Thursday Essay: Why We Love Our Dogs — and How We Say Goodbye

We've discussed some weighty issues in recent weeks — assassinations, oil wars, the new Space Race — so today let's talk about something lighter and frothier that still contains universal truths, plus some laughs and tears: our dogs.

And when to say goodbye. We’re bracing to do that soon, maybe even twice.

I have this theory that the only reason space aliens haven't made themselves known to us is because of our pets. They caught our stray TV signals, or spied on us close-in from their stealth saucers, and reported back to their superiors on Planet Wambango: "These humans bring animals into their homes and treat them like family — they're too strange to be trusted. We strongly advise no direct contact."

This, from creatures with three eyes that mate with their slime tentacles.

But as weird as it might seem to purely hypothetical* space aliens, we do bring dogs and cats into our homes, and we do treat them like family. Less than children, but so much more than furniture, or even mostly decorative household creatures like tropical fish. 

*The CIA requires me to say that, following a previous incident and an ironclad NDA.

Weirder still that they bring us so much happiness, and terrible, too, that it falls upon us to be the responsible ones as their health fails.

This is the cusp where my little family finds itself, as almost all families do. 

With any luck, the intro chased off any non-pet-lovers* so we can get down to today's business amongst ourselves. Dog people understand. Cat people, too. Turtle people — sure, why not? Maybe even furries. I just ask that those folks do what they like, but please don't tell me about it.

*They exist; I have no idea why.

Our family pets are the best pets in the world, just like yours. We have three dogs. There's a Golden named Ty, and our two rescues, Remy and Chewie. But before I go and brag about my dogs — and before I dive into the comments to read you brag about your critters — let me tell you how we ended up with this menagerie. 

The night my wife, Melissa, and I met, we hit it off immediately. As in, there was no dating drama, no will-they/won't-they, no on-again/off-again, no anybody else. We were just together from that night on — it was very romantic; I picked her up in a bar — and nine months later, I proposed. Nine months after that, we were married. 

But on that first night, there was one brief moment of deep suspicion. 

And Another Thing: I know this piece follows closely on the heels of Sarah Anderson's "Do Animals Grieve?" and for that, I apologize. But I've put this one off for a while now, and Sarah's piece inspired me.

We were talking, drinking, laughing... so much laughing. But suddenly Melissa looked quite serious and asked, "Are you a dog person, or a cat person?"

I could tell by her face that the rest of the night (and possibly so much more) hinged on my answer.

While I'd grown up surrounded by cats and dogs, since striking out on my own at 19, I'd had nothing but cats. My single-life pursuits — women and alcohol, both usually found at odd hours — didn't jibe with the demands of dog ownership.

"I'm both," I said, trying not to sound like I was hedging, but I could see her hackles start to rise. "Right now I just have a cat, Dingo, who thinks he's a dog. My schedule doesn't really fit with having a dog, but as soon as I settle down, I want dogs."

"OK, you pass."

Yes, I did throw in a little "As soon as I settle down" reference on a woman I'd just met. When you know, you know. 

So we did get married and we did get a dog — our first Golden, Xander, a total spazz. We named him after Xander Harris from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Sweet, loyal, but maybe not all that bright.

Xander died young and suddenly just eight years later. He was struck with pericardial cancer so quickly that we barely had time to comprehend it. He was fine one day, but after dinner that night, he began acting so strange that Melissa insisted on taking him to a 24-hour vet. Our oldest son was five, and our youngest was still in diapers. Somebody had to stay home with the kids while they slept, and if you know how Melissa takes care of her critters, it had to be me.

She left with Xander around nine or so and came home two hours later without him.

I don't often revisit the memory of our talks over the phone that night, or of breaking the news to our oldest, Preston, the next morning, and that's as much as I'll write about that. 

Melissa and I have both had pets our entire lives. Yet even with two young boys at home, we'd never experienced a house so deathly quiet. You also don't realize how clean a dog keeps the area around the baby's high chair until the dog isn't around anymore. Things were so much easier (not to mention entertaining) when Xander was around to lick the strained carrots off the floor. And off the baby. 

So I went behind Melissa's back, secretly found a local Golden breeder, and two months later, we were all packed in the car to pick out a puppy, Ty. The best part? I refused to tell anyone where we were going. I don't know whether surprise puppies are actually the best puppies, but I can tell you I got all the Dad and Husband Bonus Points that day.

Ty almost immediately adopted the Golden Role™ as the boys' fuzzy mobile pillow. Our youngest son, Nate, has never known life without a Golden to curl up on. Preston only barely knows. 

Although if you know kids and dogs at all, you know that sometimes the kid is the pillow.

Even before the Ty Surprise, Melissa and I had decided on a couple of things. The first was that we could never have fewer than two dogs, or more than three, and that we'd better stagger them so we never had to experience that deathly silence again.

I also gave it maybe until Ty was two before she'd insist on getting a second dog.

Would you be shocked to learn that right around the time of Ty's second birthday, Melissa blurted out to me on the sofa one evening, "Golden Freedom Rescue says they have a foster family with a rescue dog that might be perfect for us! Did I not tell you I signed us up?"

Some staggering, eh?

No, she hadn't told me. Yes, of course, I was in.

We called the foster family at once and asked if it would be OK if we brought Ty with us. There was no way we'd adopt a dog that didn't get along with him. So we packed the boys and Ty in the car and went to meet this female rescue pup.

The family was lovely. The dog was lovelier. Her foster name was Mama Bear, and the good folks at Golden Freedom estimated her age at about a year. She and Ty chased each other around the fosters' backyard with such energy and delight that the two of them sealed the deal for us.

"She has cognac eyes," Melissa said. So I said, "Let's call her Remi [for Remi Martin]," which we feminized to Remy. She's been my best girl ever since.

If my long departed Dingo had been my dog-cat — seriously, that cat drooled and fetched — then Remy is my cat-dog. She doesn't fetch, she doesn't care about toys, and she's aloof with new people. She also alternates between being insistently affectionate and wanting her alone time on the front patio. Her two doglike qualities are a herding instinct that makes her "tattle" when the dogs or the boys aren't where she thinks they should be, and her total devotion to killing rabbits. 

Seriously, my best girl has murder in her heart sometimes. My fluffy little femme fatale. 

Melissa did a better job of staggering on the third dog. Ty and Remy had been together almost five years when she said to me out of the blue, "Don't be surprised if sometime in the next six months, I randomly come home with a puppy."

Would you be shocked to learn that almost exactly six months later, she randomly came home with a puppy?

Chewie went straight from his mama and littermates to our home. He is the happiest, most energetic dog I've ever known. He wags his entire body. Hard. Seriously, when he's happiest, he slaps himself in the face with his tail.

Protective, too. Riled up, he's the fiercest 40 pounds you ever met, and I don't worry about my family when I'm gone because they have a Chewie.

Being the two youngest pups, Nate (then five) and Chewie bonded immediately. Pres and Ty already had that kind of connection, in no small part because when we adopted Ty, Pres was old enough — and so willing and excited — to help train him. 

Remy is the grown-ups' dog. Ty and Pres, and Nate and Chewie, are Boy/Dog Unit One and Boy/Dog Unit Two. They're inseparable.

When the boys were younger and had their two best friends over to spend the night, they didn't sleep in beds. They'd take all the blankets, all the pillows, all the stuffed animals, and make a giant nest to sleep in on the floor of their bedroom. The most important stuffed animals, naturally, were Ty and Chewie. 

Or sometimes just the two boys would make a mini-nest in the living room while we put on The Avengers for the umpteenth time.

Remy always — always — avoids all the fuss. She sleeps posed like a princess in her bed at the foot of our bed. Lately, though, she tends to sleep on the floor next to my side.

There are so many other stories I could share, so many silly little details of a combined 35 years with my three pups. Spent though I am, I'll share just one more detail. The older they get, the more often I catch myself calling them puppies. 

Ty turns 14 next month, and Goldens typically only live 10-12 years. We don't know Remy's age, but Golden Freedom was likely wrong when they guessed she was a year old at adoption. Our dear friend, Ali, a vet, says Remy is likely Ty's age, or maybe even older.

They both have trouble with the stairs. There are inside accidents we clean up without scolding. Their coats are not as fluffy as they used to be. They sleep so much now. They haven't given up, and they won't — so we have to make that call.

The inseparable Boy/Dog Unit One will part after almost a decade and a half, and yet all too soon. I need to spend more floor time with Remy while I can. Floor time is the best time.

And Another Thing: I wasn't kidding earlier about sharing your happiest pet stories in the comments. I'm about to really need one or a dozen.

Pres and Nate are as well prepared as we can make them, and Chewie is such a boundless ball of energy that he'll bring plenty of smiles through the tears. "It isn't fair that they don't live as long as we do," I've told my boys countless times, "but that's the deal we make. It's our job to squeeze in a lifetime of love in the years they do have."

Nate is home from school today, giving Ty a dry bath and combing out his coat. They're both so happy, but Ty needed help from one boy and one mom to pivot so Nate could brush his other side. Watching them, though, I know today is a good day. 

Ty and Remy aren't out of good days, I don't think. I hope. But I do know my little family will have to sit down together to decide when each of them gets to enjoy that final rest. 

Not yet, old boy. Not yet, old girl. But soon. You've earned it. 

Last Thursday: You Say You Want a Counterrevolution?

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