My Dog’s Life In Pictures (and a few words)
This morning, I put down Leia, my 13-year-old Black Labrador Retriever. By my side through thick and thin, she saw me become a man.
As people, we tend to compartmentalize things. Our lives are made up of a series of associations from which we group together memories in the never-ending quest to form a narrative for ourselves; to divine some “meaning of it all.”
Dogs, however, bear no such heavy burden. Their job is to love, and to love unconditionally. In exchange, we give them food and shelter, and we tell our friends with children that our “kid” is just as much a responsibility as theirs is. We put up with gnawed-on car headrests and soiled (so-called) STAINMASTER® carpets and obscenely high veterinarian bills, all because canine love — the kind of love that can only come from a species reliant upon the barter system to survive — is so pure, we have no choice but to uphold our end of the bargain.
I turned 26 on the day Leia came into my life 13 years ago. Looking back on it, I was more infatuated with the “idea” of having a dog than I was cognizant of what making a commitment of such magnitude really meant. It meant that I would no longer be able to just do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I meant that I wasn’t just fending for myself, anymore, but another life, as well. It meant responsibility. It meant an acknowledgement of something called “cost of ownership,” and it meant, on some level, putting the needs of someone or something else ahead of my own — a concept that I have only recently come to fully understand and embrace.
None of this is to say that the third of my life spent with Leia was all about coming of age and life lessons. Her warm personality, her incredible athleticism, and her calendar-worthy good looks managed to win people over from coast to coast — even those who swore they weren’t “dog people,” and especially the ones who ended up admitting, “Great dog, but the owner is kind of a jerk.”
And that’s the thing about dogs: they don’t point out your flaws, they don’t criticize your decisions, and they never judge you. Instead, they sit shotgun when you drive cross-country to move back in with your parents after a failed attempt to “make it” in California. They don’t care that you’ve only got $300 to your name, or that you’re driving 3,000 miles with an expired vehicle registration and insurance. Nope, their only concern is over you stopping every couple of hours or so to toss some frisbee along the interstate as truck drivers whiz by incredulously. Oh, and that you make good on your promise to add them to the list of elite dogs lucky enough to swim in both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.
Although Leia’s love for and loyalty to me never wained, life stops for no puppy, and over time, she became less of my priority. First, there was that beautiful, smart and amazing woman who eventually became my wife. Later, there was our baby boy, who managed at once to give Leia a best friend and knock her down to the low peg on the family totem pole. Finally, there was a second child, a little girl whose infatuation for Leia was clear from the onset.
Through it all, there were job losses, multiple miscarriages, moves, and a series of unfortunate events caused by my own recurring self-destructive tendencies that at times stretched our family to its absolute breaking point. But somehow, despite her inability to comprehend the root causes of the anxieties and fears that enveloped us along the way, Leia always had an ace up her sleeve — one she played again and again when she felt it necessary. It was her love. Her love for me and my wife. Her love for our children. Her love for life. (And steak. And bacon. And cheese. And peanut butter. And the frisbee. And the beach. And tennis balls. And running like the fucking wind.)
It’s only been a few hours since Leia’s body went limp in my arms, and I felt her soul slip away. I feel numb right now, but relieved. It was her time, and it would have been selfish of me to have caused her any degree of suffering on account of my own emotional needs and inability to let her go. Still, though … sitting here next to her bed, her scent very much all around me, it feels as if she is going to turn the corner and come lie next to me any moment. I know that won’t happen, but I don’t think my senses have caught up with the painful realization.
Leia was an amazing animal, a loyal companion, and a giver in every sense of the word. Though it’s impossible to know if she felt “satisfied” with her life, I hope that she was. I hope that I was able to bring her a fraction of the joy and purpose she gave me. I hope that she knew how much I loved her.
Anyway, you were promised her life in pictures, so behold, PICTURES!
“Wait, wait, hold up. Did someone say BEACH? I know you didn’t just say beach without grabbing my leash. It’s pretty much been written into the Town Ordinance, Guys. NO BEACH WITHOUT LEIA. Yeah, it’s like the law.”
Of course, Leia didn’t just like the beach. She LOVED the snow, too.
Despite her busy schedule, Leia also managed to fall in love. Her beau Stewart back in NY doesn’t know she passed away, but I hope he dreams about her often.
And then there were two …
And then there were THREE!
In 2014, Leia almost died unexpectedly when she suffered paralysis of her larynx. It is a common condition in labs, but when it happens, many dogs die before they can even get to the operating table because they simply can’t get any air. Leia was fortunate, and despite certain precautions and medications, we were able to enjoy another six wonderful (and fairly normal) months with her. At the time, though, things certainly seemed bleak.
In recent weeks, there were signs that the end was near. Leia’s hearing was shot, her balance was off, and she started suffering violent seizures on successive days. Her lethargy hid something else, too; a melancholy, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of her own realization that she didn’t have much time left.
I got the diagnosis yesterday afternoon: liver tumor, it won’t be long now, here are your (lack of) options.
I steeled myself, and brought her home to explain things to my family. My son, not yet five years old, took the news like he’d been expecting it, reminding me that “if we get a new dog, we can always look at pictures to remember Leia.”
The four of us spent what was left of the day and evening with her, running outside, playing, snuggling, and feeding her foods she would normally have no business eating. We laughed, we cried, and we rejoiced for having had so many wonderful years with such a wonderful animal.
I didn’t sleep much last night, partly do to an incredible thunderstorm that barreled through the neighborhood around 3 a.m., but also because I was on the floor next to Leia as she struggled to breathe and find a comfortable position to rest. As I stroked her head and sobbed, I thought about how her passing would be a marker for me in a series of markers that just so happen to be unfolding in my life right now. My marriage, my career, who I am as a person, as a man; each has been called into question of late.
But regardless of where life takes me now, I will never forget Leia. When others gave up on me, she never did. She showed me that it’s possible to give selflessly, to love without qualification, and that dogs can, in fact, poop sand.
While she won’t be here when I get home each night, and we won’t be able to toss the ‘bee or crash into the ocean waves again, her memory will live on.
“Good girl, Leia. Rest in peace.”
April 1, 2002 — April 9, 2015
