Remembering Kirby

It is 2 years to the day since our beloved Shih Tzu, Kirby, crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  Kirby was my very first dog and in many ways he spoiled me for any other.  I never trained Kirby; he trained me.  And what an excellent job he did, too!

We decided to train Kirby to "go" on puppy pads.  Our yard at the time was an overgrown, weedy mess; the one time I let him out to roam, he came back covered in burrs and stickers--to the point where his fur was plastered against the sides of his face and body.  Since the children were young at the time, I also thought it would be easier to supervise his toilet training if he was in the house.  All I had to do was show Kirby the pads and correct his few mistakes.  He was trained in a week.  I was amazed to learn that Shih Tzu are supposed to be notoriously difficult to potty train.  Apparently Kirby never got that memo.

The only commands I made it a point to teach him were:  sit, stay, come, down and off.  Everything else he picked up simply because we talked to him all the time.  He quickly learned that "where" meant he needed to find something and "do you want" indicated something good to follow (a walk, some milk, a treat, a brushing).  Not only did he have excellent receptive language, he was also an incredible communicator.  His vocalizations went far beyond the normal whines and barks; he yodeled and moaned, sighed (often in seeming exasperation), chuffed and for lack of a better description, "yarled."

Yarling is a series of undulating notes that Kirby emitted when he was especially anxious to communicate with us.  A low, throaty yarl was used to get my attention and let me know something was wrong; when he was still quite a small puppy, I forgot to put out clean puppy pads for him.  He sat in front of me, stared intently and gave his muffled "mmm--arl."  Once he got my attention, he leapt to his feet, ran to his corner and stared pointedly at the empty space.  He danced with glee when I put the pad in place.

His louder, open-mouthed yarl indicated that something was really wrong.  Not long after we got Farley, I let the dogs out into the yard.  I did not know that E had left the side gate open.  Kirby immediately ran around the house to the front door and yarled at me.  He looked agitated and when I asked, "Where's Rusty, Kirby?"  He yarled long and loud and rushed to the front fence.  There, across the street, were Rusty and Farley.  They had escaped via the open gate and were setting off to explore the neighborhood.  I was amazed that Kirby not only did not join them, he came around to let us know that his "brothers" were loose in the street.

Though Kirby was flexible enough to allow me to sleep in on the weekends, he did let me know when he thought I'd been indulged enough.  He would march determinedly up alongside me and stare hard at my face.  If his laser eye trick did not work, he chuffed; a mixture of a sneeze and a snort.  The chuffing sound and light spray of moisture was usually enough to wake me out of the deepest sleep.  And once I opened my eyes, there was no turning back.  I was awake and breakfast needed to be served!

I did try to trick him a couple of times.  Once when he did his march up toward my face, I kept my eyes closed.  I was awake under my eyelids so even his usual chuff did not elicit the desired reaction.  I peered out carefully and when I noticed his face was averted, I blew at the side of his face.  His head whipped around to face me but my eyes were closed; obviously, I was still asleep.  Three more times I blew at him and three more times he whirled in my direction.  That final time, when I craftily peeped out to see if he was looking, he was.  Quick as a flash he smacked his front paw against my mouth and when my eyes popped wide open in surprise, he leaped off the bed and headed for the kitchen!  Objective reached; stupid human was awake and now it was time for breakfast!

Kirby became hypothyroid when he was four and by the time he was seven, he had developed a heart murmur.  For five years, life pretty much went on as normal; he continued to enjoy his usual activities and meals and daily walks with Rusty.  By the time he was 10 and Farley had joined our little family, it was clear that Kirby's heart was beginning to decline. His walking pace was so slow that I had to walk him separately from the younger dogs.  He had occasional brief but terrifying black-outs.  By March of 2009, he could no longer climb the stairs to the second floor without gasping; I slept on an inflatable mattress on the first floor from then on.

Our vet warned told us Kirby's heart was the worst it could possibly be and other than the medications which made him more comfortable, there was nothing further we could do.  Though it was devastating to think of Kirby's passing, it was nightmarish to think about the manner in which he might go.  Heart disease is horrifying in its unpredictability.  We might come home to find that he had died peacefully during a nap or we might come home to find him in agony and pray that it hadn't been for very long.

We knew that the time would soon come when putting Kirby to sleep would be the only and best option for our little friend.  But how do you know when?  In between his blackouts, he acted normally; he ate well, showed interest in his toys and people.  He was just slower and tired so easily.  At what point would we say, could we say, "That's it, he's had enough" and KNOW that it was the right thing for him? Everyone I asked told me the same thing.  You know.  You just do. 

I should have known that Kirby would tell me himself.  On that fateful morning, Kirby refused his breakfast.  He sat in front of me and stared long and hard into my face and that was it.  I had received his final lesson and all that remained was for me to carry it out.

Kirby crossed the Rainbow Bridge on May 4, 2009.  It was his 12th birthday.