Eight years ago today (October 28, 2023) , our dog Abbie came to live with us. He was almost two years old. Born in Arkansas, he was shipped to the Golden Valley humane society as a stray and named Jakob. He was adopted and abandoned before being pulled by a home-based foster program. Now called Scout, he lived with his foster mom Beckie for 14 months before coming to our house.
Starting right out of the gate naming a dog after a famous anarchist – Abbie Hoffman, who was Jewish – was maybe not the best move. The last animal to join the family was a cat we named Oslo (my people), so it was only logical that this pet be named for Bob’s heritage. Abbott, or Abbie for short – we saddled our boy dog with a girl’s name.
We weren’t prepared. We weren’t prepared for a dog who was smarter than us, who could open any trash receptacle, any container, any pill bottle. Who took control of the house, suffered from separation anxiety, bit, herded us (while biting), was a sociopath without remorse, ate our food, and growled at us if we tried to reprimand or move him. Called a “loophole dog” by a trainer, Abbie understood immediately what was being asked of him, but preferred to spend his energy figuring out the shortcut he could get away with.
We also weren’t prepared for how much we’d adore this dog. Always within 12 inches of one of us, or, preferably, both of us, Abbie gave himself the job of protecting me, and he took that very seriously. When he’d come in from outside, he’d tap my arm with his nose to let me know he was back and on the case. He nursed me through two cancers. He was the subject of hundreds of made-up songs, he slept in our bed. He was our best, most handsome boy.
We agreed he’d live forever, because anything less was unbearable to imagine. But he took after his mother with a long and strange litany of medical problems, including liver cancer and Cushing’s disease. The Cushing’s treatments made him really sick, so we abandoned that. He had liver cancer surgery in May. He recovered really well, and was great for a while. He started fading a couple months ago, and we perked him up with prednisone. Ultimately that wasn’t enough, and his eating slowed down, even with appetite stimulants. His back legs weren’t cooperating reliably. And then last weekend, after a great week at the cabin, he stopped eating and drinking entirely, and let us know that he was ready to go.
We would never be ready. We held him on the deck when the vet came, eight years to the week after Abbie became our family. I honestly couldn’t imagine how to continue without him, and the strangest thing is happening – I don’t know if it’s a basic survival strategy, or if I’m so depleted from the trauma of making decisions for a geriatric dog. My brain has just shut down the whole topic of feelings and memories of Abbie. I’m selfishly grateful.
