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She wasn’t my dog.

I didn’t pick her, and saying I didn’t like her at first is accurate, but pains me now.  So I’m going to let myself off the hook and say I failed to immediately recognize her charms.

Mr. Mom brought her home one day after what I considered an indefinite conversation about “getting a dog.”  I think I said “maybe” or even “okay” to the concept, but I wasn’t really prepared for this energetic creature’s arrival on my doorstep.  Mr. Mom adopted her from a couple distracted by divorce.  He had looked at several potential adoptees and declared this particular black Labrador “a good dog.”  At the time, good seemed relative and I wondered what he had gotten us into.

She was about a year old and I thought her previous owners had given her a stupid name.  Stormy.  It didn’t fit her and it didn’t fit us and so we gave Kate – about three at the time – the opportunity to re-name her.  Like any young girl might, Kate suggested a wildly inappropriate name – Flower.  Because Mr. Mom had envisioned this dog could become a faithful hunting companion, he vetoed Kate’s suggestion, refusing to walk through the woods calling “Here Flower!”  Kate’s second choice was Cassie, and we let it stick.

We have a big backyard – roughly half the acre that is our homestead.   Cassie immediately made herself at home.  A few months into the deal, I found myself more and more annoyed with her.  I took it out on Mr. Mom, suggesting that he had misled me.  I had lived with only one dog before Cassie – a small, poodle mix that was as gentle, polite and tidy a dog as you would ever meet.  I’d never been around large, boisterous dogs that lived outside.  One day, reaching peak frustration, I angrily told him “I had no idea this is what I signed up for!  You said ‘Let’s get a dog’ and I said ‘Okay.’  But if you had said ‘Let’s get a dog, and that means your flowers will be trampled and your patio door will be forever dirty and your lawn will have unsightly worn patches, including a dirt trail around the perimeter of the fence, I would never have agreed!”

It embarrasses me now to think such trivial and aesthetic concerns overshadowed my appreciation for as sweet and loyal a soul as Cassie.  Mr. Mom encouraged me to give her time.  “She’s practically a pup,” he reminded me.  “She’ll calm down.”  He also suggested, with the wisdom of a seasoned diplomat, that if I made a slight modification to the flower bed surrounding our patio, the trampled flower issue might resolve itself.  “Give her a path to walk on, and she will.  But you can’t fence her in with flowers and expect her to carefully step over them like you do.”  I built a rock path and Mr. Mom trained her to use it.  And my flower beds remained intact for the many years Cassie lived in solitude in our backyard. 

In Cassie’s later years, we established a “pack,” bringing home first a semi-pedigreed male Chihuahua we named Frito, and soon thereafter an abandoned male mutt with a postcard-worthy face we named Cosmo.  We had dogs in small, medium and large.  Cassie was the matriarch – the anchor.  I thought we had trained her well, but in fact I realize now she had trained me.  By the time Frito and Cosmo came along, they faced far less scorn from a picky housekeeper than she had.  I got over my flower beds and said nothing when Cosmo and Frito considered them perfect places to nap or romp. They are oblivious to the debt they owe their generous and patient friend.

It took us a while to notice Cassie was failing.  Her appetite fell off, but we considered it a seasonal change.  We really forgot how old she was, especially for a large dog, and so her illness took us by surprise.  I thought she was arthritic and mentioned it to a friend who said her dog had benefited from thyroid medicine.  Before we had time to check it out, we awoke the day after Easter to find she could no longer walk.  Mr. Mom took her to a nearby veterinarian who said her liver was failing.  We are not people of heroic measures, so we brought her home for hospice care.  We called a friend – also a veterinarian – who said she would most likely go quickly and we would know if she began to suffer.  We decided to give her as many days as we thought she could enjoy. 

We were told you must separate a disabled or dying dog from the pack and, though it broke my heart to do so, we followed the vet’s instructions.  We laid her on a patch of grass near our driveway, on the opposite side of the fence from Frito and Cosmo, a spot that allowed her to remain near her companions and – more importantly – a part of our active household where the spontaneous play of children and dogs seems as much a part of our family’s rhythm as brushing our teeth at bedtime. 

One afternoon, when the sun finally broke through following a week of chilly, overcast weather, Mr. Mom moved Cassie to a sunny spot.  For several hours that day, she kept her head up, face full into the wind and eyes open to the glorious day unfolding.  Despite her grave illness, she remained mindful of her role as our family’s sentry, barking warnings to the UPS driver and the Jehovah’s Witness who came to our door.

I awoke early Thursday morning, worried it might be her last day.   I walked to the bedroom window and opened the shutters.   In the grey morning light, I searched for her form near the driveway and, instead, I was startled to see a shovel lying beside a freshly dug hole in our backyard.  Mr. Mom, too, knew our time with Cassie was coming to an end.   We hadn’t discussed it and I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it the night before, but I was pleased by the

location he had chosen –  a spot just inside the canopy of shade offered by our plum tree, a favorite summer napping place for all three dogs.

Thursday evening turned cold again and it started to rain. Cassie –  who loved nothing more than to swim in a nearby pond on a cold winter day –  was shivering.   But, she had always known and loved her place in the world.  She was an outside dog who never crossed our doorstep, even when invited.   She hated the garage and, even though it’s where the dog food is stored, she never followed the other dogs inside looking for scraps. We didn’t want to leave her in the rain, so we moved her to a blanket in the garage and left the door open so she

wouldn’t be anxious.

Early Friday morning when I checked on her, I knew immediately.   I woke Mr. Mom up and told him I thought it was time.   We dressed silently and grabbed our coats.  He carried Cassie to the backyard and laid her beside the grave.   Cosmo and Frito were delighted to be near her

again and, while Frito licked her hind legs, Cosmo retrieved his ball and dropped it at our feet, suggesting we should all play.   Mr. Mom brought Cassie her Frisbee and she raised her

head as best she could.   There was nothing left to do so Mr. Mom said “Are you going in the house now?”   I knew what he meant.

I sat on our stairs and thought about what it would be like to drive home from work and see only two dogs –  small and medium –  waiting for me.   I thought about how large a hole the large dog would leave in our lives.   Saying we will miss her is like saying we would miss the moon, should it fail to appear.

Like the sight of the grave in our backyard a day ago, the sound of the gun shot made me jump.   I put my head between my knees and cried openly, tired of holding back.   Mr. Mom came in the house to lock his gun away.   I stood up and we walked together in silence to the backyard.  Though I had imagined I would help, I stood frozen and watched him lower Cassie into the grave.   He placed her Frisbee beside her and bent over for a minute, taking deep breaths to compose himself.   I put my hand on his back and remembered that Cassie was his dog. I had been crying intermittently for four days, but I was sad for all of us –  for the large rip that suddenly appeared in the fabric of our family’s life.   Mr. Mom was saying goodbye in a way far more personal than the rest of us could appreciate.   He grabbed a handful of soil and sprinkled it carefully over her frail body.   Then he picked up the shovel and completed his final responsibility as Cassie’s caretaker.

   
The next morning I awoke just as dawn was breaking.   I typically arise before anyone else in my home and I enjoy drinking coffee while standing at the door, listening to my house sleep while the neighborhood wakes.   I put on the coffee, walked to the patio door, and pulled open the drapes.   The sun was just peeking over the back fence and it cast a sharp light on Cassie’s grave.  A single daffodil, obviously plucked from our front yard, had been placed on top.   A flower for Flower, I guessed –  a final gift from a young girl who loved the dog I didn’t like.

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EPITAPH TO A DOG

Near this spot are deposited the remains

Of one who possessed beauty

Without vanity,strength without insolence,

Courage without ferocity,

And all the virtues of man

Without his vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning

flattery if inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the

Memory of "Boatswain," a dog

Who was born at Newfoundland,

May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abbey

Nov. 18, 1808.

                                           --- Lord Byron