By
Tj O’Connor, author of Dying to Know, Dying
for the Past, and Dying to Tell
In real life, it’s truly a killer.
Saying good-bye is one of the hardest thing I’ve done in my
life. It was no matter that it came at the end of a long, wonderful, and full
life, either. It was still hard. Gut-wrenching. Sad.
I am generally a tough guy—not a muscled bouncer or martial arts Ninja—although in my past years I could be pretty tough, too. No, I control my emotions from others’ perception and choose to most often. Friends and family have thought me removed, even unfeeling at times. That’s not from a lack of emotion—no, not all—but from an ability to take those feelings and lock them up when it’s needed. Maybe it’s from years under an abusive father. Maybe it’s from my often tumultuous past life. Or, perhaps, it’s just my way of protecting myself.
But not with Mosby. Not when it was his time. I lost my way
to the emotion-lockbox. My stone exterior crumbled to tears and pain—a weeping,
trembling wreck. My boy—best friend and companion—was done. Mos, my 90 pound
yellow Lab had reached the end of his 14-plus years and couldn’t go on. He had
tumors, cancer, arthritis, and lord only knows what else—although you’d never
know it. We cared well for him and up until the last week of his life, there
had been little pain but for the arthritis in his knees. A few good meds and my
carrying him up and down stairs whenever he wished took care of that. He repaid
me with devotion. When not stalking me for a treat or meal, he was sleeping
close to my desk or at my feet watching a movie. Never complaining. Never
grumbly or irritable. Never far away.
At the end, he was just done—his life was yesterday and
there was no more to have. His body was failing and his dignity was nearly
spent. His pure bred Lab companions—Maggie, the Chocolate, and Toby, the Black—were
constant attendants. Toby walked at his side up and down the stairs whenever I
was not near—gently pushing him against the wall to keep him from stumbling.
Mags found me whenever the old boy needed something and I failed to noticed. He
had raised them from pups and they were shouldering him in his last days.
People should have such compassion and loyalty. People
should try to understand the love and devotion that Mos gave to everyone. I
challenge you.
As a young dog, Mos grew up with five teenagers my wife and I raised in North Western Virginia. His favorite things were food, toys, family, food … and rules. If there was a rule in the house—for dog of child—he enforced it. If the boys were getting too rough around the basement pool table, Mos summoned me. If my cooking threatened to alert the smoke alarm, he barked a warning. If one of the other dogs were out of line, he sought their correction.
Except at Christmas time. Rules be damned.
His favorite game—other than eating—was hide and seek. One
of my daughters, and later one of my grandchildren, often played with him
often. She’d sneak away and hide, and within minutes, Mos had patrolled the
house and sniffed her out. A bark, a pat, a treat, and he was on the chase
again.
Mosby died Veteran’s Day—three months ago. It’s only been a short
time and I still get up in the morning and step careful beside the bed for fear
I might step on him. As I work in my den, his ashes are nearby beside a ceramic
likeness and a photograph. It’s taken me these three months to have the
clearness of vision to write these words. Yet, I cannot say good-bye. The
starch of my emotions fail me with his memory so much that I cannot bury him—should
we ever leave this home, I could never leave him behind.
What a sap. What a woosie boy. What a cry-baby! No—he earned
every tear I’ve shed.
My only solace is that at 14 +, he did not go because of his
ailments over the years that I lined up doctors to cure. He loved life and
family and dinner and toys. He reveled in the love he received from all of us. His
life had been so full, it could simply take no more. There was nothing more for
him and he made room for another to find this home. In time—not soon—we’ll do
that.
Life is like that. It gives and takes. I think you have to
give first because when it takes, it’s too late to make up for the loss. You
have to pay in advance. With Mos, we paid plus interest. I know he knew that.
At the end, he found the strength to climb onto my bed—something he hadn’t done
in over two years—and lay his head on my lap. He wanted me to know it was time
... and that it was okay.
Mosby’s his first love, Belle, passed this last week, too.
Belle was Mos’ age and was my daughter’s dog. We got her thirteen years ago to
be his companion while the family was at work. They grew up together and when
my daughter married and moved across the county, Belle went with her. We, of
course, had brought Maggie into the family by then. Like Mos, Belle succumbed
to life. She was14 plus years, too, and had a full life. Losing those two so
close together was devastating to us all. Strangely, one has to wonder if they
were not supposed to be together. Dogs need companionship—perhaps here and
there, too.
One can hope.
My current mystery series, The Gumshoe Ghost, has Hercule, a black Lab as a key character. Not
because I wanted to fit into the cozy community or knew in advance having an
animal was chic. I included Hercule because Labs are so much a part of my life
that I couldn’t see my character not
having one. In the future, the importance of a dog will have a new meaning.
I’m still surrounded by sweet, loving Labs (and another
daughter’s Mastiff, too). They keep me company as I toil over my keyboard. They
are a great comfort and as close to me as Mos ever was. Yet, no matter how
close they are, there is still that void.
I hope it doesn’t leave too soon. Pain is a reminder of loss.
I don’t mind keeping him around a little while longer—even if it’s painful.
Nothing so important should be easily lost. A lot of you will understand me having to commit this to words. For those of you who can’t—or who call me a silly man—you have no idea what you’re missing. Deep down, loss reveals something so amazing.
1 comment:
nice post! :)
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