Shadow waits by the back door when he needs to go outside. He doesn't bark or whine to let me know that his bladder is full. He simply rests there, without making a sound, until someone (namely me) notices him. If the urge to go is overwhelming, he might say something: a small groan or moan that means, "Hey, I'm waiting. Please come open the door."
He's the only being in this house that doesn't demand something from me. To be able to claim that spot on my list is a huge thing, although he doesn't know it.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Shadow. He turned ten over the summer, which means we've had him for seven years. (He arrived the summer before Melina did, and I can't imagine not having either of those two stars in my life.) Turning ten also means that he's getting older and won't be with us all that much longer: the average lifespan of a Golden Retriever is 11 years, although they can live to be between 12 and 15 years, if you're lucky. As with any animal I live with, I want all of the years of their lives to be productive, happy, years. Right now, Shadow is a lumpy mess (Goldens tend toward the acquisition of lumps all over their bodies as they age) and he's having more trouble getting up from the floor, but he's still in overall decent health. Is it good health? I can't be sure. But I know that with four rug rats who love him and two adults who give him great hugs each day, he's got to be happy. He says so with the bounce that's still in his step when Tim comes home and the way he runs out the door to play with the kids.
I've realized, though that I'm not necessarily happy. The more time I spend around here (Tuesdays and Thursdays, to be exact...my days off) the more I understand how much I'm going to miss this dog when he's gone. Sure, the loss of this dog will hurt us all, but in the grand scheme of our days, I spend the most time with him. He listens to my complaints about the oven repair, he hears me sing as I vacuum. He watches for the bus for me when I need to use the bathroom and keeps me company on gloomy days when my magic rainbow fleece doesn't seem to work. When I'm cold and lonely and tired and crabby, all I need to do is extend my hand to his head and rub it. Shadow closes his eyes, much like I would do if I were having a massage. He leans into my hand and stays there. I believe he'd stay there all day if he could.
Shadow rivals my childhood dog, Holly, the one who, until now, held the place of Gold Standard for dogs. Each time the kids wrap their thin arms around Shadow's head or midsection, I remember so many instances of when he earned the Best Dog Ever title: how he laid down with the kids for a picnic, but didn't steal the food; when he sat next to Melina as a baby--a two-week-old baby--and simply sat, staring at the little beast before him; all the times his gentle nature made it easy to be around him. There are too many memories to count, but yet not enough. I've started snapping photos of his senior citizen self, because I don't want to forget this dog. I hope I can't forget this dog.
Lately, the kids have started their own ritual by whispering into Shadow's ears, "You're the best dog ever," and when they do that, tears spring to my eyes, each and every time. They know what's around the corner in a couple of years, and the older three children can remember what we went through with our cat, Ferdinand, several years ago. I don't know what the future holds for Shadow, but I do know this: Shadow is the best dog ever. EVER.
He's the only being in this house that doesn't demand something from me. To be able to claim that spot on my list is a huge thing, although he doesn't know it.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Shadow. He turned ten over the summer, which means we've had him for seven years. (He arrived the summer before Melina did, and I can't imagine not having either of those two stars in my life.) Turning ten also means that he's getting older and won't be with us all that much longer: the average lifespan of a Golden Retriever is 11 years, although they can live to be between 12 and 15 years, if you're lucky. As with any animal I live with, I want all of the years of their lives to be productive, happy, years. Right now, Shadow is a lumpy mess (Goldens tend toward the acquisition of lumps all over their bodies as they age) and he's having more trouble getting up from the floor, but he's still in overall decent health. Is it good health? I can't be sure. But I know that with four rug rats who love him and two adults who give him great hugs each day, he's got to be happy. He says so with the bounce that's still in his step when Tim comes home and the way he runs out the door to play with the kids.
I've realized, though that I'm not necessarily happy. The more time I spend around here (Tuesdays and Thursdays, to be exact...my days off) the more I understand how much I'm going to miss this dog when he's gone. Sure, the loss of this dog will hurt us all, but in the grand scheme of our days, I spend the most time with him. He listens to my complaints about the oven repair, he hears me sing as I vacuum. He watches for the bus for me when I need to use the bathroom and keeps me company on gloomy days when my magic rainbow fleece doesn't seem to work. When I'm cold and lonely and tired and crabby, all I need to do is extend my hand to his head and rub it. Shadow closes his eyes, much like I would do if I were having a massage. He leans into my hand and stays there. I believe he'd stay there all day if he could.
Shadow rivals my childhood dog, Holly, the one who, until now, held the place of Gold Standard for dogs. Each time the kids wrap their thin arms around Shadow's head or midsection, I remember so many instances of when he earned the Best Dog Ever title: how he laid down with the kids for a picnic, but didn't steal the food; when he sat next to Melina as a baby--a two-week-old baby--and simply sat, staring at the little beast before him; all the times his gentle nature made it easy to be around him. There are too many memories to count, but yet not enough. I've started snapping photos of his senior citizen self, because I don't want to forget this dog. I hope I can't forget this dog.
Lately, the kids have started their own ritual by whispering into Shadow's ears, "You're the best dog ever," and when they do that, tears spring to my eyes, each and every time. They know what's around the corner in a couple of years, and the older three children can remember what we went through with our cat, Ferdinand, several years ago. I don't know what the future holds for Shadow, but I do know this: Shadow is the best dog ever. EVER.
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