He was barely 16 weeks old when I picked him up at a PetSmart in Naperville, Illinois. He was tiny, too. Smaller apparently than the rest of his brothers and sisters... at least, that's what they told me. I couldn't tell because he was the last remaining dog in the litter; he had stayed with his brothers and sisters and watched them all leave until that fateful day that I saw him. Maybe what I saw in him was emblematic of what our relationship was going to be. I would have to leave him from time to time, but I knew he'd be right there waiting for me when I got back. Maybe that is too much forshadowing, but I am allowed that right now I guess. The staff had reservations, too, about selling a dog to a military guy who was going to deploy, but when they saw us together I guess they realized we were going to be inseperable, no matter the distance
They had some horrible name picked out for him: Pawsible, I think it was. The kind of name you should never give a dog unless you want to be picked on the rest of your life. I thought I needed a more suitable name: Duke. Or, Dukington McDog III, third in a prestigious line of McDogs stretching back generations. That, at least, is what I told myself. The name seemed to fit. I picked him up and he licked my face and I knew then that I had found my dog.
It's funny the sort of emotional attachment we give to our pets. They can barely understand our words but I am pretty sure they can understand our emotions, and so we know we have a connection with them that no one else could possibly comprehend. I thought... I knew... the same of Duke. He had this uncanny ability to sense when I was down or upset, and he knew just what to do to cheer me up. He might lick my hand or nudge his head into my lap or grab his ball and plead with me to throw it for him. And that goofy smile he would break into when he knew he had succeeded was worth the pain I had dealt with before. Through the 45 months we lived with each other, through deployments and through girlfriends - and ultimately my wife - through moves from state to state and long road trips, through friends coming and going, he never strayed. He was my constant companion, ready to greet me at the door when I came home late from work with a smile, jumping up at down from the excitement of seeing his dad and the possibility that I might throw him the ball for a while. When I had a fight with someone, when I was yelled at during work, when I just needed a friend, he was there. He begged for food in a way that seemed to tug at my heartstrings in a way only he knew how; Erin seemed oblivious - or maybe impervious - to his pleas but I never did. He knew he could find me if I was eating and I'd share with him.
All I have left is memories. I have a million of them though. The way he'd lick my hand to get me up when I was probably too hungover to do anything. The way he'd roll in the grass when I had just mowed. The way he was scared of his own shadow, yet patrolled the house daily to defend me from bugs and cockroaches and the like. The way he would jump almost up to my shoulder if I had the ball in my hand, and the way he learned to open the gate just in case I forgot. The way that, when I Skyped with my mom while in Iraq he would come running into the room and look behind the computer for me, confused about hearing my voice but not smelling or seeing me. He never minded being picked up, never seemed to care that I was holding him in my lap, and it never seemed to bother him that I was pampering him and babying him. My friends all loved him too; said he was the greatest dog they every knew. I think that at the time maybe they were just being nice, but now, looking back, I think they were right.
Its times like now, times when I know he's gone for good, that I hope I held up my end of the bargain. I hope he knew that his dad loved him just as much as he did, and that his dad would trade anything - literally anything - to see him jump in the air one more time after a ball. I really hope that I held up my end of the bargain, but there is no way I could have. He loved me unconditionally. It never passed through his head that I might hurt him or leave him. Maybe its the presence of these one-sided relationships that means so much to people who own dogs. We have to work so hard for everything else: promotions, raises, relationships... but we don't have to try to have our dogs love us. They just do, and at the risk of hyperbole (though I imagine this entire post has already taken that risk) it is the purest relationship there is.
He left first. I guess maybe he left me because he had lived as full a life as possible. The day he died, I threw him the ball with his favorite ball launcher, he swam in the creek behind my house and he spent the afternoon sleeping in the backyard underneath a sunbeam. He came back in during the Georgia-South Carolina football game and napped with his head in my lap. I shared some pretzels with him and gave him some dog treats. And then he died. He died doing what he loved the most: playing fetch with his dad. And just before he died, cradled in my arms in the backyard of the house my wife and I picked out because of its proximity to a park where we knew Duke would love running around in, he rallied and looked right at me. Maybe he was asking permission to go so soon, to leave me here without him. Maybe he wanted me to know that he loved me. Maybe he was trying to say thank you for being his dad.
When I called my wife to tell her Duke had died, she was upset too. But not like me; after all, he was my dog. But she is a beautiful, wonderful and caring woman and she understood that her tough, Army husband was going to be blubbering like a toddler. And she stood on the phone while I cried and sent me videos of him and photos of him and I. When we talked about what to do with his remains, and she said that Duke didn't have a home, per se. That his home was with his daddy. It would make sense, then, to cremate him so I could always have him with me.
My dad is flying down here now. It's funny that a 30 year-old would need his dad, but that's the truth. I'm scared to go to the crematory by myself, and I mentioned it to my mom and she took action. He's doing exactly what dads do when their kids need them: dropping everything to be there for them. I guess in a way I hope that Duke would think the same. I imagine that, above all, a father's love for his son is as unconditional as a dog's love for his dad, and since Duke was the closest thing I had to paternal love, maybe he would think the same.
He left me first. But I forgive him.
They had some horrible name picked out for him: Pawsible, I think it was. The kind of name you should never give a dog unless you want to be picked on the rest of your life. I thought I needed a more suitable name: Duke. Or, Dukington McDog III, third in a prestigious line of McDogs stretching back generations. That, at least, is what I told myself. The name seemed to fit. I picked him up and he licked my face and I knew then that I had found my dog.
It's funny the sort of emotional attachment we give to our pets. They can barely understand our words but I am pretty sure they can understand our emotions, and so we know we have a connection with them that no one else could possibly comprehend. I thought... I knew... the same of Duke. He had this uncanny ability to sense when I was down or upset, and he knew just what to do to cheer me up. He might lick my hand or nudge his head into my lap or grab his ball and plead with me to throw it for him. And that goofy smile he would break into when he knew he had succeeded was worth the pain I had dealt with before. Through the 45 months we lived with each other, through deployments and through girlfriends - and ultimately my wife - through moves from state to state and long road trips, through friends coming and going, he never strayed. He was my constant companion, ready to greet me at the door when I came home late from work with a smile, jumping up at down from the excitement of seeing his dad and the possibility that I might throw him the ball for a while. When I had a fight with someone, when I was yelled at during work, when I just needed a friend, he was there. He begged for food in a way that seemed to tug at my heartstrings in a way only he knew how; Erin seemed oblivious - or maybe impervious - to his pleas but I never did. He knew he could find me if I was eating and I'd share with him.
All I have left is memories. I have a million of them though. The way he'd lick my hand to get me up when I was probably too hungover to do anything. The way he'd roll in the grass when I had just mowed. The way he was scared of his own shadow, yet patrolled the house daily to defend me from bugs and cockroaches and the like. The way he would jump almost up to my shoulder if I had the ball in my hand, and the way he learned to open the gate just in case I forgot. The way that, when I Skyped with my mom while in Iraq he would come running into the room and look behind the computer for me, confused about hearing my voice but not smelling or seeing me. He never minded being picked up, never seemed to care that I was holding him in my lap, and it never seemed to bother him that I was pampering him and babying him. My friends all loved him too; said he was the greatest dog they every knew. I think that at the time maybe they were just being nice, but now, looking back, I think they were right.
Its times like now, times when I know he's gone for good, that I hope I held up my end of the bargain. I hope he knew that his dad loved him just as much as he did, and that his dad would trade anything - literally anything - to see him jump in the air one more time after a ball. I really hope that I held up my end of the bargain, but there is no way I could have. He loved me unconditionally. It never passed through his head that I might hurt him or leave him. Maybe its the presence of these one-sided relationships that means so much to people who own dogs. We have to work so hard for everything else: promotions, raises, relationships... but we don't have to try to have our dogs love us. They just do, and at the risk of hyperbole (though I imagine this entire post has already taken that risk) it is the purest relationship there is.
He left first. I guess maybe he left me because he had lived as full a life as possible. The day he died, I threw him the ball with his favorite ball launcher, he swam in the creek behind my house and he spent the afternoon sleeping in the backyard underneath a sunbeam. He came back in during the Georgia-South Carolina football game and napped with his head in my lap. I shared some pretzels with him and gave him some dog treats. And then he died. He died doing what he loved the most: playing fetch with his dad. And just before he died, cradled in my arms in the backyard of the house my wife and I picked out because of its proximity to a park where we knew Duke would love running around in, he rallied and looked right at me. Maybe he was asking permission to go so soon, to leave me here without him. Maybe he wanted me to know that he loved me. Maybe he was trying to say thank you for being his dad.
When I called my wife to tell her Duke had died, she was upset too. But not like me; after all, he was my dog. But she is a beautiful, wonderful and caring woman and she understood that her tough, Army husband was going to be blubbering like a toddler. And she stood on the phone while I cried and sent me videos of him and photos of him and I. When we talked about what to do with his remains, and she said that Duke didn't have a home, per se. That his home was with his daddy. It would make sense, then, to cremate him so I could always have him with me.
My dad is flying down here now. It's funny that a 30 year-old would need his dad, but that's the truth. I'm scared to go to the crematory by myself, and I mentioned it to my mom and she took action. He's doing exactly what dads do when their kids need them: dropping everything to be there for them. I guess in a way I hope that Duke would think the same. I imagine that, above all, a father's love for his son is as unconditional as a dog's love for his dad, and since Duke was the closest thing I had to paternal love, maybe he would think the same.
He left me first. But I forgive him.
Oh dan I am so sorry that you lost your man. I heard many great stories about the amazing relationship you had with him from Erin.
ReplyDeleteHey buddy I just read this and it was amazing. It makes me want to play with mine a little longer.
ReplyDelete