Very early on, he showed his strong sense of “right” and “wrong” when -after having been house trained when all was covered in snow - he continued to do his business on an ever-shrinking patch of snow, somehow convinced that to go on “the green stuff” somehow just wasn’t right.
He filled the role of “goofy, clumsy, younger brother” to Zöe. (Somehow, I can relate...) He was like the big, clumsy kid you went to school with, who always meant well, even if things didn’t often go as planned. When he ate the arms on every single piece of brand new living room furniture, I yelled and ranted and raved when I came home, while he stood there shaking and drooling, not knowing what he’d done wrong or why I was raging like a maniac. It was the first lesson in my education as to just how sensitive he was. Sadly, it took me a while to figure out.
For six years, he lived in Zöe’s shadow- a role he was content to play, since it meant he had someone to look to for guidance. There was structure, there was a hierarchy, but I always wondered if he should have been an “only dog”. When she was gone, he got all the treats and all the attention and was “allowed” to have toys, but he still seemed lost without her. I understood - I was too. I guess we looked to and leaned on each other. It’s only now I realize just how much.
It took a while for the understudy to move into the starring role, but he soon became my close companion, my confidant, my accomplice and yes, sometimes, my “nemesis”. He went everywhere with me - rides, errands and walks in the woods. The last was probably my favorite - the solitude of being alone without the loneliness of being alone. (Even when the stupid shit found a bear den)! I am definitely not a “people person”, but I suppose he largely filled the need for socialization that others turn to other people for. I like to think it was mutual - one day, while I was at work, he pulled my sweatshirt off the bench in the entryway and laid down with it, apparently for comfort.
He was just a big, goofy lug, always eager to please. He was at his best when he knew what you expected of him. People often commented on his size, but I explained that you couldn’t fit that much heart in a smaller package. He was also the only dog I’ve ever had that could look genuinely bewildered. I once offered him some sriracha on my finger...and he backed away and gave me the “why do you hate me?” face...then stood there in complete amazement when Zoë not only licked the hot sauce off my finger, but came back for seconds. “NO WAY! You eat that stuff”? “People On Water” was complete sorcery to him:
He looked intimidating, but he was afraid of the tape measure. He loved pretty much everybody. I used to caution people he met that he was “a leaner” because if you weren’t ready for “the lean” into your legs, he could knock you over - unintentionally. In fourteen years, I only ever saw maybe a half dozen people he didn’t like. With a record like that, I trusted his judgement about the ones he didn’t like. (If he didn’t like someone, he wasn’t aggressive, he just wouldn’t get near them). I couldn’t even get him to “roughhouse” with me because in his mind, it was just “wrong”. One of the only times I ever saw him stand up to Zoë was when she was roughhousing with me. She completely ruled him and he was ok with it, but her “attacking” me was going too far.
As age began to catch up with him, it was hard to watch this once powerful, swift dog slow down. It was kind of humbling watching him accepting the things he couldn’t do anymore, with grace. The walks got shorter and I now sometimes had to wait for him, instead of the other way around, but that was ok. If anything, we bonded more over our shared “old man-ness”. Whenever it was time to go on an errand or for a walk, I’d say “You ready, old man?”
As he neared the end, and he got harder to care for, in moments of frustration, I thought “he’s certainly doing his best to make me not miss him once he’s gone”.
How wrong I was.
I suppose I could go through and “sanitize” the house of his presence, get rid of the toys -like the ball he “stole” from the dog hotel - and delete all the pictures...but there’s no getting around the fact that he was part of the very fabric of my life. What do I do when I turn around and there’s no one to give the empty yogurt cup to? Butter wrappers and steak scraps go in the trash now - but not without a hitch or hesitation. When shredding cheese, I keep half expecting a big head to show up next to me, staring at the floor waiting for stray cheese molecules that might fall.
When cooking, I used to (good-naturedly) complain to him that “If I ever could work in the kitchen and there wasn’t a damned dog in my way, I’d think I was in someone else’s house”! - he elevated “Obstacle” to an art form. Now the kitchen just feels empty.
But I suppose the worst is that moment when I pull in the driveway and feel a momentary pang of guilt for leaving him home alone...and then realize he’s not there:
“The house is dark as it can be
I go inside and all is silent
It seems as empty as the inside of me*”
I suppose if I believed in something beyond this plane of existence, I’d be happy, knowing he was free from his pain and his broken down body...but I don’t. There’s part of me that thinks there’s another dog out there who needs me as much as I need them, but I just can’t even consider it right now.
*“Long Ride Home” - Patty Griffin, (by way of Dave Hause). Not only is the last verse on point, but it’s a song about the ride home from a funeral...and I had it stuck in my head when driving home from the vets, for the last time. How appropriate.
