It's a Dog's Life

I was watching Jack dreaming a few days ago. His legs paddled in a running motion, his nose twitching left and right. He was making those cute little snuffling snorts that dog owners know and love, and every now and then the room was punctuated by a staccato of gleeful barks.

It was clearly a happy dream, spurred on by a lifetime of memories. And for a moment, I wished I could see his dream through his eyes, to experience his recollection of our times together that was bringing him this unbridled joy. It could have been the days he spent running through meadows and forests and climbing up craggy cliffs, or rocketing across a field to retrieve his favorite ball.

Or, it might have been that infamous, crazy, insane day that a chipmunk got inside and was running all over the house, before we finally caught the critter and released it outside.

I’ll never know, but I took this happy dream as a comforting sign that we’ve done the right thing by 14-year-old Jack. Because when you’re staring at the exit sign for the Rainbow Bridge up ahead, it’s the rearview mirror that’s suddenly crystal clear. You think about all of the dreams you had for your puppy that first day you brought him home, and it seems like yesterday.

But today, on the final day, you realize what’s more important are the dreams your dog has to look back on, and the ones that will carry you forward. To do it right, you have to plan their first day by thinking about what you want that final day, many years from now, to look like.

A dog’s spirit can’t be confined. You always need to keep them safe, of course, but life is too constricted to always be at the end of a leash.

Jack was a rescue dog, but his life started out more comfortably than most rescues. His mom, Izzy, was the real rescue, a tiny stray border collie living under a porch in the country. The kindly farm woman brought her inside, but unfortunately her own dog, Bill, a purebred border collie, had his way with her. Izzy became a mother to three when she was barely a year old herself, but the pups were all born inside the kitchen, near a cozy woodstove.

Izzy and her two daughters were quickly claimed for adoption, but no one wanted Jack, the lone male who sported a tri-color coat rather than the more favored black and white coloring.

Yet we were the lucky ones. Jack shone for a few reasons, the first being that he was freakishly smart. I know, I know, everyone thinks their dog is smart. Jack was a fast learner for sure – he could learn pretty much any trick or command within three tries. But it was the way Jack could intuitively do things for which he’d never been trained that made him stand out.

For example, one day he was pawing at my leg while I was working on the computer, wanting to go for a romp in the woods. “I need to get some socks before we go for a walk, Jack,” I told him absentmindedly.

He left, but a minute later he returned and dropped a pair of socks at my feet. We’d never tried to teach him the word for socks. We certainly had never tried to train him to fetch socks. He just knew. (I did chide him for bringing me white socks when I was wearing black pants, however.)

Another time, we needed to take a house key over to our son’s friend’s house, who lived in a nearby townhouse complex. We’d never been there and we didn’t have the address. But Jack had gone there with our son several times, so we said to him, “Where’s Niko? Go find Niko!” And so he did, leading us through the townhouses right to Niko’s front door. A year later, we again had to drop off a key, but I went to the wrong house while Jack found the correct one.

A dog with that kind of intelligence cannot sit idle; Jack let us know from Day 1 that he needed both mental and physical stimulation. Luckily, we lived in a community with no end of parks and ponds, trails and forests, grassy meadows and craggy climbing rocks cut from the Canadian Shield.

Fellow hikers with dogs often commented about how well trained Jack was, how soulful his eyes were, and how he had a manner about him that put even high strung dogs at ease. He was a peacekeeper who just loved to chill.

Those long walks and hikes and ball games, played out through winter’s snow and the spring thaw, the summer sunshine and the autumn leaves seemed to stretch on forever. But eventually you see how it takes your good boy or girl a little longer to get up, the arthritis and stiffness in the paws, the graying around the mouth.

You’ve probably seen the meme on the internet about how there comes a day when your child asks to be picked up for the last time, or asks you to push her on the swing for the last time, or to hold your hand. Except you will never know, when it happens, that that time was the last time.

I’ve learned it’s the same with your dear dog. Last summer, Jack was still going for walks. We went on rambles in the nearby forest, and he was slower to be sure. But I can’t remember which time was the last walk, before one day Jack simply sat down and refused to go. The arthritis had finally won. If I’d known that walk was our last one ever, how dearly I’d have lingered, cherishing every moment, every sniff, every bark of joy, every rush of adrenaline.

Today, January 28, a kindly country vet came to our house and we stayed with Jack on his favorite rug and stroked him and whispered softly as he crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

The most important thing Jack taught me was that you should not grow old gracefully, but with wild abandon. On your last day, your dreams in this physical realm should be peppered with memories of adventures, of running wild and free.

Tonight the house seems too still and quiet. I look over at Jack’s rug and am surprised to see he’s no longer there. But I’m at peace that he led a full, free life, and that somewhere, over the rainbow, he’s running free once again.

Sweet dreams, Jack.