The shooting death of our beloved dog, Gatsby
In keeping with a recent family tradition, my daughter and I search online literary name generators for our new dog. We narrow possibilities down to two:
Gatsby — because of his beauty, the fur coat, the bright white, and piercing blue eyes.
Lenny — the gentle giant Of Mice and Men, who overwhelms living creatures with his love.
We finally decide on Gatsby, mostly because it sounds cooler to say.
As we see now, days after his tragic death, Lenny might have been a name closer to the target, but both are true.
I first find Gatsby during a Google search for my son, who wants to buy a puppy of his own. Still on the rebound from the recent death of our Golden Retriever, Strider, I hesitate on the photo and then move on. Maybe it’s the mythology of the ultimate blonde, with piercing blue eyes, that draws me back. I show my wife Melanie the photo of Gatsby (a dog formerly known as Prince), and ask:
What could it hurt to just go look?
Driving across the North Carolina/Tennessee state line the next day, we meet Gatsby’s owner, who tries to give us some context for the circus experience we are about to see.
We recently moved from a house with a fence to one without one, she says.
While opening the door, she adds:
My husband and I work long hours and it’s unfair to keep him penned up.
And then she unleashes the hound.
Bounding like a kangaroo on crack, exercising breakneck speed, tongue lolling from side to side, a 9-month-old Husky races toward us. It’s all a blur; I can only think in metaphors — Tasmanian Devil, white cyclone, a crazed lover on the loose.
He’s a bit energetic, the owner apologizes.
Do you think?, I say as my wife, daughter, and I fight off — and relish — leaps of joys and flurries of kisses.
In his presence, we will learn, resides the Great Gatsby’s humble belief that everyone deserves to be his best friend.
Over dinner, we discuss the possibility of giving him a new home.
He just needs a little training, I say.
We have a fence, my daughter Annalyse adds.
Against her better judgment, Melanie too admits a falling under his frenetic charm.
On the drive home, Gatsby spreads across the lap of my daughter. Arriving late we speak our welcome and place him in his kennel.
Without protest, he sleeps through the night.
A cage is what he has grown to accept.
•
During the first day in his new home — loved on with toys, treats, long walks on taut leash, endless strokes through his beautiful thick white fur — Gatsby soaks in the home he never had and passionately desires more. The next day creates some concerns for the wisdom of our decision:
After putting him down for the night, he breaks out of his kennel despite heavy-duty ziptides, and runs to his new family.
After watching a training video, standing in the open front door, he knocks me backwards, hit like a bolt of white lightning, for another walk.
After he jumps our fence for the first time, the exercise of magnificent muscle memory and stellar athleticism, he stuns me with the artistry of his escape.
After leaving him alone in the house for the first time, alone again, he shreds the carpet, digging under my office door in search of me.
A rug hides the rips Gatsby made outside my office door, left alone for the first time in his new home.
We do the research we probably should have done before and believe dogtime.com offers the best expression of the nature of a Husky.
It is easy to see why many are drawn to the Siberian’s wolf-like looks and gentle nature, but be aware that this athletic, intelligent dog can be independent and challenging for first-time dog owners. Huskies also put the “H” in Houdini and need a fenced yard that is sunk in the ground to prevent escapes.
Even during our worse doubts about bringing such a wild lover into our home, the great Gatsby’s charm, beauty and innocence always win us over.
On the day before his death, my wife and I talk about how Gatsby has mellowed.
Seldom does he knock over visitors at the front door in his overwhelming excitement to see them.
Less often does he obsessively lick people on the floor in a great show of affection.
Hardly ever does he chew all of the throw pillows until it looks like it snowed.
Gatsby’s redeeming grace, we believe, is his submissive spirit. In his desire to please, he will do just about anything to help.
He waits for our tiny Bichon-Friese to eat before him.
He permits our two cats, after a couple of years of abject terror, to reclaim their kingdom.
He pees a few drops instead of a river when he sees our oldest son Taylor and the memory of their initial meeting surfaces — Taylor playfully banging a pillow in his face.
He self-appoints himself Annalyse’s nurse, lying next to her in bed following the extraction of her wisdom teeth.
He conquers his fear of water with some gentle coaxing onto a pool raft.
I could tell you so many stories, but I believe some photos express him best.
His subservient spirit disappears with each escape. From day one, Gatsby declares war on our meager 4-foot high fence. Through an evolving series of exceptional, nearly supernatural leaps, digs, shimmies, and precise lunges, he manages to continually break into freedom and look around at us like he has a middle finger instead of a paw.
No one keeps the great Gatsby from his God-given duty to run the neighborhood and greatly bless the community.
As his owners, we understand that while many look forward to his visits, others do not. Great passion for some is overbearing to others. On the other side of the fence, Lenny seems a better name.
We work tirelessly to keep him home — employing tools of stone, wood, stainless steel, bungee cord, rope, tape, and enough fence extension to keep our neighborhood Lowe’s in double-digit profit. Once, after he jumps into the lake with a shock collar turned to full power, we stop him for a year, and then he begins to dig.
On the morning of Melanie’s birthday, we hear two gunshots ring out, one after the other, and pay no attention. It’s just our neighbor shooting into the bank of his property again.
When the two Sheriff cars pull into our driveway, I am in the shower unawares.
Melanie listens to one officer ask:
Are you the owner of a white Siberian Husky?
She thinks to herself:
Oh, great, what kind of trouble has he gotten himself into this time?
The other officer explains that our neighbor, following an altercation between his dog and ours, shot Gatsby to save his Boxer.
When my daughter walks tearfully to her bedroom and shuts the door, I knock and ask:
What is the matter?
She tells me:
I’ve got some really bad news, Dad. Gatsby was shot and killed.
When I join my wife in the conversation with the officers, they patiently repeat the same story, ending with the neighbor’s tearful claim he had no choice. It is only later I think of the possibility of a warning shot or shouted command, neither of which we heard on that terrible December morning.
Two things I tell the officers I cannot imagine:
My gentle, submissive, loving, cowardly dog attacking any creature.
And, only when cornered and hurt, the formidable force of an inner white wolf emerging.
In the days since our beloved dog was shot to death, we hear no word from our neighbor, who I would love to talk with, sense remorse, extend grace.
Between my grief and anger, my mind often wanders to the beauty and power of the great Gatsby running in snow. For him it will be heaven, if dogs get to go there.
