The Road To 100

Sunday night I cried.

Actually, it had nothing to do with Easter.  Sunday night, after a great day with friends and family, I settled in to watch the movie Marley and Me.  The movie starts very slow, basically a compilation of scenes showing two A-list actors chasing a misbehaving dog.  The story progresses as the couple becomes a family and continues moving through various stages of life.  It really isn’t until fairly late in the movie that we are really given any reason to care about this dog at all.  It is at this point when my mind starts to drift back-and-forth from the movie to fond memories of Winston.

Winston was the dog my wife found right after we moved into our home.  Actually, Winston found us.  At the time we owned a restaurant in the neighboring town from where we lived.  For many days in a row, Winston, just a puppy then, would be at the restaurant from opening until closing.  Attempts to find the dog’s owner yielded no results, so my wife started threatening to bring him home.  I made it clear I didn’t want a dog because of the responsibility of taking care of one as well as the fact I tend to get too attached.  My wife wanted the dog, I didn’t want the dog.  Needless to say, we got the dog.

Winston settled in immediately as if he had been a part of our family since the day he was born.  From the first day he arrived I would come home from work and there was Winston, looking at me is if to say, “I’ve been waiting for you, where have you been?”  He became an instant friend with all who visited, whether a one time guest or a regular fixture, his kind and gentle demeaner making a lasting impression.  Winston was a big part of making our new house a home.

As children were added to our family we were warned to keep an eye on our dog.  We were told that dogs will very often grow jealous of the children as attention once meant for them is now directed elsewhere.  This was never the case for Winston, as he relished having the boys around almost as much as we did.  That poor dog put up with everything from toys being tossed in his direction to the boys mistaking him for their horse.  Some of their antics had to bother Winston but he never allowed anyone to know it.  He would shrug off the most recent stunt and go right back to playing with Caleb and Sam as if he were a third child.  He eventually became very protective, often using his nose as a Patriot Missile as I moved into to give one of them a playful poke.

I don’t know if Winston was capable of hurting anyone, but the doorbell always sent him running at the door, sounding like he was looking to rip an intruder apart.  As soon as he saw that we were welcoming the visitor, he dropped his guard and made a new friend or reestablished his ties with a returning pal.  The difference between the two reactions made me wonder how he would react to an actual break-in.  I would often joke that Winston was a good watchdog because if someone broke into the house he was so friendly he would watch as they cleaned us out, but in all actuality, I am not so sure.  I always felt safer each time someone was at the door and he started his routine even if it did make listening to the doorbell in a Dominoes Pizza ad a little annoying.

Over the years Winston grew to be much more than a pet.  He never cared about how much money I made, whether or not I had said or done something I shouldn’t have,  or if I had just had a good day or a bad day.  He never judged me by how I looked or what I drove.  None of that mattered to my four legged friend;  he just loved me.  I enjoyed his company and looked forward to spending time with him.  He enjoyed our time together just as much as he often showed by sticking his nose under my hand and flicking it to his head if for some reason I had forgotten he was present.  He longed to love and be loved.  He was truly a great friend.

As Winston grew older, he had his share of ailments.  At least twice after he turned twelve I brought him to the vet thinking he would never return home.  Dogs his size often do not live much past twelve, so more than once I prepared myself to say goodbye.  Each time the vet would try something and that tough ole mutt would bounce back.  There were nights when he would be sick and I would sleep with my hand on his stomach, the only way I could get him to settle down and get some rest, but in a day or two he would be back to the Winston we all knew and loved.

With all dogs, however, there comes a time when the energy is missing from their step.  Winston was no different, and in his sixteenth year his age finally caught up to him.  The arthritis in his hips made movement difficult for him.  You could see he wanted to play, but even though his spirit was willing, his body wasn’t.  His hearing was fading and the spark in his eyes had somewhat faded.  People were starting to say that I needed to be mindful of his condition, that he had been “too good of a dog to allow to suffer.”  This is easier said when it is not one of their best friends we are discussing.  Funny how when a close human friend is suffering we comfort them and care for them, but when that friend is a dog we should do the right thing, end their suffering;  put them to “sleep.” 

I finally conceded that the time had arrived and made an appointment with the animal doctor in town to put him down.  I loaded Winston into the back of our jeep, it had been quite some time since he could do this on his own, and headed out for our last ride together.  Once we arrived he calmly walked into the office and waited for the doctor to call us.  Never before, not even when he had been very ill, had Winston been so calm in the vet’s office.  After a few minutes, the nurse arrived and escorted us into the examination room.  The doctor came in and offered us a few minutes.  When he returned with the nurse I was offered tissues, which I accepted, as they prepared him for his final shot.  It was at this time, through my tears, that I saw Winston look up at me one last time.  He was letting me know that it was OK, that it was time.  My friend was comforting me even as he was saying goodbye.  Then he closed his eyes for the last time.

Funny how memories are almost always good, even painful ones.  As I watched the end of a movie that was at best mediocre, I felt a rush of emotion.  I realized that whoever directed Marley’s final scene must have experienced this himself.  The cold office, the compassionate doctor, and the distraught owner were captured so well.  I couldn’t help but to feel the pain the character felt at this moment as I relived the memories of the final moments I spent with my dog.  And as much as my heart ached, I also felt a sense of joy thinking about my daparted friend.

And with this feeling, Sunday night I cried.