My good ol boy died tonight.
He was a big majestic German Shepherd. I got him when I was 12. I had had the worst day a 12-year-old could have. I got home and was being a brooding tween and acting all Woe Is Me. I was late for dinner after a babysitting gig gone wrong. I only got paid half of what I was supposed to get because the wrong parent dropped me off and didn't know how much to give me. Don't get me wrong, these kids were great kids. I babysat them for years. This one day was just bad due to a huge miscommunication between their parents. So, I was out twenty bucks, and that was the end of the world... Because, you know, 12-year-olds have so many reasons that they need money. Anyway... I got home and went storming into the kitchen, and my mom and step-dad are just laughing at me. So, that just made it worse. I kept asking them what was so funny. Then, I see it. This soft fuzzy little black dog with blonde eyebrows (totally crying while typing this) just staring at me from my step-dad's lap. I hit my knees and started patting the floor for this cute little shit to come to me. From that moment on he was my dog, and I was his person. He slept in my bed with me. I walked him. He protected me. When I would come through the door after school, he would jump up and put his paws around me and put his head on my shoulder. I never trained him to do it. He gave me a hug everyday after school because he missed me.
He was the guardian of the house. Every night before we went to bed, he would walk through and check all the doors before he came and got on the bed. As he got bigger, he couldn't sleep in the bed with me, so he would stay on the floor and rest his head on my mattress. He did this every night until I was 16. On my 16th birthday, my little brother was born. They brought him home from the hospital, and the Old Boy knew it was his duty to take care of him, too. He would pace the hall for hours between our bedrooms. I'd lie in my bed and hear the "click click click" of his nails on the hardwood floors until I drifted to sleep. After hours of this, he would lay directly between our bedroom doors making it impossible for anyone to get to me or my little brother without having to go through him first. I would catch him some nights after waking up to go get a drink, and he would pop up and look at me as if he was saying, "Nope, I wasn't sleeping on the job!" Every morning at 5:30 when my mom and step-dad got up, he would come in my room and put his head on the mattress until it was time for me to get up.
He hated my son's biological father to the point that my son's father wanted to keep him outside. Old Boy did not take kindly to the notion the big new bed I got no longer belonged to he and I. There began the power struggle between Old Boy and Ex. He would race to the bedroom at bedtime and sleep there until Ex kicked him out. As soon as Ex got up for any reason, Old Boy was back. Many nights I would wake up with him between us. He stayed by my side through everything when he had the chance. Every fight, every hurtful thing Ex did, every time Ex did something to me... That dog stood there and looked at him with more hate than I knew a dog could have, but instead of hurting Ex he growled and stood in that perfect terrifying position until Ex backed off. I should have known to trust that dog's instincts. He knew Ex was bad from the beginning. He could have saved me a lot of hurt, but unlike a human he didn't act high and mighty. He laid his head on my lap and let me cry when I ended the bad relationship.
Finally, I left the house and moved in on the farm my mom and step-dad had moved to when I was 19. This would be Old Boy's final home. The old dog had eight acres of freedom. He ran and played like a puppy again. When he got tired, he laid under his tree in the shade. He was the playground monitor. He would keep a watchful eye on the kids while they played and he would let them know when he didn't approve of certain behaviors by giving a stern bark. He survived five children three of them being my own. He survived arthritis in his hips. Arthritis that sometimes got so bad he would get mean over. He nipped at my step-dad during one of his especially bad days. He told me to stay away from him. We thought that was the end. I remember crying on him and begging him not to be mean anymore. I promised that if he stopped I wouldn't let anything happen to him and I would make sure he always got what he needed to feel better. That was that. We had a deal.
Four years later, it was finally Old Boy's time. One day he was fine and himself. He was wagging his tail and bumping me with his wet nose and we played. The next day, he wasn't ok anymore. My step-dad broke down in tears, my mom cried, and Mr. Streetlight did, too, halfway around the world. But I couldn't. I just stood there when I saw him. I didn't know how to feel. I felt like my best friend left me without saying goodbye and I was a little mad at him. Why did that stupid dog have to die? That's when it hit me. He wasn't just some dumb dog. He was my dumb dog. My step-dad took apart his doggie mansion, and tossed it in a fire. He said no dog was ever going to be good enough to have it, so it had to go. Stupid, right? But I felt the same way. Maybe it was some hillbilly form of therapy to see that. Maybe it was like some kind of canine Viking burial. I cried until the fire burned down to nothing but hot coals.
Tomorrow, he'll get buried under his tree. Tomorrow, my little brother has to find out that it's no longer his chore to feed Old Boy anymore. Tomorrow, I'll probably cry some more, but I think it's ok. Maybe one day I'll find a dog as amazing as that one, but for now I think it's ok to believe I won't.
I cried it out on a parenting website I frequent, and a couple of the great ladies over there gave me a story called "The Rainbow Bridge." While I started bawling all over again like a little baby bitch, it helped me feel better. I think that no matter what we think about what's out in the unknown or whether or not there's something bigger than us, we all really hope that there's a special place somewhere for our furry (or scaled or feathered or whatever type) friends where we'll get them back. I hope my Old Boy puts his head on my shoulder and gives me a hug again someday. I hope we'll get to cross the Rainbow Bridge together.
March 2002-August 2013
