Man's Two Best Friends

 

     You never forget your first love.  My earliest childhood memory is of our first family pet, a German Shepherd/Husky mix puppy. I was two and a half years old, sitting on the kitchen floor with my siblings, adoring the newest addition to the household.  The puppy appeared timid amongst his new surroundings and the attention of six kids hovering over him.  The circumstances of our new pet joining us are unclear to me, but I remember Dad's declaration when he walked through the backdoor after his day at work.  "His name is Duke", he said.  And Duke it was.

     Duke and I grew up together.  As is the difference of the species, Duke grew up at a much faster rate than I. The breed of a protector, Duke always kept a keen eye on me and my often-mischievous outdoor play around the neighborhood block.  When the school bus dropped me off at the bus stop down the street, Duke was always waiting from atop our front yard hill, closely watching for my safe return and welcoming me home.  As I slowly closed the gap of maturity, Duke transitioned from guardian to boy's best friend. Pictures of me as a child often include Duke by my side, a requirement of mine if I was implored by Mom or Dad to pose for a picture.  I'm sure my sisters each individually felt the same as I did - that Duke was truly my dog, despite him being the family pet.  But being a male and an alpha-type breed, I think Duke naturally gravitated to the men of the house, that being Dad, and later on, me also.  I was the one who went on walks and runs with him.  I was the one who taught him new tricks.  I was the one who had to retrieve him every time he was waiting on the doorstep of the latest neighborhood female in heat.  I was the one he'd wake up in the early morning when he needed to take his business outside. And I was the one who spent the most time with him for the twelve years of his life.  When a boy with five sisters needs someone to play with or cry to, sometimes your dog is the only one you can turn to. 

     I was never able to say goodbye to Duke.  When it was his time to go, and when the family was away on vacation, Dad had made arrangements for Duke without telling any of us kids.  He and Mom thought it best so our vacation wouldn't be ruined.  As we drove home from Niantic, Connecticut, me and my sister Jackie were bursting with excitement looking forward to seeing Duke again.  Two weeks without my dog was a long time to be apart.  Duke was staying at Grandma's house during our vacation, or so we thought.  But when Dad drove past the turn that led to her house, I wasn't just confused, I was angry.  As angry as a 13-year-old could be toward a father who was intolerant of any type of backtalk.  "We'll get him tomorrow", is what Dad said.  The adamant appeals from Jackie and I that tomorrow was unacceptable were ignored.  As we pulled into our driveway ten minutes later, Mom says to us, "Your father has something to tell you."  I tried holding back my tears of sorrow and vitriol, but my attempts were futile.  I jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and ran to my bedroom and sobbed under my pillow.  It took a long time for the hurt to subside.  I still have dreams about Duke to this day, all happy dreams, 45 years later.  Because you never forget your first love. 

      Mark and I had been best friends since childhood.  He lived just seven address numbers away down the street. We were the same age, went to the same elementary, middle, and high schools, and remained close friends all through adulthood.  When adulthood settles in, and work, marriage, and family rightly become the priority of one's time and energy, outside relationships take on secondary status. Bonds of friendship remain unbroken, but the quantity of time spent in the same company is understandably reduced.  Mark's marriage, the birth of his son, our separate careers, our conflicting seasons as high school coaches, all led to seeing each other much less frequently.

     About 13 years ago, Mark and his wife Wendy were discussing the pros and cons of getting a new dog.  A few years earlier, Wendy's dog Reggie had passed on, and 5-year-old son Blake, was now at an age of not needing constant monitoring.  I offered my own argument for them getting a dog: Me.  I'd be more than happy to be his dog-walker, trainer, and part-time companion, I said.  Working night shift, I would be free to check in on him during the day when they weren't home and give him his necessary exercise.  Mark was ecstatic, "Really? You'd do that?" "Absolutely", I said.  Mark wasn't totally aware of my love for dogs.  He didn't know how bummed I was when my sister's yellow labrador, Cooper, wasn't around anymore to spend time with. He wasn't aware that The Dog Whisperer starring dog behaviorist Cesar Milan, was my favorite television show.  He was aware, however, that I did have allergies to dogs, which negated the idea of me owning one myself.  But as a part-time caretaker, my mild allergic reactions were worth having a canine friend I could pal around with.  I think my closing argument sealed the deal.  

     Despite my plea to name him Duke, the chocolate labrador puppy was given the name Brody.  Wendy chose Blake's name over Brody, so she decided the newest addition to the family would take her second choice.

     Brody's personality was much different than Duke's.  Duke was an independent dog who exuded a majestic stature.  He had no qualms spending entire afternoons alone on our front yard hill, seemingly surveying the activity of the neighborhood. He would go unseen for hours at a time, doing whatever dogs do, back in the day when it was common for dogs to roam around loose.  He'd come and go as a king would, in complete confidence and control of his daily rest and recreation.  Brody, on the other hand, took the term "family dog" to the extreme.  He liked people way more than he liked other dogs. And he loved the attention and affection he constantly received from everyone he came in contact with.  He was goofy, playful, and sociable, never comfortable with being more than a few feet away from a person's touch or voice. "Personal space" was non-existent to him.  

     For the next 13 years, Brody and I put on a lot of mileage together, the least of which was in the car.  Hiking, biking, swimming, skateboarding, kayaking, Brody was the perfect activities partner.  His abilities at catching a frisbee, underwater swimming, taking off my shoes and socks, and retrieving my umbrella for a rainy-day walk, made him a popular feature on my Instagram page.  The excitement, loyalty, and respect he showered upon me every moment we spent together, is a dog owner's dream.  That his actual dog owners had zero jealousy issues about Brody's affection toward me, show the true character of Wendy and Mark.  Not all dog owners would be so accepting.  When a mutual friend said to Mark, "I'd be devastated if my dog paid that much attention to someone else.  It doesn't bother you?" "Not at all" was Mark's reply. "It's actually a great thing." 

     As happy as Brody was when we spent our hours and days together, I was just as happy and appreciative of his company.  Not since Duke has a dog given me such unconditional love and fun companionship as Brody.  I often joked that "If only I was greeted with the same affection and excitement when I walked in the door by a wife of my own..."  The other comment I'd repeat is, "A guy walking in the woods alone is often considered strange at best, and at worst, the serial-killing type of the Friday The 13th movies.  But a guy walking in the woods with a dog, is a guy who's passionate about animals and the great outdoors."  Brody made me appreciate the earth and the air more than I ever did before.  He loved being outside, no matter the weather.  Rain, snow, hot, or cold, he loved it all.  Our walks and hikes became my own favorite pastime for physical and psychological exercise.  When Brody galloped onto a new path of rocks or leaves, his enjoyment for exploration rubbed off on me.  When he chased after every squirrel he gauged close enough to catch, I admired his futile, yet unrelenting will and playfulness.  When he waded in a river's stream on a hot summer day, I marveled at the simplicity of nature's aesthetic and refreshing pleasures that he found so exhilarating.  Brody's exuberant carpe diem, living-in-the-moment approach to life, was my daily reminder to do the same.  And when a song about cruising in your car inspired me to make a music video, of course Brody was my cruising partner.

"Driving Around"

co-starring Wendy & Blake

     As every dog owner knows, for all the love and rewards a dog receives from us, we receive back tenfold.  A dog doesn't have to be a trained therapy dog in order to be therapeutic.  We don't need to read all the studies showing the positive effects of being in a dog's presence. Brody was the ultimate stress reducer, be it the endorphin rush I'd get when we'd race in a fifty-yard dash, or the oxytocin release from gazing into his endearing brown eyes.  When I was fired from a coaching job and torn up about it, Brody knew it was bullshit (I'm pretty sure he thought that).  When Covid hit and an ominous world of fear and isolation was omnipresent, Brody was my necessary distraction.  When I kept a ten-day cancer scare to myself, Brody's companionship and comfort was essential for my emotional health. (Thankfully I was misdiagnosed).    

    

      I've long held a theory about men and their interpersonal and communicative relationships with their male friends.  There is probably already a sociological ascription for it, but I call it "Buffer Conversation".  Unlike women, men tend to communicate with other men, or communicate better, when there is a "buffer" between them.  That buffer could be a task, an activity, or some type of stimulus.  It's rare that two or more men would spend time together without simultaneously drinking beers, watching a game on television, playing poker, building a tool shed, playing a round of golf, etc.  Sitting down and just talking without having some activity as a focal point, is a rarity for men.  It's uncomfortable.  We're doers, not talkers.  Blame the verbal centers in only the left hemisphere of the male brain for that.  Compare that to the female brain, which has dual-sided verbal centers.  Women don't need that buffer.  They seem quite capable having conversations devoid of any additional stimuli.  This may explain why some studies show that women on average speak three times as many words per day as men.  There just aren't enough tool sheds for us to build.

     Prior to Brody's arrival 13 years ago, Mark and I saw each other infrequently.  Months would pass sometimes without contact between us, even though we lived less than ten miles apart.  After Brody, it was common seeing each other multiple times a week.  Brody had become our buffer.  We didn't need the presence of a dog to solidify our friendship by any means, but Brody was the reason for re-establishing our "pre-adulthood" communication.  That's one of the wonderful things a dog can do - create an extra bond between people.  Lacrosse, basketball, Trump's awfulness, Blake's girlfriend status, our parents' age-related concerns, our own current highs and lows - all these things and much more became regular topics of conversation - because of Brody.  Mark and I knew each other's work, coaching, personal, and emotional status in real time.  And that's a pretty cool thing.  Especially because we're both at the age where most of our life is behind us, and the connections to friends and family is treasured more than ever.  Having Brody as the reason for seeing one another so much, makes his presence in our lives that much more significant.

     Three weeks ago, it came time to say goodbye to Brody.  He had been struggling with health issues for several months, but he was still happy and seemingly pain-free despite some limitations.  Quickly however, his hip dysplasia went from an unsteady gait to hind leg paralysis.  His breathing became labored, and he stopped eating.  Each of his last two days I laid on the floor with him, doing my best to hold it together. A few hours before we would take him to the vet's office, I walked through Mark's front door and Brody was lying on his dog bed, looking weary and struggling a little to breathe.  He lifted his head and gave me an oxytocin gaze with his heavy brown eyes. He managed only three tail wags, compared to the usual dozens per minute when he first sees me.  I laid on the floor next to him, unsuccessfully fighting back tears, and offered him his favorite treat, vanilla ice cream.  He took only three licks from the carton.  Usually, he'd gulp down a whole pint in a matter of seconds.  I did my best to soothe him with a happy voice and a soft touch.  Instead, it was him consoling me.  He extended and placed his paw on my forearm, like he's done hundreds of times before.  He did this for one of two reasons.  One was, "Hey, I'm here. Pay attention to me!" And the other was, "Thank you very much. I appreciate you."  In this case it was the latter.  He repeated his paw-tap several times over the next two hours. Brody was once again giving me the emotional therapy I needed at the moment....one last time.

     I am glad I was able to say goodbye to Brody.  To quote Winnie The Pooh, "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."  Looking back, I'm also glad I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to Duke.  I would have selfishly put up a painstaking fight over Mom and Dad's decision, which would have made for a more unpleasant memory.  I'll never forget my first love, Duke, and I'll never forget my second four-legged love, Brody.  That's the wonderful gift of a dog - countless numbers of good times and memories that make their short lives well worth the pain that comes with their loss.  I was fortunate enough to have man's best friend come along - twice.  And just maybe if I'm lucky enough, Mark and Wendy will turn my good fortune into a trifecta.  And if I'm extra lucky, he'll be named Duke.