I have been fortunate enough to know the happiness that puppies bring in to the world, and loathe to experience the former emotion concerning dogs.
The beautiful thing about having a dog is that the dog never, ever judges you. He doesn�t know judgment, only love.
Your dog rushes to greet you and licks you when you�re down. He will eat whatever you can afford to give him and in return, he is utterly and completely yours. And he will give you the goofiest grin when he flops down beside you after you have both run through a field as if to say, �Hey, wasn�t that the best time of your life?�
Ten minutes later, you can walk to the refrigerator, get some cheese, and he will give you that look again because to a dog, every single moment of life is an adventure.
You can say absolutely anything to a dog and they will not say that it is stupid or silly or pointless. Your dog will look at you like it is entirely pointy and profound and all kinds of brilliant.
Your dog probably thinks you�re something special. Even if you put sweaters on him and dress him up in doll clothes. He probably thinks you�re grand. You may not be grand, but he�ll think you are. And that�s what�s important, after all.
My dog Prints was this way. A reddish-brown Pekingnese with a tiny, black face and a row of sharp, white teeth that sometimes stuck out, he was big in the shoulders with the courage of a lion, but friendly. He played with the neighbourhood cats, couldn�t understand why the gophers behind our house didn�t want to cuddle, and would attack burn marks in our hardwood floors, thinking they were bugs.
We would trot down to the river together, where he would wade in to where his belly touched the water, sneeze and wade back in. He would then run absolutely wild for the next five minutes, rubbing his face into everything to itch his pushed in nose.
Because he was a pug, he had breathing problems. He would sneeze and snore so loudly that in the summer, we would have to turn the volume on the television up to drown out his snores.
He had a calm, complacent demeanor. Once, he sat under our coffee table for a good 20 minutes as hot wax from a candle dripped onto his fur. He didn�t make a sound. He sat there long enough for a big gob of red wax to congeal on his back. He was perfectly content to walk around with a mass of wax on his back.
He died on New Year�s Eve and I was hundreds of miles away.
A seizure in the snow. Internal bleeding. Cancer. Those words don�t mean anything.
The guilt of not being there hit me like a ton of bricks. Actually, it hurt more than that. Like somebody had a ton of bricks and hurled every single one directly into my stomach with the speed and power of a Roger Clemens fastball. He was mine and I should have been there to gather him up and take him to the vet and give him a last pat, a last caress behind the ears. I should have been there.
Last Friday, I found out I had been sacked. Or laid off. Or whatever. The outcome is the same, isn't it?
The first thing that ran through my mind was that I wouldn't have my old friend to comfort me. He would have licked my tears away and nudged me with his wet, black, pushed in nose. He would have loved me like nobody else, offered comfort like no other family member. I would have gripped him harder than anybody else. Would have spent so much time with him. He was special. He had me from the second that I looked in his big, brown, puppy-dog eyes.
He was mine, faithful and friendly and true to the last beat of his heart.
It�s like a piece of me is lost and it might just be the best piece of me ever.
Brodie: "With dogs."
-Homicide: Life on the Streets.
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