When Your Dog Dies

Years ago when our last cat died, I unilaterally declared to the family we were never getting another animal.

But later, “We’re just going to look at some puppies,” my wife said.

There is no such thing as “just going to look at some puppies” when you bring your 10-year-old boy along.

They brought home this little 8-pound fur ball, all black except for a white streak from his nose to his chest. They called him Blaze.

Our son yearned for a big dog, a husky, a malamute, or a shepherd of some kind, and I refused. I grew up around dogs like that, and I knew what would happen. A door had slammed shut in me a long time ago to keep it from happening again. Then came this plush toy that looked like it needed batteries only to grow up into a 105-pound black-bearish Newfoundland-Aussie-Chow mix who could put anyone on the ground whenever he wanted until we trained him not to.

My wife and son had busy lives out of the home. I have my own busy life, but it’s largely on the phone or online, so Blaze and I spent a lot of time together. More time than I spent with anyone else for all 11 years of his life.

I grew up with animals — dogs, cats, horses, birds — and I never gave them much thought beyond the basics. Meaning, I learned not to get attached. Same goes with people.

If Blaze sensed this about me, he didn’t care.

One day I was typing away in my office when a four-month-old Blaze came in and whipped me on the leg with his rope toy for the first time. His message was obvious: “Let’s go play.”

It was a sentiment I should have embraced a long time ago. It’s also how I learned my place in our pack.

Mom was the boss. Blaze always stood up to greet her when she came home.

Our son was second. He was the only human who Blaze would allow to sit next to him. Not even Mom had that privilege. They spent hours jumping on our trampoline together. And swimming in the Sound, running through the woods, rolling in the snow, sleeping on the couch. I think Blaze saw him as an equal. That’s how they treated each other.

Then there was me.

Blaze wouldn’t get up when I got home, but he always kept a keen eye on me. And he never failed to communicate his needs, like with the rope. I don’t know what my designation would be in a wolf pack hierarchy, but in human terms, I was his personal assistant.

He required a lot of exercise, so we walked together every day. He led me through parks, through woods, through wetlands. He led me to a bear, a bobcat, and once to an injured crow I was able to save.

Children would shyly approach us sometimes, attracted by some unseen force. I eventually learned to ask, “Would you like to pet the dog?” and they would inevitably nod silently and slowly come forward like they were meeting the Pope before plunging their little hands into his black bear dog fur. Blaze patiently stood there, always. I would exchange looks with the parents, but we hardly said anything because the children were having a mystical experience we dared not interrupt.

But one mom teared up when her 3-year-old hugged Blaze as he loomed over her, burying her face in his fur. “She’s so afraid of dogs,” she whispered.

When Blaze would no longer get up to meet Mom, we knew something was wrong.

There was nothing we could do. My wife and I put him down. It was on a luxurious dog bed outside in the shade behind the vet’s office, and the staff graciously let us take our time. If I have my way, that’s exactly how I will go.

How many times had I already done this? Five that I can remember. That doesn’t include animals who just disappeared or were lost to accidents or killed by other animals or humans I will never forgive.

When I watched Blaze go to sleep with those keen eyes open for the last time, I felt a familiar door slamming shut inside me. I was not to feel anything about it again.

Everything looked sharper, brighter. I noticed the flowers around the vet’s parking lot for the first time, the shape of the trees, the sunlight on the cars, the fine texture of the asphalt.

I understood it was a mild form of shock. I felt exceptionally conscientious about everything.

Except as far as consoling my wife was concerned. When we got home, she went into our bedroom and shut that door. I went out to the deck with a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. People in shock don’t think about the needs of others or simple details, like a wine glass.

I realized we still had to tell our son away in college that the dog sent to him by the universe despite me, who he grew up with and who gave him so much joy, would now teach him the price of love.

And then I understood the door that had slammed shut inside wasn’t going to protect me from anything. Because Blaze had already led me through it and I was on the other side, at long last.

Ted Olinger lives in Vaughn.