by AJ Robinson

Quite a few years ago, about the time my voice was changing, we went to the pound to get him. He was just a furry white Jack Russell Terrier pup, with brown and black patches on his head. All the innocence of my life seemed to be wrapped up in his big brown eyes.
He was also very timid. When we got home, he wouldn’t even climb the stairs to our condo. We had to carry him up and down for the first few weeks.

He chewed Dad’s slippers and made messes in the kitchen, but he was full of energy. I tried letting him sleep in my bed, but for a little Jack Russell, he took up a lot of space and always hogged the exact center of the bed, causing me to lose sleep.

So, he slept outside my door. It wasn’t long before it had many small scratches. His whining pained me almost as much as the lack of shut-eye. Eventually, he grew up, and so did I.

While I was learning to drive, he was in the full vigor of youth. Dad and I would drive to some secluded stretch of beach and let him run and play in the water. Afternoon showers were his favorite events. He’d roll in the sand and chase the seagulls.

Throughout high school, he was my best friend – my only friend. He was there when I woke in the morning, when I got home, and at my door when I went to bed. And his tail always wagged.

When I left for college, I couldn’t take him with me. We were parted for the first time. He must have known something was wrong when I got into the car that would take me away, because I saw the sadness in his eyes and the lack of motion in his tail. But I also saw the twinkle in his eyes and whip-like action in that same tail, upon each return.

Our summers were spent on Martha’s Vineyard. The cottage we stayed in was in the woods, which was a paradise for him. So many sights, so many smells. He loved chasing the squirrels and rabbits, but he never caught any of them. Somehow, they seemed to know that and never ran too fast. We spent many happy days racing through those woods.

After college, my dad became sick. I came home to take care of him and look for work. He was getting on in years, and so was my dog. They were both slowing down. Those summers were long and lonely and their walks were different. Just two little old men ambling slowly down the dirt roads.

One day, they left together as usual, but somewhere along the way Dad had a stroke and we had to take him to the hospital. Then it was pretty much me and my dog for the next month. We were both happy to be together, in a way. But the thought of him sitting by the front door, waiting for Dad’s return pained me each night. And each night outside my father’s bedroom, faithfully guarding it, made me very sad.

One night, I came home to find him asleep on Dad’s bed, refusing to move. I tried to take him for a walk, but even that didn’t interest him. The next morning, I learned that Dad had passed away. After that, I once again had a Jack Russell Terrier sleeping outside my door, just as he’d done in our youth together, way back when.

His brown and black patches were turning gray by then and he had a touch of arthritis. Going for walks became difficult and he started going deaf. I had to use hand gestures to signal him and if he turned away, we lost contact. If I tapped him on the shoulder, he’d jump like a scarred rabbit and look at me as if to say: “Don’t sneak up on me!”

Every morning, he insisted on going for a walk, though it obviously pained him. On the weekends, he’d sit by my bed until I got up. He couldn’t jump up because of his arthritis. Often I’d feel him watching me. I’d stretch out my hand and pat his little head. He’d look at me in the same exact way that had captured my heart from the first moment I’d seen him.

Time rolled by and his vision began to dim. Then, like my dad, he had one stroke, and another. Each time, the Vet gave him medicine and he recovered. By this time, he was eating senior dog food and rice cakes instead of dog biscuits – all strictly low-sodium.
Then one day, my faithful friend collapsed. I took him to the Vet and asked for help. This time, however, the Vet just shook his head. There was nothing that could be done. My friend was living in pain and misery. Blind, deaf and senile.

I made the difficult decision.

The Vet asked me if I wanted to stay. I could only nod; emotions choked off my voice. He gave my dog the last dose of medication, while I held him in my arms. He couldn’t see me or hear me, but I hope and believe that he knew my touch and my scent, that he knew I was with him to the end. As he died a part of me died, a part of my soul went dark.

For fifteen years, he was my friend. He asked nothing of me save that I love him, feed him and shelter him. He didn’t criticize or complain, interrupt or ridicule. He accepted me when no one else would. He was the best listener I have ever known. He taught me gentleness and loyalty. He taught me the value of listening, and to turn around three times before lying down.

I miss the sound of his claws on the linoleum.

I miss his little whine each morning that let me know he wanted to go out.

I miss him sleeping at my feet when I’d lie on the couch.

Even all these years later, there are still mornings when I feel him watching me.

But when I stretch out my hand to pat his little head, he isn’t there anymore.

For fifteen years, he was faithful and true, and he was –

Just a dog.

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