I’ve Always Had a Dog

I don’t quite recall how old I was when I got my first dog. Perhaps 6 or 7. I don’t know what had possessed me at such a young age to want to own such a creature. I suppose I was influenced by some movie or perhaps a friend had one. Who knows. Still, I remember praying for one every evening for what seemed like years. Then, one day, it happened. The neighbor across the street from my friends house had a whole litter of puppies. I’m very thankful for my mother. Perhaps she doesn’t know it, but she’s one of the most perfect humans this world has ever produced. Kind, caring, self-sacrificing, but still human enough to relate to. Still able to keep your feet grounded. I’ve probably learned the most from my mom. One of the things she taught me was to be kind whenever one can. We went across the street, picked out the cutest puppy, and brought him home. He was a Beagle/Dachshund mix, and had, as we later discovered, inherited the worst of both breeds. Mom paid for her kindness that day. She eneded up having to care for the loudest most stubborn high energy dog one might imagine. We named him Gilligan after the main character in Gilligan’s Island. He was so cute, but always had his eye on the prize. If the door was cracked, he’d make a break for it. If something moved outside, he’d howl for an hour. Chase, my older brother, still professes to be mentally scarred from having to chase (pun) this crazy animal all over the neighborhood, getting yelled at by old ladies and honked at by cars trying not to run him over while he attempted to recapture MY dog. The dog lived to be 18 years old. He didn’t pass away until 2 years after I had graduated college. I loved that dog. I loved every ounce of his rebellious, careless, stubborn soul. He taught me a lot. He’d made me laugh. He’d made me cry. He gave me the opportunity to learn how to care for something that could do nothing for me, just because it was the right thing to do. Caring for him was my responsibility. That’s all that mattered. When he was a puppy, he’d keep me up all night cause he wouldn’t stop whining and go to sleep. When he was old, I’d sit up with him all night to comfort him in his old, decrepit pain, even though I had to be up early for work the next morning. I’ll never forget how devastating it was the day it became clear that the best way to care for my animal was to kill him. That was the last lesson he taught me. Sometimes the best way to love something is to let it go. Even now I’m tearing up. I hope I always tear up. I want to feel this pain. This is part of experiencing what it means to be human. To feel loss, and to feel it greatly. I remember leaving for the vet with Gilligan, and returning home without him. It was hard. It went against my brain. How could I leave him at the vet? He hated the vet. How could I let him die? It was my job to protect him. Everything felt so wrong. What was I supposed to feed at 5:00? What was I supposed to walk every morning before work? There was a void. An emptiness. There was nothing to care for anymore.

I have a shadow box on the shelf in my office. It contains a picture of that darn dog, as well as an imprint of his paw. It also has the old, faded collar he used to wear. I’m very thankful to my family for putting it together for me. At first, I didn’t want it. It was too painful to see. Now I take great comfort in seeing it. Every time I turn off the lamp on the shelf in my office, I look at that shadow box and smile...

About a year and a half later, my wife talked me into getting another dog. Her name is Tilly.