My dog died last week. Very sad. More accurately, the BFCE (Bob Frady Canine Experience) had one its’ dogs executed last week. Not very sad at all. In fact, downright reprehensible. Guess which story the BFCE will be pedaling to the assorted people (besides you, of course) who hear this tale.

Said dog – Charlotte, for those of you who did not know her – developed a hacking cough, complete with a gag that would make an octogenarian proud. It seemed that at any minute a large piece of lung would come hurtling out of Charlotte’s mouth with the acceleration one of those souped-up Honda Civics so coveted by the street racer element. While this never did happen, it was cause enough (along with a noticeable weight loss) to head off to the vet’s office.

Dogs are funny. They seem like they know nothing and everything at the same time. Charlotte happily ambled into the car for an exciting ride to assorted new scent-land. Nose out the window, drool to follow. A few hacks but no Honda on the back seat.

Get within 20 blocks of a vet’s office and all cooperation stops. Like they know that this can’t be good. Dog panic be secreted via urine, then spread all around the vet’s grounds to warn the others that this is not exactly a doggie Disneyland. Didn’t even have to put one paw on the ground – Charlotte was not coming out. I had one fat, angry, hacking hound in my back seat, shedding hair like she was trying to knit up a hairpiece. Carrying a reluctant, shedding 90 pound dog out of the back seat, then dragging her across the parking lot – in full view of the sneering cat owners - is not the BFCE’s idea of a good time.  

A word to the holier-than-thou cat owners who can carry their victims into the vet. Let your cat grow to 90 pounds. Grow teeth to 10 times their current size. Then talk to me about bringing your little mountain lion to death row. It’ll wipe that damn smirk off your face.

In front of an actual vet, dogs have marvelous healing powers. Not one phlegm-filled hack. But the good doctor pressed on a special spot and bingo – fresh hacks aplenty. After a series of tests and x-rays, the diagnosis was clear – a big, giant, inoperable tumor. Cancer.  Not necessarily the end of the game, but the clock was counting down and the crowd was filing out.

At this point the doctor offered up a Hail Mary combination of powerful canine medications. Powerful, that is, in expensive. Dog pills cost as much as people pills. Actually more, since there is no doggy Medical card. Try the pills, wait, see what happens. Everyone go long. Bounce one off the safety and run like hell. Like most Hail Marys, this one didn’t work. After several days of watching Charlotte progressively get worse, it was time to return to the vet.

The second trip to the vet was interesting in that Charlotte did not panic at the vet’s office. Like she knew was coming – Dead Dog Walking. And the staff at the vet’s office was incredibly appropriate - dialing up the appropriate level of gravity for the situation.

People must get very carried away when it’s time to axe their pets – everyone talked in hushed tones. They had a little package that contained candles and a book on the passing of a pet. The vet then asked whether I wanted to be present for the “final exit”. People actually want to see this? Like the last thing your pet wants to see is you delivering them to the River Styx.

I wanted to stop and remind everyone that this was, after all, a dog. Dogs live about 10 years, give or take. Live long enough and you’ll go through this exercise 4 or 5 times. Eliminating the sentimentality earlier in your life can serve you well. Besides, it’s a requirement to enter the Republican Party. Not that I’ve done that, but the BFCE is located in Orange County.

We’ve come to the point in this exercise where it’s time go positively Kevorkian. But before we do, the vet asks whether we want to be there for “the moment”. That struck the BFCE as somewhat barbaric. Besides, I thought it was euthanasia, not an execution. I had no axe to grind with Charlotte – it was just “her time.” Besides, judges judge, executioners do their thing. Providing the death sentence was enough for one day.

So, as quick as a credit card could be approved, the BFCE lumbered out of the office, complete with all the tools necessary to process the family’s collective grief. But lo and behold, there was no grief, just an overwhelming sense of amazement that Charlotte has actually lasted this long. We have had multiple occasions to remind Charlotte that, unless her behavior improved, she was headed for “the farm.” Didn’t seem to phase her in the least, but made us all feel better. Not that Charlotte was a bad dog. In fact, she was the prefect Orange County dog - long on looks and short on brains, with an absolute hatred of non pure-breed dogs. It’s clear that Charlotte was a Republican. And whenever she did anything wrong, she would try to make it look like the other dog did it. If the BFCE had realized that it would cost $648 to get rid of her, the BFCE would have driven her up to Garden Grove and cut a deal by convincing someone dog cancer was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

But the thing that doomed Charlotte to second class citizen was that she was, worst of all, the “B” dog.

The “B” dog is the one you get when you need a companion for the “A” dog – the “A” dog being the one you get when you’re still really excited about the companionship a dog can bring. After a while, you figure out that dogs are not practice children – they like other dogs more than they like you. If they don’t have other dogs, they will hound you incessantly and smell your crotch at completely inappropriate moments. Bringing in the “B” dog gets the “A” dog off of your back. And allows you to feel significantly less guilty when you banish both dogs to the garage once they pee on your infant.