My little old dog, a heartbeat at my feet. Edith Wharton 1862-1937

I’ve been at a loss the past week. A literal loss. I find myself checking the rug in front of the door, or the window when I come up the sidewalk. When I go outside I wait for someone else to push ahead of me and when I open the refrigerator I listen for the click of toenails on the maple floor. These are just a few of the dozens of moments each day when I realize all over again that our faithful and loving old dog is dead.

Although it happened quickly it was not altogether unexpected. Thirteen years for a large breed dog is a full life, after all.

And, happily, we can look back at her life without any regrets. It was an uncomplicated affair of mutual love. How many relationships are so easy? She came into our lives in the typical way, via a little boy who promised to feed and train and take her for daily walks, which he mostly did. Our relationship deepened into that of old friends once the little boy, now grown, left for college. We have a photo from that day, the two of them, the boy crouching down, his arm around the dog’s neck, and also one of the boy’s older sister on the day she left for college. The dog is younger in those photos, before her muzzle turned white.

Companionable, we kept an eye on each other throughout the day. We went for walks, shared meals, did chores together, and waited supper for our beloved’s return. In the winter she warmed my feet in the cold corner of the kitchen where the computer sits. When I was not doing anything interesting, she accompanied my beloved, hers too, in whatever he was doing. Riding in the little wagon to go to the woods to cut firewood was her favorite activity.

She did all the things dogs do: chasing rabbits, raccoons and deer out of the garden, digging after moles in the yard, burying bones and eggs and other goodies in the flower bed. She had several litters of puppies, coexisted in harmony with various farm cats and welcomed friends and strangers alike. When young she came bounding up with a goofy grin, body curved into a C as if her wagging tail was winding her up. As an old dog she stayed on her rug, but gave her tail a big thump in greeting.

This week I’ve been remembering my friends who have lost pets and I am surprised and touched by the outpouring of sympathy over the loss of ours. Pet owners know that this is indeed a great loss. The unconditional love of a dog is more constant than any other. There is no wavering of affection, no moods, and no anger. Dogs do not leave you for younger owners nor do they go off to college. They don’t talk about you behind your back or belittle your mistakes. They have complete trust in your goodness. Is it an accident that dog spelled backwards is god?

When I brought her back home from the vet’s office it was bitterly cold. I put her limp body in the back of the vehicle she so loved to ride in. My beloved came home at dusk and took her up to our favorite spot that looks out over the farm. We go there often to sit and enjoy the evenings, sometimes with a bonfire, or a cookout, or just a blanket and book or bottle of wine. It’s a good place. Our dog always came with us.

I could see him working in the sudden dark, moving in front of the lights, digging a final resting place near where we pull our chairs to watch the stars come out. It was snowing softly. Then the lights changed and moved slowly down the path and I knew she was not coming down ever again.

Remembering all that was good about our dog softens and comforts our hearts. Surely there is goodness in the world after all – maybe it is just not human.

Dog’s lives are too short. Their only fault, really. Carlotta Monterey O'Neill