A few weeks ago, I said
goodbye to one of the best friends I’ve ever had. A life spent in the military, traveling from
place to place and working tirelessly towards a dream doesn’t often afford the
opportunity gather much of a family; let alone a companion. Nevertheless, at the suggestion of friends,
just after I took the Nevada Bar Exam, I went to the local rescue and adopted
an Australian Shepherd that I named Jack.
He helped to fill an otherwise empty house, provided a faithful
companion when they seemed perilously hard to come by and a playmate when
playtime was increasingly scarce. When
times got tough, he was an ever-ready ear, a fluffy pillow to hug and someone
always happy to see me, when welcoming arms were in short supply. I promised him that I would make it through
for both of us, that things would get better and that there would soon be a
time for as much play as he could handle.
Taking my dreams to the next level meant even greater sacrifices of free
time and home time, and Jack ultimately spent most of his days with only a dog
door, a big back yard and automatic feeders for company. Those dreams have finally come to mean
selling the house and moving closer to work – and ultimately, a life with no
place for Jack in it. But just as he
taught me lessons in life, he taught me even more lessons in leaving. And so, as the only fitting requiem I can
must, here are the three most important of those lessons:
1. Loving
can mean leaving. Sometimes the best
thing you can do for someone or something you love is letting them go. I can tell you, it’s dramatically easier
advice to give than to take. But along
with mystery aches, waning memory and an systemic misunderstanding of anyone
under the age of 25, getting older means knowing that sometimes the best things
in your life are better off not in your life any longer. The vast
majority of people who have contributed to who I am today are people who I
simply don’t know anymore. Their
contribution to my life is in no way diminished by the finite nature of their
presence, because their impact is infinite and ongoing. Coaches, teammates, friends, enemies, lovers
and more – each of them special to me, all of them long gone. For animals, whose life span and memory are
far shorter, this is even more important and true. Jack will be lucky to get fifteen good years
on this rock, and the fact that he spent two of them lighting up my darkest
days was a great gift to us both. He
left me knowing how to catch a fifty-yard Frisbee toss on the fly, I left him
knowing that sometimes the best way to say “I love you” is throwing that
Frisbee. In leaving, he got a life with
full-time friends and family, and I got a whole lot less house to worry
about. I think a lot more about the days
he was here than the day he left – and I’m pretty sure he does, too – if only
to remember exactly how that Frisbee is gonna fly.
2. Time
after time. There are few lessons
more universally learned and poignant than the value of time – and how it
changes. When things are bad, life is long,
when they are good, life is short. If you can find someone or something that can
make your bad days shorter, you should hold on with everything you’ve got. At the end of my sometimes interminable days,
the hour between getting home and falling asleep never passed by more quickly
than when we chased each other around the house. Of all of the great and terrible gifts I have
given and received, I have never found one which costs more, means more or
stays with me as long as simple time:
the time I take when I have precious little to give, the time spent when it
seems like there simply isn’t any left and the time I get from those too busy
to even imagine what type of
sacrifice it took to give it to me. All
Jack ever wanted from me was some
time. He loved his treat, toys and big
back yard – but there wasn’t anything he
wouldn’t drop when he saw the leash appear in my hand, or the Frisbee come out
of my pack. He desperately loved
tug-of-war, but letting him win was the worst way to end it – it wasn’t the toy
he wanted, it was the tugging. I never have time in great supply – I’m not
certain I ever will, but the great blessing of being busy is to know just how
much it means to simply show up, to listen up or to give up some other
appointment. I regret a great deal more
the nights I couldn’t find time to play more than letting him find a family
that had them in abundance.
3. Understanding
is overrated. I’ve seen my share of
dog whisperers, pet psychologists and animal activists. I’ve read studies, stories and whole sites
dedicated to trying to figure out what your pet is saying. And I’ve come to one conclusion – we have no f*&king idea. But more importantly, it doesn’t matter at
all. I don’t know why Jack used to
squirm around on his back when I would get home – making funny noises and
looking like a slow motion seizure. I
thought it meant that he wanted his belly rubbed, but approaching him would
make him snap right back up and grab something for me to throw. And so, when I got home, I would just let him
go through it – and I loved watching him go.
I never figured out why sometimes he would bring things back to me, and
sometimes he would just come back without them – but I always loved chasing
after them with him at my side. I never
knew why he would only sleep in my bed when I wasn’t in it – and would jump off
as soon as I laid down, even when I implored him to stay – but I loved seeing
that dog-shaped wrinkle. Sometimes the
best part of loving something or someone are the things you don’t get – because there is a beauty in
mystery, and we’ve got no better shot at understanding our dogs than we do at
understanding our gods.
* * *
I had the enormous good
fortune to actually meet Jack’s new
family as they adopted him. They come
with a ready-made brother for Jack – and a new name: “Huck.” Not too long before they came to get him,
they lost a long-time family member, and couldn’t suffer to see their remaining
pup mope around alone. They spent an
hour or so making friends while the requisite paperwork was filled out and at
least two other families lamented that he had been adopted so quickly. Jack was always a popular boy. We took pictures, talked and learned about
his new, big back yard, a family that always
had someone at home and the great toys waiting for him a short drive
away. In a year filled with tough times,
I have often wondered if I had beaten all the feeling out of myself – and Jack
taught me one last thing. He took to his
new buddy so quickly that he hardly noticed the tears in my eyes and the catch
in my breath. I didn’t call him as he
left, because I wasn’t crying for him – at that point I wasn’t crying at
all. I simply smiled when he didn’t turn
around to look for me as they drove away.
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