A dog for all reasons

Three years ago yesterday, our beloved mutt Woody enjoyed his last day of good health. We played in the warm Christmas Island spring weather in our back yard, constructing a small, above-ground pool for The Boy, Woody circling the pool worriedly, correctly identifying it as a source of potential future heartache.

It was a beautiful, magical day. The halo-effect around Woody’s head, above, happened in-camera.

Three years ago today, I woke up in the morning to find that Woody hadn’t moved an inch from where I’d left him the night before. When I approached him, he gave me a weak thump-thump-thump of his tail on the floor, but his eyes had that far-away look I recognized from when my first dog, Doolittle, was trying to tell me it was time to break up the band.

Goodbyes were said discreetly before work that morning; our poor two-and-a-half year-old son had no idea that when he came home from daycare that afternoon, the house would have an enormous Woody-shaped hole in it.

The vet, of course, threw all kind of treatment options on the table, but ultimately, we’d only be fighting a delaying action, and prolonging his life at the expense of his quality of life. He was far too cool a dog to be done that way. Woody and I had known when we went in to the doggie doctor that morning it was for the last time.

Most importantly to me, I knew that look in the eyes. He’d had a great run, but he was done. Anything I did to extend his suffering (total renal failure, for the record) would be a strictly selfish, totally dick move on my part, and disrespectful of  the dignity with which Woody had always lived his life. Following are examples 1 and 2 of said dignity, even demonstrating undeniable grace under pressure while wearing the Cone Of Neurosis:





Anyhow, it’s three years on now, and when I think of the phrase “my dog,” it’s a picture of Woody that still pops up in my head. I love our big goofy pup Jake entirely, but my God, to say he’s no Woody is to say Popeye the Sailor Man is no Captain Ahab. It hardly seems a fair comparison.

Plus, as much fun and as sweet-natured as Jake is, he’s the family’s dog. He belongs to all three of us, and of the three of us, probably me least of all. Which is fine with me. But that means Woody was probably the last dog I’ll have to call my own, and I miss that special closeness. Especially on stupid days like today.

So I’m keeping The Boy home from school. We’re gonna watch a lot of super-hero cartoons, eat some junk food, stay in our pajamas way too late in the day, maybe even do some yard work if the weather’s nice and after lunch, we’re gonna bring one of his friends over for a playdate at the nearby indoor jungle gym.

I refuse to spend another May 20 stumbling alone around the house, mourning the dog that’s not here and resenting the one that is.

The clip job that follows is long and self-indulgent. I cannot overstate how much I look forward to the year when this anniversary—like my wedding anniversary—slips unnoticed past me.