"It’s inevitable when you buy the pet … it’s going to end badly. You’re purchasing a small tragedy…"
The words above are courtesy of the late George Carlin, one of the most famous comedians of all time. He was one of my favorites. One of the rare comedians who would virtually converse with his audiences rather than just telling jokes. Within most of his “bits,” if one was listening close enough, there was meaning.
The passage above includes some quotes from Carlin during a bit in which he spoke about the multiple dogs he had owned during his lifetime.
I mention the passage because I come to all of you with a heavy heart. My family too dealt with tragedy last week.
It started Dec. 10 while attending the Wilton vs. Durant Backyard Challenge basketball games after a long day of laying out the weekly Advocate News.
Late in the boys' game, I received a phone call from my mother Tami Sawvell. Busy with game coverage, I didn't answer. She called again moments later. This was unusual so I picked up the second time. She was distraught and asked for me to find my father Stan Sawvell in the crowd and tell him to get home. "It's Callie," my mother said. "It's not good."
I found my father and told him about Callie, my parents' last remaining family dog. Apparently Callie (pictured), a 13-year old black golden doodle, had a massive seizure while lying on the couch. By the time my father got home, she had other minor tremors and later had another massive seizure.
Meanwhile, I was still at the games, wrapping up interviews. I finally left around 10 p.m. and got home for a quick, late bite to eat — story of my life in this gig.
I then received a text message from my mother saying simply, "I think you should come up."
Before I could finish my snack, the phone rang moments later. It was my mother and I could tell she was on the move. She said they had loaded Callie in the car to take her to see local veterinarian Wayne Budding at the Sunset View Pet Hospital in Wilton.
I met them at Wayne's office. My father was holding onto Callie in the front seat of the car. She truly was his dog, spending many nights either standing over him demanding to be petted while he sat in his chair in the living room, or curled up with him on the couch as he slept with her most nights.
It was around 10:30 p.m. When Wayne arrived and opened the clinic, my father carried Callie in as she had lost motor functions due to the seizures. We then proceeded to have the inevitable discussions with our beloved vet involving end of life decisions. There's no telling what caused the seizures. It's unknown when they'd return but he assured us they would. He could give her enough medicine to stop them — but for how long?
It was time. She had been slowing down for months. My parents recently built a new home. I think the move was hard on Callie. Along with her old age, she was starting to lose her eyesight and hearing. That, coupled with slowing down physically, made adapting to a new home difficult. Not to mention the constant presence of contractors for months as the house continues to get finished also taking its toll.
Yet she persevered and pressed on, still greeting my parents at the door each time they came home, and doing the same for me when I visited.
In those moments with Dr. Budding, he told us the same thing he said six years ago when we had to put our other family dog down. He said dogs will always give us 110 percent of themselves each and every day. In the end, when they need us most, we have to step up and be strong for them. This was Callie's time of need. This was our moment.
She was put to sleep just before 11 p.m. with my dad holding her body and I holding her head in my hands so she wouldn't be alone. Yes, as Carlin says, it was tragic. But it was only the final chapter in a remarkable life of perhaps the best dog my family has ever had.
Callie's life was one of unconditional love and perseverance. She was born in 2006 and virtually fell into my mother's lap courtesy of a local rural family that did business with Muscatine Ag where my mother works. After getting her home, we soon found out that she couldn't open her mouth.
We had some X-rays done and found that very early in life her jaw had been broken. It was never repaired. Therefore, since she was a puppy and growing rapidly, her jaw bone fused together with her skull. Her whole life was a struggle. She couldn't open her mouth more than a quarter of an inch. A dog's whole livelihood is through the mouth. Yet she managed. We fed her small dog food, which she was able to eat in very messy, time-consuming ways. She'd bury her head in the water dish to drink. And each weekend, she was treated to scrambled eggs and toast, which was soft and easier to eat.
We had to keep her indoors in the summer, as she couldn't pant from the mouth to extract heat. And there were always wash rags in every room, as we constantly had to wipe up after her every time she ate or drank.
Yet given all the deficiencies, she was the most docile, caring, loyal and loving dog my family has ever known. She just wanted to be close to you, simply wanted love and to be loved.
So that's what we did. We loved her. And we cared for her, even though it was quite tedious at times.
For years, my family has had standard poodles due to wanting big dogs that didn't shed. This was the first "golden doodle" they've ever owned. That's the rage now. In the past decade, several new breeds have emerged, with many being crossed with poodle breeds. My guess is for the coat and no shedding.
Callie didn't shed either, a top desire for our family. The golden retriever in her made her more calm and lovable. A true lap dog.
I'll never forget how truly raw she was in coming to us. No docked tail and quite mangy. Having lived on a farm with little attention or supervision, she really had to be trained although she was older than most pups that get brought home. It also took awhile for our male standard poodle, Cole, to acclimate to her. In fact, the first time my mother brought her home, she took her back because we just didn't think Cole could or would warm up to her.
Weeks later she tried again as the owners just couldn't get rid of Callie. This time we were more diligent, or perhaps more stubborn, and it worked. She and Cole eventually became inseparable.
I'll forever wonder what happened to Callie. The farm where she grew up had other animals. Was she stepped on or kicked by another larger animal when she was younger? Or, God forbid, was she abused in some way?
We'll never know. One thing I am sure of is that had we not taken her, she'd have been put down.
Fate brought her into our lives and my mother, father and I are all better for it. She taught us the patience and determination needed to care with a living being having special needs.
She taught us the meaning of perseverance and adaptability. Also the never ending balance of independence coupled with dependence.
If it is true that all dogs go to heaven, my one wish for Callie is that she was instantly able to open her mouth wide, have a good strong bark, and let her tongue hang out the front of her mouth rather than through the side where many of her bad teeth were pulled years ago. Then perhaps she could give someone a big doggie kiss, the kind she tried to give my parents and I a million times but just wasn't physically able.