by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

My three youngest kids and I gathered at our home this weekend to say goodbye to a beloved family member. His name was Scooter Rhodes Scoobert. He was by all measures the most emotionally stable member of our family, and he was a 10-pound poodle.

Everybody loved him. He was welcome in all circles, feline and canine, some of which had been warring for years. He was our family’s Switzerland.

He’d lived a good long life — my mom had acquired him as a full grown stray some 12 years prior, so his exact age was a mystery —  but his last year had been difficult. In the end he was blind and deaf, confused, and unable to control his bladder or bowels.

Scooter was my mom’s dog. Her most insistent request over the final days of her life in January 2017 was that I swear to take good, no, great care of him (and his still thriving longtime sometime abusive girlfriend, Peaches) when she was gone. Mom loved her human family, but as anyone who knew her will attest, her many dogs and cats were paramount. Scooter led a princely life in her care: weekly trips to the groomer, daily $3 dog bones to gnaw on, high end wet dog food, and mom’s favorite daily puppy treat: cold hot dogs straight out of the fridge, served whole. Her pets were plump and happy, as one might imagine.

Scooter in his final moments on Saturday, September 28. Photo/by Grace Rhodes

I like to think Scooter forgave us for loving him our way, with lots of lap time, belly scratches, baths in the kitchen sink, regular old dry dog food from Costco, and perhaps toughest of all, no more cold wieners.

I’d said goodbye to two other beloved dogs in 2009 and 2011. The kids were small or unborn at the time, and don’t recall how wrenching it was. So when it came time to do Scooter the kindness of taking him away from his pain, I knew what was coming.

I crowdsourced for mobile veterinary service recommendations via Facebook. Out of the dozens of suggestions, one kept recurring: Home Vet and its owner, David Lebovic.

My kids and I spent Saturday morning in our living room with Scooter, talking about him and what was about to happen. Hanging at home with them is my favorite thing to do. Talking through all manner of issues left me increasingly proud of who they are, their empathy, intelligence, and humor shining through no matter the topic. The discussion always made its way back to Scooter, fun memories, and fear for what was to come. There was laughter. There were tears.

About noon I got the call from David. He was on his way. The tears came heavy then.

He knocked on the door about 12:30 and greeted me with the perfect phrase: “I’m sorry to be here.” He met my kids and Scooter, and explained what was going to happen. We decided I’d hold Scooter. One by one the kids approached for a final stroke of his curly white fur, a kiss on the top of his head, and a goodbye. The tears became sobs.

David asked if we were ready. Scooter was content in my arms. I stroked his fur and whispered to him how much I loved him. The first injection in the small of his back rendered him unconscious. My left hand was directly over his heart. I could feel it slowing as he relaxed, his mouth slack. After a few minutes, and more goodbyes from the kids and me, David told us the second injection would stop Scooter’s heart. The room was hushed, reverent but for the sounds of their sobs. I kissed Scooter, and David injected him at the top of his left front leg. By the time the syringe was empty, Scooter’s heart had stopped. His body went limp. He was gone.

Scooter Rhodes Scoobert’s collar. Courier photo/Mick Rhodes

We all sobbed heavy as David took Scooter away to be cremated.

From the time he was an infant, my son, who is now 14, was Scooter’s favorite. They had a bond, a soul connection, unlike the rest of us. His grief was physical. He soaked my shoulder with tears.

After a few minutes of long hugs, we returned to our couches and chairs. It was silent at first. It seemed we were all aware that something profound had just occurred.

We talked for hours. It’s not easy for the three of them to agree on things, but the consensus was unanimous: it had been a beautiful experience. It turned out the Facebook crowd was spot on: the good doctor Lebovic was the perfect amount of patient, reverent, kind, and professional. An absolute gem of a dude.

My youngest daughter lost a close friend to fentanyl in 2021. My kids lost each of their four grandparents over the past decade or so. But this was different, they told me, this was a being who, in the case of my son, had lived with them nearly all their lives. It was for them the closest they’d come to losing an immediate family member. Talking through it with them over those hours brought me profound joy. I’d wondered how this experience would go down, and hoped it would be gentle. It turned out to be transcendent.

So long, Scooter. You were loved.

Viva Jan Wheatcroft!

Friends and family of the late Jan Wheatcroft are gathering from 2 to 4 p.m. Sunday, October 27 for “Remembering Jan” at Claremont Heritage’s Ginger Elliott Exhibition Center in the Garner House, 840 N. Indian Hill Blvd., Claremont, CA 91711.

The open to the public memorial of sorts for the much loved, deeply missed artist and former Claremont Courier columnist, who died in April 2023, will no doubt be packed. Folks are encouraged to bring a memory, with tables set to display items, and a wall for hanging work. Those who wish to speak are welcome to do so starting at 3 p.m.

For more info, contact Chris Frausto at (702) 501-9219, or email christina.frausto@gmail.com.

Adeus and adios

By the time you read this, my lovely wife Lisa and I will either be sitting in a café in Barcelona, sipping a café bombónor in a restaurant enjoying a tinto de verano. Not that beverages are all we’ll consume; we also plan on spending a week soaking up the Gaudí, the tapas, the music, and dipping our toes into the Mediterranean Sea. Our second week will be spent in Lisbon, Portugal, the apparent new hotspot for American ex-pats. We hope to experience it before it becomes Europe’s Austin.

All this to say Going There is going on hiatus for a few weeks. I’ll be back, likely with a travel-centric column, on October 25.

Until then, Adeus and adios!