He was just a dog, so I didn’t expect to erupt into tears on that Tuesday afternoon in the vet’s office.
But that’s exactly what I did when Jake lay on the cool tile floor, dropped his head onto his front paws and closed his eyes for the last time. My right hand was clutching the thick white fur on his back.
I don’t cry at commercials, but you should know that I am emotionally moved by the daily headlines in the big world. So often it feels like we are all sharing a house of chaos – built with the bricks of terrorism, inequity, savagery, injustice, poverty, dishonesty, financial ruin, unsavory politics. Pain. If I watch television news too often or stay attached to social media too long, I start to believe that I actually live in that world.
Thank God, I don’t.
I live in a small world – where the only occupants are close family members and a few trusted friends. People who like to drink coffee. And the inordinately happy people who greet me at the YMCA three mornings a week.
I live in a house that was built a long time before I was born. For years, the only person who lived here was a woman known by everyone in town. To the neighbors, it’s still “Brownie’s house.”
The house sits on a shady street in a neighborhood where people talk over the fence, and unsupervised kids play in the streets. Where I can walk to church. And the best coffee place on the planet is eight-tenths of a mile from the house.
My world consists of sunsets at the lake. A good book on a Tuesday night. Friends and laughter on Friday nights. Watching the cardinals and the squirrels play in the backyard or the torrential rain wash sins all the way to the end of the street out front. A roaring fireplace in the winter and a big porch in the summer.
For the three years I knew him, Jake was the gentle bear who offered unconditional love, support and silent counseling during a time of considerable change in my small world. Talking to him was natural. Hugging him was easy. I’m pretty sure I trusted that dog more than I do most people.
A 110-pound Great Pyrenees, Jake was a dependable sentry who patrolled the chain-link fence. He slept wherever he was needed – on the back porch, at the foot of my teenage daughter’s bed, in the patio room, beside the couch. Even the timid seven-pound gray tabby stayed nestled in the couch cushions when the dog was in the room. Until he was too sick to move and too tired to speak, Jake was on duty.
“I told him more than I told any person,” my daughter whispered, choking on her tears.
In the big world, I know, he was just a dog.