Mr. Bill, Wunderdog

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On Friday, the vet came and I held Mr. Bill in my arms as he left this world and went back to wherever it is we come from, wherever it is we go. It had been a difficult night for him, and he could barely walk, was incontinent, was clearly in pain. Earlier that morning, I picked J. up from his dorm and we drove home in silence. Then, around 2 PM, I held the dog in my arms as the vet administered the last shot. 

I was 30 years old when I adopted Mr. Bill; J. had just turned two. We had just moved into our apartment post-divorce with our two cats, and I had left Luther and Charlie, the dogs I had with my ex, with him because I couldn't find an apartment that would accept two dogs and two cats. I was paying my mortgage and my rent, and I was terrified and desperate. But I'd never lived alone, and had never really lived without a dog before. So I saw Mr. Bill's photo on a rescue site, and drove out to Richland, Michigan where I picked him up from an animal hoarder's house. He was three months old, and named Lucky. He'd been abandoned on the side of the road, was sick as hell. 

He was insane. Half beagle half--goat? demon? long-legged horse? He was the outward manifestation of my anxiety. But he was gentle and J. and he fell in love immediately. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't train him except to be housetrained and to sit, occasionally. He rarely stayed still, could barely be pet because he immediately got so excited he would yodel and vibrate out of his body. But he and J. were joined at the hip. When J. went to his father's house, Mr. Bill would wait by his bedroom until he returned. Because J. couldn't sleep alone, we all slept in my bed. The dog ate an entire couch once. He slept with me and the cats when I was alone, walked through the neighborhood with me screaming at anyone that came near out of pure joy and excitement. Every car ride was a combination of dog screaming and me screaming out of frustration. He hated water. He hated baths. He loved eating poop and anything--literally, ANYTHING--that he could get into his mouth.

I wasn't sure if it was the right thing, to get this insane dog. Then there was the boyfriend who demanded I get rid of him, and then who, when I was offered a headlining reading up in Sault Ste. Marie, decided at the last minute he didn't have the time to come with me and I realized it was dog or boyfriend and I chose dog. Mr. Bill and I drove the 9 hours to the Soo and he ate one of the seatbelts in the back seat of my subaru and I broke up with the boyfriend when I got back. 

He curled up every night with J. He exploded with joy every time we came home. He ran back in forth in our basement to catch and then consume tennis ball after tennis ball we stole from the courts at the college nearby. 

When we got Maxie, our rescue border-collie/chow mix, he had a police dog who nipped at him every time he yodeled on a walk, who slept with him in his crate, who made sure no one acted up at home. When Maxie died in 2019, Mr. Bill fell in love with the cats. And the cats, weird feral assholes all of them, loved Bill. He let them eat out of his foodbowl while he ate, he waited patiently for them to finish at the water bowl before he attempted to drink, he curled on the floor if the cats were in his bed. 

He was a constant for J. For me. For seventeen years, he at his poop and slept with J. and then on our bedroom floor once he couldn't do the attic stairs anymore; walked through the neighborhood and then was carried through the neighborhood when he could no longer walk more than a few blocks. He was always excited to eat something, was always happy to have a cat curl next to him in his bed, was always happy when we came home. He came all the way to Portland with us, he grew up with J. He grew up with me.

I knew R. was for real when, the first weekend he came to Michigan from Portland, Mr. Bill ate his Armani watch (though I recovered the watch part), his mouthguard, and his wallet and R.'s response was essentially a shrug. Dog's gonna do what a dog's gonna do.

There wasn't a clear line between me and Mr. Bill. Our emotions were the same. He came into our lives at the most vulnerable point--I was thirty, living alone for the first time in my life, divorced with a 2 year old, newly tenured, terrified. I spent so many of those nights when J. wasn't with me half-drunk on cheap wine, sobbing on my floor, and Mr. Bill sat near me, walked with me through downtown Kalamazoo at all hours, curled with me on the couch, slept with his back pressed against mine. All I ever wanted to give J. was stability, a home where, though there was terror, there was a ferocity of love. Bill loved J. with his whole body. Mr. Bill vibrated with the same anxiety that I did; wailed and wept and could barely stand being touched as it excited him so much, wanted to be a part of ever conversation, wanted to have me or J., or later, R. in his sight at all times. 

By the end he was so tired, so weak, so terribly skinny. He could barely walk, and we had to carry him outside. I fed him whatever he wanted: cans of salmon, scrambled eggs, cat food, rice, yogurt. But when we came home, J.and me, his face lit up. Even at the end, he was so happy to see Z., our vet. He was so happy to eat the treats I fed him as she adminisiterd the sedative.

I did not love him enough, or with enough patience. But he loved us, no matter what. I have cried harder and more for this dog than I did when my father died; I sobbed and sobbed on my bedroom floor as he first went to sleep, and then slipped away. 

I'm sorry,  I wept. Oh god. 






I love you. I love you. I love you.

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