Death of loyal pet is inevitable but painful ordeal

Editor's note: This is a copy of a column written in 1985 by Bob Frisk, the Daily Herald's assistant managing editor/sports, about the death of his miniature schnauzer.

This is not going to be a column about sports. I'm not in the mood. This has not been any easy week.

I just had to write something today about a wonderful friend.

Friskie, my 11-year-old miniature schnauzer who was stricken with severe heart and liver problems, died late Sunday night. Dr. Stephen V. Camp of the Arlington Heights Animal Hospital, who had worked so very hard to make her life enjoyable and her last days comfortable, gave the injection to end her misery.

I know there are people who hate nostalgic stories about pets. There are people who will say, "How foolish to waste words or tears over a dog. After all, a dog isn't a human being; it's only an animal."

Please, don't say that to me. Let me have my grief, my tears. Don't ask me to deny the pain, suppress my feelings.

I really miss Friskie.

Of course, as with any strong emotional attachment, the inevitable time comes when the bond breaks. Yes, I know 11 years represent a nice life for a dog. But that doesn't make the ordeal any easier. Let my emotions run their course.

Yes, Friskie was an animal, but she was a very special little creature. Only someone who has owned a dog can understand how it feels to lose one -- can understand that I feel as though I lost a gentle, loving friend.

I never imagined that I, who as a child had no particular desire for a dog, would be absolutely inconsolable watching little Friskie's final hours last weekend. Many people share the experience of losing a pet, but this was the first time for me.

It was only after my 8-year-old daughter gave that pleading look in 1974 that I agreed -- as a 38-year-old -- to even have a dog in my adult life. After all, Susan's look seemed to say, how can a house in the suburbs be complete without a dog?

It was awful calling that 8-year-old, now a college sophomore, to tell her the news Sunday night.

I'll try not to remember those final days last weekend, but it won't be easy. I want to remember the saucy stance of this feisty little terrier. I want to remember the alert expression, shaggy eye-brows and jaunty chin whiskers. I want to remember a healthy, happy, energetic dog who bolted around the house and dragged me on our walks down Gregory Street in Arlington Heights to Meadows Park in Mount Prospect.

The relationship that has existed over the generations between these two friends, man and dog, has survived when others have failed. It is a kinship, a truly unique merging.

Dogs have such special powers. Why else do we lose ourselves when we look into the eyes of a puppy? What miracles did the eyes of my daughter reveal when she was given her own dog for the very first time?

How much of ourselves do we give to the care of rearing these truest of companions? You surrender a lot, but you get so much in return. I want to feel that I never neglected the needs of Friskie.

Dogs are nonjudgmental. It doesn't matter where you are in your own personal growth, nor does it matter where you have been culturally. Dogs simply don't pass judgment.

Flunk a math exam? Your dog couldn't care less.

Drop that game-winning touchdown pass in the final two seconds? Your dog will give you exactly the same greeting.

A dog is utterly sincere. It cannot pretend, it cannot act in any way patronizing no matter how physically or emotionally incapacitated a person might be.

I've always thought every coach should own a dog. They probably need that instant therapy from the headaches of their job, especially after a tough loss or some hassles with parents or kids. When they return home depressed, tense, exhausted after a long, troubling day, the bright spot can be when they are warmly welcomed by a tail-wagging dog.

Pets simply don't mind if you fouled up at work or people think you fouled up; they're just happy you're home. Their unconditional and consistent affection is one thing you can count on to make you feel better, day after day. Their only instinct appears to think only of us; to serve us better; to adapt to our different needs.

Whatever can be said of man's "best friend," man has emerged the richer for having shared in this relationship. I know I have. I'll never forget the joy I shared with Friskie. This love is as special and as rewarding as the strongest possible bonds. It is a partnership in the truest sense.

Friskie, whose soul was in her eyes, never ceased trying to understand or to please.

I always feared Friskie's final days and having to be part of that awful decision to put her to sleep. But I never wanted her to suffer, and she was suffering.

Euphemisms ordinarily bother me, but I find the phrase "put to sleep" very soothing. Besides, there really was nothing in the world Friskie loved to do more than sleep.

"How will I know it's time?" I asked Dr. Camp not so long ago when Friskie started to show troubling health signs and that terrible thought started to haunt me.

"You'll know," he said.

I did know last Sunday night.

Goodbye, good friend.