The Love of a Dog
the impish angels that bring us alive and break our hearts
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –[i]
I think if Leo had his way, he would never have stopped. He’d still be chasing woodchucks and rabbits. But cataracts got the best of him and his scampering after anything that moved ended a few years ago. He still had a good sniffer though and would prance during his daily walks.
Leo always looked like a puppy, even approaching sixteen years of age. Especially when he got a trim.
But he wasn’t a puppy. His wild adventures, gone for five, six, even eight hours at a time, returning ragged covered in burrs and sticklers were long over. He was still a cutie though and the softest dog I’ve ever snuggled. Never one to be motivated by food, he would upend a trash can just for the fun of it. He wanted what you were eating. And for the last five years, he was always lucky to get it as food was slipped under the table to his waiting mouth below. In the end, it didn’t matter what we were eating or what we tried—every kind of meat, peanut butter, bread, cheese, yogurt, treats, cat food, dog food, baby food, noodles, broth—he couldn’t keep it down. Anything that came back up wasn’t likely to get another try.
Death has a way of stopping time.
Or, at least, time should stop when death arrives.
It seems incredible that life goes on.
When Howard Hughes died, there was a minute of silence on the strip in Las Vegas. All gambling stopped. That is, at least, according to the movie, The Aviator. The day after Frank Sinatra died, all the lights on the strip were dimmed for a minute, this much is true. A minute of silence and stillness when light leaves the world. That seems about right. Every death feels that way. Each of the 106 deaths that occur every minute deserve their sixty seconds of suspended time[ii] when the world stops spinning and nothing is more important than this—this life and this loss.
Howard Hughes had kidney failure. So did Leo. His body was shrunken and emaciated. So was Leo’s. His normal weight was 16-18 pounds and at his last doctor visit, it was twelve. On his last day though, he felt as light as a bag of sugar. All fluff and bone.
What is it about a good dog? The companionship, sure. The ability to join in whatever we’re doing and do it with enthusiasm. Go for a ride? Go for a walk? Watch a movie? Yes! Yes! and Yes! But it’s more than that. More than a happy warm body. The thing about a dog unlike any other creature, human or otherwise, is their love. Their adoration. Their devotion.
A dog’s love is pure.
There are no recriminations for time spent away, never any notice of our failures. Only joy for our return, gratitude for our presence, complete adoration.
Is there any greater love than this?
Yes, to be loved despite our faults is a gift. But unconditional love, given without any hesitation, I wonder… maybe it really comes only when we are deemed without fault, impossible of fault, perfect just as we are.
We are always unworthy. I am, at least. There are always regrets. So many things I could have done better, wish I had done differently. All those times he ran away, delighted in the chase, leaving me angry and worried. So long ago and still these are the memories that haunt me. Now he’s gone and I pray again for clarity, patience, and grace.
Those of us who journey with these gentle and tough furry friends know these feelings etched in our hearts, forever changing our lives. The delight and frustration. the laughter, comfort, and companionship. The endless striving to live up to our dog’s expectations, to be as good as they think we are.
And then one day they are gone.
You pick up the bowl and clean it. You walk past the bed on the floor. It pains you to see it empty, but what else can you do? It’s too soon to be moved. You throw out the open cans smelling up the fridge. You wash the bedspread and couch covers. You sweep. You vacuum. And still the fur remains. The occasional tumbleweed behind a wooden leg. Then there’s the car. Even if you have another dog, you know the difference in the mess, what belongs to the other.
The grief is as present as an unwanted houseguest, appearing around the corner when you thought you were alone. The grief will stay long after the house is clean.
In the end, we are the lucky ones. Not because we loved a dog, but because we knew the love of a dog; our dog loved us.
Five full minutes of Leo the vole-eating lion hearted. ❤️❤️❤️
[i] Emily Dickenson, Because I could not stop for Death
Some of you may remember Leo’s best friend, Athena, who died last February when we were in Sicily. (see her story here) Leo was adopted six months after Athena from our local shelter. They turned out to be the same age and the very best of friends. We were lucky that Leo hung in there for another year after Athena passed, making it just shy of 16 years old. Still, no amount of time is ever enough with someone you love.
Think of how beautiful our world would be if we were actually the people our dogs think we are. It’s a very, very high calling.
The five minutes of Leo was glorious. Thank you for sharing. So much happened during those 15 years. Leo was a good buddy. My heart hurts for you. 🤟🏼