THERE WAS A time when our dogs divided us. It happens in neighborhoods, and it did, in ours. Each of us lived behind our own invisible electric fence, keeping our dogs in our own territories, allowing for no mixing of our pedigreed charges. The humans walked, we waved, but we knew little of one another’s lives, except, perhaps, that it was the woman in each home who walked the dog. That much was clear. And for a while that’s how it was: Not much contact, little to say, we walked our dogs along the perimeter of each other’s lives.
We became aware of changes in our homes only via a husband’s obituary in the newspaper, the absence of the truck in another’s driveway, the vision of one of us walking without a dog, but crying. Small inquiries at the hem of the yard, nods exchanged, solace offered, we edged closer. A new dog appeared; there is always something to say about a puppy. Always.
Then, as that puppy grew and neared his third birthday, he got very sick, and nearly died from something, it seemed, another of our dogs had only the week before, from which she, too, had nearly died, and the exchanges, and the information, cards, a bouquet, a note, and longer conversations ensued.
What we talked about when we talked about our dogs, of course, was love.
And then last week came a pounding on my front door.
“Marion! Marion!” I heard, as I was reclining upstairs in the cool evening.
“Marion!”
My dog and I went running to find my neighbor. Smeared with dirt and tears, having come in from hours of gardening, she had just found her beloved dog motionless on the kitchen floor.
Oh no, I thought. Oh no.
Soon we two were standing over the peaceful body of her hulking animal, all 140 pounds of him. He seemed asleep. He was not. And as we knelt and stroked him, a car door slammed outside and I went out to see our other woman in our dog-friend-triangle, coming up the driveway. But something was odd. My, I thought, how thin she is. How thin. Or something. Maybe that’s not it. But there is some aspect of the equation of her body size that’s off. Just one of those snatched thoughts you get under pressure, the very thinking collapsing as I saw that she, too, was in tears.
And then there were three of us standing over the 10-year-old body of the dog we had known since he was all ears and paws.
Others arrived to help. There were plans made, and calls made, and for 30 minutes or so there was a lot of action, and then for an instant, it was again just us three in the kitchen.
We were going to take the body to the local animal hospital for cremation. Not even we could dig a hole this big, though I know that for an instant we considered it. Keeping him close. Keeping him home. But no.
And then, as we began to pile into cars, came the question.
“Do I look like shit?” This, from the woman whose dog had just died.
Only a woman would ask.
And only two such friends would think before they replied. She had been gardening most of the day, on her knees, in the dirt. She had been crying. It was hot. We all looked like shit. But what do you say to move forward a woman who needs to go say goodbye to her dog? How do you not lie, and yet get her onward into the place she needs to go? How to be tender, yet prodding?
I hadn’t needed to debate this, as the other of us had this clearly covered, gently touching the voluminous shorts I now saw that had been the reason she looked so thin, so fragile, at first.
And then came the gift.
“I’m wearing my dead husband’s swimming trunks. I think we’re good.”
And I snorted. And the woman who just lost her dog belted out a laugh, as did I, a laugh so big that it propelled us where we needed to go next.
No related posts.
First time here? Here's the idea: 
{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
I’m speechless…a gift, indeed.
Hi, Nancy. And welcome to TSP, where we love our dog stories. Got one? We’d love to hear it. Love this one? Please pass it along to your friends. We love meeting new readers. Please come back soon.
Loved this, Marion. Just loved it.
Hi, Christine. And welcome back to TSP, where we love our sister-bloggers. So glad you like the dog tale. We’ve got so many ways to look at our lives, don’t we? This experience amazed me. Absolutely. What a sisterhood it is, yes? Please come back soon.
A sweet story, Mare. In one of my earliest memories (I was about five), I was watching from an upstairs window of our house on Sands Point, Long Island, as a group of men lifted the enormous, lifeless body of Bonnie, a champion Irish Wolfhound whom we loved, into a truck for burial elsewhere. My mother sat nearby, sobbing into her clenched fists.
Bonnie had been so gentle with us children that she would let us grab onto her fur, her neck, her back, and she’d slowly walk us around, taking care to make wide turns around corners to avoid bumping us into door frames. We used to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” to her, and I could have sworn that was a smile on her big, happy face.
Lovingly penned as usual. Thanks Marion.
Oh my. The sisterhood of tears and laughter at the same time (can men do this?). Thank you for the snort, my friend!
Alex
He looked at me with his beautiful brown eyes as I came down the stairs. I smiled at him, distracted by the chores ahead of me that evening, but still aware of his warm, loving gaze. He didn’t make a sound as I passed by him; I stopped and turned back to where he waited. I kissed his white blonde hair, thinking how soft and silky it was under my lips. He still made no move towards me.
“Aren’t you coming with me, sweetheart?” I asked him. Still no answer, although he shifted his shoulders as though to rise.
“Hmmmm. What’s this?” I fought the faint stirrings of worry beginning in the pit of my stomach. Alex had never failed to answer me. He continued to gaze at me silently, but he did attempt to get up. His legs weren’t working properly, he couldn’t stand.
“No, no, not now!” My murmured words were laced with anguish. I knew this was coming, the doctor had told me that I would know when the end was near and I would need to decide then what to do about Alex.
Alex. My beloved companion of almost 13 years, with me constantly, my friend, confidante, bedmate, my yellow Labrador Retriever. My late husband, Mitch, had always wanted a dog; we promised ourselves that we would have one when the kids were old enough. I had wanted an Irish Setter but he had insisted on a Yellow Lab. One year after his death, the money I had been squirreling away for a gold bracelet went instead to pay for a little pale yellow Lab puppy.
“Not so little then or now”, I said, remembering how round and fat he had been when we went to pick him up. He barely fit in the recycling bin we had lined with towels for his first trip in the car.
I straddled him and helped pull him to his feet. Alex weighed a good 100 pounds; the painful hip displasia had robbed him of much of his exercise and caused more weight gain. He had always been a big boy, his father was the famous Moby Dick, given that name as much for his size as for his almost white coat.
Alex was standing, but not moving, swaying drunkenly in the foyer, trusting me to move him outside, to take care of him.
“I think this is it. He can’t walk.” I called the vet but it was after hours so I was shuttled through the wires to the emergency vet in Latham. I explained the situation to the assistant on the phone. She was sympathetic but told me to be prepared that the vet would suggest putting Alex to sleep. I was ready, at least I thought I was, but I wanted our own vet to perform the final act of terrible mercy for Alex, not some stranger.
He weighed a ton, but I managed to carry him out to the mini-van and lay him on the beach towels spread over the back seat. I climbed in to begin our final journey together, alone. The kids were at college and my husband was long dead. I was really going to be alone now.
“You’ll love Mitch, baby.” I told him as we headed down Route 9. “He always wanted a dog, just like you. He’ll throw baseballs for you forever once you get to Heaven. And he’ll give you all the junk food you want, even chocolate.” I was driving with one hand, reaching behind me between the seats to stroke his nose or his paws. The tears were seeping out of the corners of my eyes, a steady stream of sorrow, running down my cheeks and dripping onto my sweatshirt.
“Remember when we brought you home? You ran through the house and right into our hearts, peeing on the kitchen floor on your way.” I thought of the fat almost white puppy, wriggling in my son’s arms, slipping to the floor in a heap of dog, kids and laughter. Alex had always made us laugh and cry. Everyone loved him, just like Mitch. My heart lurched.
I knew I could do it. Death was not a stranger to me. But I was crying more for this stupid old yellow dog than I had when my father died.
Alex licked my hand, giving me comfort as he had from the first. All the nights I sat in the kitchen, staring at bills, struggling to balance the checkbook, until my eyes were almost burned shut, he would sit at my feet, not stirring to go upstairs until I did. He would walk ahead of me into the kids’ rooms, checking on them, before settling in my now too big bed. Alex took up as much space as a man did, resting that big head on the pillow, snoring softly until six in the morning, every morning.
“You even told me when t was time to date, you silly old dog”, I laughed.
I had drifted into half wakefulness early one morning, Kevin Costner kissing the side of my face, nuzzling my ear, his arm draped heavily across my chest. I turned into Kevin’s embrace only to be brought abruptly awake by a warm tongue dragging across my nose and the smell of dog breath filling my nostrils. I knew then that I needed to be sleeping with a two-legged male and not a 10 year old, four-legged one. Unfortunately, not many of the two-legged variety had passed the Alex test, but that’s another story.
We were almost at the vet’s office and I still was stroking his paw and crying. I had no idea what I would tell my children, Alex was the only dog they had ever had. The only pet because they really didn’t remember the cats we had when they were little. The parking lot was almost empty, the lights were garishly bright. I felt like I should be moving in shadows, already grief was like a heavy darkness. I got out of the mini-van and moved around the back to open the side door and lift Alex.
Sighing, I slid open the door and was met by wet dog kisses. Alex jumped to the ground, tail wagging, in his best “where are we, let’s explore” mode. I was flabbergasted. I just stood there in the cold, grinning like a fool, at this capering old dog.
My joy was tempered by the cold looks from the vet and his staff, who thought I was evil incarnate for wanting to “put down” this energetic, friendly, sweet dog. I still don’t think they believed me when I described Alex’s earlier condition. They trimmed his nails, having assumed that was why he had some trouble getting up and I wasn’t about to argue with them. I happily paid the $65 bill and drove home. My goofy canine friend was wedged between the front seats, his head resting on the console, licking my hand. I couldn’t have been happier.
Our reprieve lasted for just over a year.
Hi Marion,
Your dog story was great, especially the surprise ending with the bathing trunks and laugh. I have a dog story that I read a few months ago in your memoir class – have no idea how to attach it to your website, but I will email it to you.
I can’t stand to leave my boy just to go to work. Can’t think about a last goodbye.
Hi, Nick. Oh my. Yes, our dogs. We remember them forever, don’t we? Me, I’ve lived with 12 so far, and every one was a great love of my life. Thank you for bringing one of your great loves here for us. Come back soon.
Thank you, Ronn. We do love our dogs, don’t we? I hope to read you here again soon.
Hi, Maureen. Yes, the tears, and the laughter, and the love. It’s a life-affirming combo. Thanks for stopping by. Hope to read you here again soon.
Our Hello, Deborah. And welcome to TSP. This is a lovely tale, heartfelt, and beautifully told. Thank you so much for sharing it with our readers. We are endeavoring to update out site and make it more memoir-writing friendly, and this is exactly the kind of writing we seek. How wonderful of you to bring this here. I love the tension, the joy and the candor. A genuine joy to read. Thank you, and please come back soon.
Hello, Susan. Please put your story exactly where you put this comment, so we can all read it. We look forward to it.
Hi, Lynn. Oh, I know. I work at home with my boy, and consider it the major best perk of my job. We talk. We eat lunch together. We sing. It’s a real sisterhood, one I am so glad to know you are a part of. Please come back for more soon.
Our dogs get us through so much – and reveal so much when we lose them. We are currently working on a book about what the world’s spiritual traditions have to say about where our dogs go when they die.
Feel free to share your stories at Afterlife of Dogs on facebook or email the afterlifeofdogs@gmail.com
Love them and each other while you can…
Hello, Afterlife of Dogs.
How lovely to meet you here.
I hope our storytellers will follow the trail to your site and contribute. How kind of you to invite them.
Please see our other dog stories here.
And do stay in touch.
I can see all these women in my mind’s eye. The redhead always knows the right thing to do, and because she has this gift, she is loved.
Ah, you redhead. You would know. Thanks for stopping by with that particular shade of wisdom. I can take no credit for any of the sisterly wisdom here, though, having been utterly humbled by the intelligence of the women in this story. What a sisterhood to find at such a moment; what grace, yes? And what a role humor plays here. Ah, the sisterhood. I just adore it. Please come back soon for more.
OMG, I LOVE this. Too true, too true. Thank you!
Thanks, sister Paige. We sisters just love our dogs.