Critter Tails Hero of the Hood

Putting away the decorations after Christmas inspired me to clean up some of the dust and clutter around my house. The stepladder was already out from my having removed the dried garlands from the mantles and doorways, so I placed it in front of the bookshelves in the den, and climbed up with the intention of cleaning from the top.

Before I took the first book down, I spotted Nikki's wooden box. It was in good company, wedged between John Milton and William Shakespeare.

I took off my thick rubber gloves and carefully picked up the box. I sat down on the top rung of the ladder with the box in my lap, and picked up Nikki's small blue collar that I'd placed on top long ago. Fingering the identification and vaccination tags on the collar, I reread the printed card that came with the box: "In Remembrance of Nikki, July 30, 1997."

I brushed the top of the box with a terrycloth rag, but I couldn't bring myself to put it back just yet. I smiled, remembering a phone conversation I had had with my friend Kate when Nikki was nearing the end.

"I'm not having cocktails in your den with that dog in your bookcase!" she laughed when I told her about my plans to keep Nikki's ashes after he passed away.

"Then when you come over for dinner, you can have a drink in the living room," I shot back. "I can't imagine not having him around our home."

Poor Nikki. Nothing had been easy for our beloved 25-pound terrier mix. During the first year of his life, we discovered he suffered from epilepsy after he had a dramatic seizure in our kitchen. He'd lost control of his motor skills and thrown himself forward and crossways against the kitchen walls, ending up with his legs splayed on the cold brick floor, shaking side to side and foaming at the mouth. The seizure lasted just minutes, and seldom recurred.

Four years after the first seizure, Nikki, pursuing a squirrel across the street, was run over by a lead-footed 16-year-old driving his mother's Jeep. Somehow, Nikki survived.

When we moved, Nikki seemed right at home. Our new neighbors had friendly dogs, and we'd stand out on our cul-de-sac and throw balls for all of them.

Gus, a yellow Lab who lived next door, was particularly fond of Nikki. He was getting on in years too, and they hung out together like two grumpy old men.

But not all the neighborhood dogs were like Gus. Hugo lived around the block and loomed large. Normally, Great Danes are sweet, not aggressive. Not Hugo.

One afternoon while Nikki was out with me on our front lawn, Hugo escaped from his yard, and bounded around the corner. Debbie, his 98-pound mistress, called wildly after him, holding his giant collar and leash hopelessly in her delicate hands.

Before I could scoop Nikki up, Hugo attacked with his massive teeth. Nikki didn't stand a chance. I hollered for help, and luckily, two gardeners working down the street were able to pry the dogs apart. Blood was splattered over Nikki's tan and white fur. I wrapped him in a towel and went straight to the veterinarian.

Three hundred dollars later, Nikki returned home with a big bandage on his leg. Dr. Fries, the vet, affectionately dubbed him "The Hero of the Hood," which became his nickname on our street.

That was just the beginning of Nikki's mounting medical bills.

The following year, I felt a lump near Nikki's rib cage. It was removed but returned, and for eight months, Dr. Fries treated Nikki's cancer. The vet bills climbed to more than $3,000 and we gladly paid, as long as there was hope and Nikki was not in pain.

Then a fateful day arrived. Nikki had stayed overnight at the pet hospital for X-rays. The doctor was to call me at 2 p.m. with a report. When the phone rang at 1:45, I stretched the long cord from the kitchen wall phone into the dining room so I could sit down to hear the inevitable news.

"It's time, Heather," he said. My eyes welled with tears as I heard, "he can go home, but it's just a matter of days."

Nikki was home for less than a day when I called Dr. Fries back to schedule Nikki to be euthanized the following morning. He was fading fast. That night, Nikki slept at the foot of my bed for the last time.

Before we left for the vet's office, I found our oldest child, Allan, sitting on the sofa with little listless Nikki cradled in his big teenage arms. Tears rolled down Allan's face as he stood and handed him to me.

I wrapped Nikki in a warm flannel sheet with bright blue stars on it that reminded me of how heaven would look to a dog. On the way to the vet's, Nikki's breath smelled like tin. The disease had taken over.

It was over quickly, and I sobbed, sinking my face into his fur one last time.

The jingle of dog tags startled me back to the present. Lucy, our 4-year-old Lab mix, was tugging at the rag I'd dropped. I stood up and slipped Nikki's box back between Milton and Shakespeare.

The whites of Lucy's eyes followed my every move as I climbed down from the ladder. I crouched down and gave her a big hug.

"This is from Nikki," I told her. My tears disappeared as they fell on Lucy's fur.