morning walks and hikes to think over ideas and approaches for possible editorials and columns. A man I met a few months ago told me, “Oh, you’re the guy who talks to his dog on your walks.”
My best guess is that we were side by side for more than 3,000 outings, covering about 10,000 miles — more time than I’ve spent with even my closest friends.
Scout was a terrific listener and ultra-aware of my mood. He would turn, wag his tail and give my hand a lick when I was sad, bound down the path with me when I felt like celebrating and give me an understanding look when I needed to vent over the latest political outrage. And regardless of your political views, there has been plenty to vent about in recent years.
Scout had all the makings of a great journalist. He constantly had his nose in the air, looking for something interesting to investigate. When something smelled wrong, he was all over it. And when he came across something that he thought people needed to know, he would bark incessantly until others started paying attention. He was, you might even say, dogged.
But now he’s gone. What is it about the death of our pets that causes us such grief? Every member of my family has been engaged for days in what my daughter, Laura, aptly calls a “sobfest.” Those who do not have pets may find it difficult to comprehend. But for my wife, Barbara, sons Duncan and Cameron, and Laura, it’s as if we’ve lost a close friend or family member.
Maybe it’s because our pets are less judgmental than people. They never debate religion or politics, either.
Not that Scout didn’t have his faults.
Oh, my. Did he ever.
He was a 3-month-old pup when we rescued him from the Silicon Valley Humane Society.
His first morning at our home he pooped on my daughter’s school uniform jumper minutes before we were to leave for school. That got him a play date at home with Laura for the day, hardly an inducement for better behavior. Before we finally got him house trained, he had pooped in every room in the house, and not once, but twice, on my dress shoes.
A month after he joined us, Barbara was having an asthma attack to such a degree that when I asked her if I should call 911, she nodded her head, “yes.” Scout raced into the kitchen to see what the excitement was about and, as I was on the phone with the dispatcher, promptly bit through the phone cord (this was in the days before cellphones). In not my best moment, I kept right on talking as if the connection was still intact.
Scout had horrific separation anxieties in his early years before he mellowed. He would be especially destructive whenever we left him alone in the house or in the car (only on cool days) for any length of time. We estimated at one point that the wrecked blinds and damage to doors, woodwork, chairs, couches and car seat belts amounted to more than $5,000. And that doesn’t count the two gearshift knobs he somehow chewed up.
The all-timer — and the last time we left him by himself in the car — was the day we decided that if we parked the car close enough to the restaurant window where he could clearly see us, it would be OK for all of us to sit down and eat together.
Moments after we had ordered, he moved to the driver’s seat, less than 10 yards away. All seemed well. He looked at me. I looked at him. And he promptly bit off the car’s directional signal indicator, which also included the switch for the headlights. Did I mention that it was near dark, and we would need the headlights before we made it home?
All this was forgiven, though, for one simple reason: The love and companionship he gave to each of us was immeasurable, especially for my children as they navigated their teenage years. Scout had an unerring sense of when they were distressed. He wouldn’t leave their side, comforting them in ways their mom, dad and friends could not. And he did the same for Barbara and me, in our darkest moments.
He was a sweet boy to the end. Such a sweet, sweet dog.
He started slowing down when he turned 10, and his hips slowly deteriorated until, in the last few weeks, he had a hard time standing. In recent weeks, he had multiple days where he could no longer stand without help.
We all agreed we didn’t want him to suffer. So we came together Friday to say our our goodbyes. My final words to him? The same words I’ve whispered in his ear nearly every night this year.
I consider myself a spiritual person, and while I struggle with some matters of faith, on this issue, I have no doubt:
“All dogs go to heaven.”