When I looked around, I realized that Blackie’s last ride had ended only a hundred yards or so from where his first had begun.
The pet store’s no longer there and our vet’s office was once an art supply store, but the two buildings are just across the street from each other.
Blackie, our dog, turned 14 in August. I’d hoped we’d have more time. Wasn’t to be.
Over the last year or so, his hearing had gone and his eyes were starting to cloud. He was having trouble walking and sometimes fell for no reason.
The worst problem, though, was an inoperable tumor. It’d reached the point where he couldn’t bear to be touched near where it was located … and that was enough. Pain was something he wasn’t going to suffer.
Blackie was 35 pounds of jumbled genetics a Nobel laureate couldn’t figure out in a lifetime. “Mixed breed” is the polite term, but he never minded when I referred to him as a mutt.
He loved “rides” and, when he got to come along, the passenger side window was his and his alone. One of the saddest sights on Earth, though, was the look he’d give us whenever we left and told him he couldn’t come.
He loved Pacific Beach. He’d get out on the sand, take one look around, and sprint in hundred-yard-wide circles with me at the center.
There was one time when he launched himself into a 3-foot wave and all I saw were butt, paws, ears, tail, and an occasional snout – in no particular order – until the wave deposited him back at my feet.
Mustering what dignity he could, he shook himself off and gave me a look that said, “You know, I really meant to do that.”
I guess there won’t be any more of that. Nor will my wife come down in the morning and find him sitting on a chair next to me with a saucer of coffee in front of him, the remains of a pancake on a plate, and the last piece of bacon in his mouth. This while he and I were “discussing” the latest follies being reported in the newspaper.
Blackie was a morning dog.
At my first sign of movement, he’d launch himself onto my chest, plant his paws over my shoulders, and – if I made the mistake of opening my eyes – begin licking me. I’d wake to a face that said: “Up and at ‘em stud. Sun’s up, there’s a paper to be gotten, a walk to be taken, and you are going to be making bacon today, right?”
This whole thing with dogs inserting themselves into our hearts probably started with our ancestors sitting around a fire after a tough day of hunting. They’d likely been cooking whatever they’d brought home and noticed a pair of eyes in the dark. Somehow that first dog convinced them to let him come near the fire (immediately snagging the best spot) and coaxed some leftover scraps for a meal.
If it was one of Blackie’s ancestors, I know he gave the hunters a look that said, “You guys do know that if you take a slice of meat from a pig and cook it just so, you’d have bacon, right?”
In return for warmth and food and a bit of attention, we got unquestioned love, loyalty, and a companion who’d wade into hell if he or she thought we were being threatened.
Ours was, by far, the better part of the bargain.
I hear where there was a trial down in Pierce County recently. Involved two buttheads who killed a dog by tying it to a tree and repeatedly shooting it with an arrow until it died.
They should thank the Good Lord I’m not the judge in that case. What I’d have to say to them couldn’t be printed in any newspaper and the one-year sentence they’ll likely get would just be the starting point on the trip I’d have for them.
Last Friday, we took one last ride.
Blackie was quiet the whole way.
Later, when I walked out of the vet’s office, I looked over to where I’d first picked him up.
All I had now was an old leash and 14 years of memories rolling through my head.
I was about 10 minutes from home when I climbed into my truck and pulled out. It was about eight minutes too far.
Ever notice that there aren’t nearly enough places to pull over when you find you really can’t see any more?
Larry Simoneaux is a freelance writer living in Edmonds. Comments can be sent to: larrysim@att.net.
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