Worth Every Slobber

His drooping jowls and small bottom teeth tucked over his top lip stared back at me through the screen. Months of begging might finally be over. This small bit of hope was crushed by the next words that came out of my mom’s mouth:

“What a goofy-looking dog!”

Any other time I would have let this defeat me, but I wasn’t giving up.

It wasn’t five minutes later that we hurried to the car to go to the shelter. He was in the corner kennel when we got there — his goofy, adorable face looking up at us. There was a visible disappointment that spread through us all upon finding the “hold” sign on his kennel. Again? Seriously, again?

The only way we were getting another dog was if it was a Boxer — per my mom’s request. Every time one would pop up on the Humane Society site they were gone within the hour. When all hope seemed lost though, I still had a glimmer of determination. We all did, I think.

“Excuse me, what does the “hold” sign mean?” One of us asked a member of the staff (from what I remember, it wasn’t me who asked — I was too busy guarding that dog with my life… you know… just in case).

“Someone put him on hold for 24 hours to decide if they want to adopt him. If they don’t adopt him by then, anyone else is free to adopt him.” She replied.

The next day, exactly an hour before the 24 were up, we made our way through the shelter doors, praying harder than we’d ever prayed before. We made it to his kennel and my heart slowly fell to my feet. He wasn’t there.

It didn’t take us long to track someone down and ask if he’d been adopted. Luckily, he hadn’t been. He was just getting some outside time.

We killed time by taking a few other dogs outside to play and hoping beyond anything else that the goofy Boxer we already loved would soon be ours.

And he was.

Oh, the Quirks

We didn’t know his history, and to be honest, it didn’t matter to us all that much. But there were times we questioned where he came from, and if he was really a Boxer at all. His jowls and slobber were good indications of his Boxer heritage, but his disinterest in expending energy was more of a Mastiff quality.

Nonetheless, Coop was family the first day we saw him at the shelter. We got to care for him, love him, and see his quirks. He wouldn’t fetch and the poor guy was terrified of going down long flights of stairs. He didn't seem to know how to bark but he would howl when he heard fire truck sirens and loved nothing more than going on a walk.

Because it seemed that Cooper wasn’t sure how to do “typical” dog things, every little win was exciting for us. Whether it was watching him learn to play with other dogs, teaching him how to go down those long flights of stairs, or even hearing him bark for the first time, there was always just a split second where it seemed like nothing in the world would ever surpass the joy we felt.

He was smart too. When my Dad was remodeling the house down the street, Cooper would walk outside and head straight down there if we let him — no mailbox/fire hydrant detours needed. Towards the end, he would sit at the corner of our front lawn, waiting for my dad to come home. He was never one to wander off — we always said he loved us too much to go anywhere without us.

4 Years

Four years after Cooper joined our family, I sat in the science building on my college campus. The floor to ceiling windows let the sunlight through and it was an almost picturesque afternoon. Until my dad called.

“The vet just called. It’s cancer.”

I immediately felt the burning that comes from holding back tears. My voice stayed level until I internalized what he said next.

“It’s pretty bad, Abby. He only has a few weeks left — maybe a month if we’re lucky.”

The lymphoma spread too fast, there was nothing we could do. On November 10th, 2020, two weeks after the diagnosis, we lost our Cooper boy.

The gaping hole I’ve felt since we parted is hard to explain. While my mom has decided to take a break from bringing in another four-legged family member (which is absolutely her choice and she has the right to make it), my heart yearns for the chance to feel even more of the kind of love I still feel for Cooper. The love that binds you to another soul that you’re responsible for protecting and teaching.

I’ve heard of such a thing as a “soul dog.” One whose being connects with yours in a way that fills you both. Cooper wasn’t perfect — in fact, if you ask my dad he had enough slobber to flood the house — but the connection we had with him was nothing you can compare to anything in this world. I’ll never try to replace that, but it only seems right to try replicating it.