That Old Dog

I remember it like it was yesterday. The day that old dog came waddling down my street, proudly beaming like he just won a gold medal in a race only he knew about. I remember that first night, trying to throw together a couple of cans of Lord knows what, just knowing that dog was going to starve to death. I took him out to the garden, out by the edge of the woods, a shovel in my hand, that dog already faithfully by my side. I dug up what I needed, and he popped up and followed me back home like he already knew where it was. A couple of freshly cooked vegetables later and I figured that I’d made it through day one, but man, if I knew then what I know now, I’d know that all the food in my pantry wasn’t enough to keep him satisfied for even half of a night.

I remember all those times that he couldn’t wait to hop in my truck. His head always protruded out the window, playing chicken with the tree branches as they flew by, while slobber gushed onto the side of the truck, giving it the first good washing it’d had in years (well, half of it, at least). Maybe it was for a swim down by the lake, with a little bit of fish on the side for good measure. Or, our personal favorite, a trip down to the local five and dime, to grab a cold one (cola, of course), and see what the latest in comics had to offer two rebels like us.

I also remember that time when everything changed. It was a warm, sunny day in the town square, with soda pops and ice cream pouring out of everyone’s open shop door. All of a sudden, while I was sitting on a rocker outside of Sarah Jean’s, trying to beat the chocolate chip cookie dough from sliding down the side of my cone, that dog took off like a rocket. I was surprised, mainly because I’d never known him to give up any ounce of blueberry cobbler, especially not when he had a bowl all to himself (well, I guess it was less fun for him that way). But he took off like he smelled a bigger pot of cobbler at the end of the street, and, like it or not, I had to chase him down.

Running after that dog like Forest Gump on the Alabama football field, I thought I’d never catch him. I figured he was out as mysteriously as he came in; here one moment, and then gone the next. But, finally, I found him, me panting like a marathon runner, and him acting like nothing had hit him. But there, right in front of him, was her. Her smooth hands ran all over his thick, golden fur, while he sat in front of her on all fours. Seeing that girl radiate the way she did, you would’ve thought the town square was the center of the sun. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t fall down dead right then and there. She turned to me, asking,

            “Is this your dog?”

            “It is,” was all that I managed to squeak out. She turned her attention back to the dog, who sat there, tail wagging, knowing good and well what he had just seen and done.

            “He’s a good boy,” she complimented through that beautiful, rosy smile.

            “You have no idea.”

But I did. I knew that I had just met the woman who would walk me through the rest of my life, because I could see that truth reflecting in that old dog’s still-proud eyes.

I remember the day we stood at the altar. I’d heard stories of people tying their rings to their dog, so that the dog could be part of the ceremony, so it sounded like a good idea. But little did I account for an outdoor ceremony on the edge of the woods, and how a squirrel does to a dog what a girl does to a man. I’m thankful for that old faithful five and dime for having a couple plastic rings in their arcade prize baskets, because he had a hay day running loose, toppling over mismatched chairs, and chasing those mortal enemies of his all around the yard. Needless to say, the rings on that dog’s back were never heard from again.

I remember bringing our first child home, stopping at the door to let him get a good whiff of the foot-tall intruder that was barging into his impenetrable fortress. But, he bypassed the smell test, and went straight for the lick; I knew then that our newest boy was in good hands. And by kids two, three, and four, I all but figured he would have a tux on and a tray of toffee waiting by the door as we arrived home. And, of course, the years flew by, the kids got older, but that old dog stayed ever faithful.

I remember, too, the first time that dog took his time walking to the end of the driveway, instead of bolting out the door, as we returned home from an afternoon family getaway at the movies. I remember looking over to my wife, and her resigned smile back; that smile that knows that nothing is going to ever be the same again, regardless of how much good is still to come. But that dog sat on all fours when he made it, panting, reporting for duty.

And now, here we are again, two rebels at the edge of the woods, a shovel in my hand, and a faithful dog by my side. But this time that dog isn’t getting up. I could dig another ten years and that hole in the ground would still not be as deep as the one in my heart. This old dog has been there through every up, every down, and every in between. He’s been by my side through it all. And now, here at the end, it’s his final act to walk with me through, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn't the hardest. This dog has taught me how to care, how to love, how to father, how to live. And now, he’s teaching me how to keep on living.

It’s the hardest thing in life, to say goodbye. You go through it all, and it’s sweet and rich, and you feel like this all lasts forever; that it’s unstoppable. But that’s just not the way it goes. It all just depends on what you look back and see, when the grand mosaic of your life knits together for its final moments.

My life may not be over just yet, but a whole big chapter has been closed. And now, as I turn the page and walk back home, I see my daughter waddling down the dirt path I trudged to get here, her eyes proudly beaming, as if she’s just won a gold medal in a race that only she knew about. My heart lifts. I smile.

Thank God for memories.