George

He came into their lives over twelve years ago, a black and white bundle of energy we named George.  George was our Boston terrier.  He was, in a manner, the default choice of pets.  Against our better judgment we nearly acquired a hamster one Saturday afternoon but, before we arrived at the checkout line, we both decided that we didn’t want a domestic mouse in the house.  We returned the hamster, in the face of much protestation, along with its bedding, wheel, cage and food, and told our sons that we were getting a real pet instead.  That helped to calm them down just a bit.

It is fair to say that George was one of the boys.  When one of them was ill on the couch, George posted sentry duty while they napped or rested. He would sit with them for hours, and he became very protective if they were being disturbed.  If the boys were out on the hills playing with friends, there was George, running with them and, we hoped, not running away.  He did bust loose two times.  Once when he was still young he decided to explore the Northwood’s on his own.  He could easily have become an appetizer for a wolf, coyote or eagle, and we spent hours looking for him; calling, whistling, knocking on doors, and eventually posting handmade signs throughout the area.  Later that afternoon, he sauntered out of the woods as if he had been called home for dinner.  After a scolding, there wasn’t much letting go of George.

Years later, he apparently thought it was time for a field trip.  He went for a romp around the neighborhood but ended up not being able to find his way home.  We thought he was gone for good this time around, until we received a call from a Good Samaritan forty miles away who had picked him up in the middle of a busy street and decided to take him home.  Thankfully, the Samaritan called the humane society in our community and learned that, indeed, a Boston was reported missing.  My wife and one of our sons drove the forty miles to a McDonald’s parking lot where reunion number two took place.

In addition to all of the adventures and games, George taught our boys how to love.  I realize that statement may sound a bit odd, but I genuinely believe it.  Dogs are about as close as we humans will ever come to experiencing unconditional love, a prerequisite, I am convinced, for even modestly healthy human formation.  So long as we feed and adequately care for them, a dog’s sole purpose in a family is to provide companionship and friendship with little in the way of expectations.  George did that with gusto for our boys.  Whether it was playing fetch, recovering lost tennis balls, wrestling in the family room, or snuggling next to them during a movie, George was always there by their side.  And even when they all passed the age of excitement when greeting their father at the door after a long day at the office, George never lost that enthusiasm, not even to the end of his illness.  While others were preoccupied with homework, video games or the evening news, George continued to offer a welcome to whomever entered our home.

As boys turn into adolescents who, then, eventually become men, it is natural to be a little self-conscious in sharing public affection.  I still recall the day that my son looked both ways before he let me kiss him goodbye as he left my car for third grade.  I instantly knew that we had taken a turn on the road to independence, and I accepted it with some sadness.  However, that affection was never in public reserve when saying good bye to George.  “I love you’ s” flowed from their lips as naturally as did “may I have another cookie.”  No self-conscious reservation.  No shame.  No awkwardness in the presence of their friends.  Just “good-bye” and “I love you, George.”

The tumor that wrapped around his heart and trachea was diagnosed in March.  When we brought him home from the vet we prepared for the worst.  All three boys said their good-byes in their own teary way.  We tried not to interfere, and prepared them to experience the first great sadness of their young lives.  But George rallied.  Perhaps it was his pureed dog food or extra medicine, but he bounced back with just a little less vigor.  Our deathwatch dissipated after about two weeks, and we fell into a new normal of care and intentionality.  Though the boys wanted to believe that he had experienced a miraculous healing, they deep down knew that George was failing.  He slept more and tended to eat less, and his insatiable enthusiasm for playing fetch turned into periodic bursts of short-lived energy.  We knew that he couldn’t make the Thanksgiving trip to Pennsylvania so, after another round of good-byes, we boarded him with his favorite vet for a week.  We later learned that he stopped eating right away and slept most of the time.  The night before we were to pick him up and bring him home he rallied a bit, ate a full meal, went back to sleep and then died.  We were not surprised.  We did feel badly that we weren’t there with him.  And, like all death, it was still unwelcome.

We received a cartoon in the mail, along with a sympathy card, that showed two TSA-type lines in heaven.  The line on the right was very long, filled with all kinds of people in various forms of stress and agitation.  The sign above that TSA gate read “humans.”  The line on the left was moving along quickly, its inhabitants were the beneficiaries of a type of pre-approved classification.  The sign above that TSA gate read “pets.”

It is about the most truthful cartoon I’ve ever seen.