There’s a Right Way to Put Your Dog to Sleep (GQ)


The author (in black), his brother and Cutty, circa 1991, judging by our oversized Ocean Pacific shirts, probably

.GQ — Despite the name they gave my dog, my parents were not alcoholics. Far from it. I’m not sure we actually had any booze in the house when I was a kid, and if we did it was probably in a Notre Dame commemorative placekicker bottle, purchased from Service Merchandise with a coupon. We did have a Scotch terrier mix though, and her name was Cutty. Cutty Sark. Like the Scotch.

Cutty was an adorable and slobbery wet mop known for her thick black fur, dragon breath, and scant bladder control. (Seriously, best dog ever, but if you’d brought one of those hotel-room black lights to our carpet, you would have seen nothing but a minefield of long-dried puddles. If I’d had girls over, it would have been a problem. It was not a problem.)

There was a lot to like about Cutty: She could smile on command (though it might have been a growl; dog expressions kind of all run together), she could catch mice (which came in handy when you live in a 400-year-old house on some county road in Indiana), and she could consume an entire box of twelve chocolate Santas in one sitting, although the subsequent 24 hours are something I’d like to forget. And without going all Charlie Brown-and-his-Snoopy on you she was a loyal and often damp friend to me for nearly 15 years, which is probably why it fell to me to put her down.

Read the full story here.




About Jeff Vrabel

My writing has appeared in GQ, Men’s Health, Success, the Washington Post, the official, Indianapolis Monthly, Billboard, Modern Bride and more. View all posts by Jeff Vrabel

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