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OPINION

Dogs come and go in our lives, but they all make home a happy place

Milam's Musings, milambc@miamioh.edu

I have not written in length about my unabashed and particular affinity for the dogs in my life since my childhood dog, Jessie, died.

Perhaps that is merely coincidence, but such a coincidence struck me as peculiar that in all the ink I've spilled musing, not once did the paws so specific to my life tread therein.

This is my "inkblot," then, to my furry best friends.

Jessie was a Labrador/pitbull mix, although given the stigma pitbulls unjustly receive, we always made sure to emphasize the labrador part of her.

Like a faded photo, I still remember when the family went to retrieve Jessie. I was maybe five at the time with those obscene thick-framed glasses and a mane of unruly red hair.

We got out of our typical 90s family red van and Jessie came running around to meet us, like a can of Red Bull on four legs. That's the first image I retain of her: how energetic and happy she was. If her tail was going any faster, she would have developed wings.

I think every dog owner says this and then qualifies it with, "Yeah, but for our dog, it was true!" but Jessie was human-like. Her personality meshed well with us little kids. There wasn't a pre-dog-liking time; there was just Jessie. Loving her was innate.

I'm no child developmental aficionado, but it's not hard to see that for a geeky, awkward and often outcasted kid like myself, having that companion meant a whole lot to my growth.

That if the kid at school was knocking my books out of my hand or if I did something particularly embarrassing in front of the class, I could come home and there she would be. Not passing judgment, just eager to play and love, unconditionally and pure.

The best of course was using her body as a comforting pillow and allowing the warmth of her fur to shield a shy, scared kid from an impossibly big world. Maybe my big head resting on her belly was burdensome, but she never let on.

Then, as life tends to go, death tends to come. She was breaking down, as dogs will do at 16. It got to the point where moving was problematic for her arthritic legs.

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Deep within her brown eyes, I liked to think was the longing for the dog she had once been and wished she could still be. The dog that looked like a cheetah floating across our expansive backyard or the wacky, goofy dog that somehow managed to get on the roof of our house when we were away... twice.

"It's only an animal," is the refrain of someone that's never lived through putting a dog down. Someone that's never developed that bond and connection over years of chew toys, dinner table scraps and pretending like she really did understand what I was saying and feeling.

To the nascent mind of a child, the dog "gets you" when nobody else does. There's a reason Miami University, other institutions and organizations use dogs as therapy. They make us happy; they ease back the familiar fog of stress, anxiety and depression.

On the way to the vet, I couldn't look at her. Instead, I focused my wet eyes on the car window, not seeing anything, only thinking about how I was betraying her.

After we got there and went through the administrative process, the vet took her in his arms to leave behind a door where presumably the deed would be done. Her brown eyes stayed on mine in those final moments and I liked to think that I comforted her in the way she had me for 16 years, if only a little.

Nah, we didn't get a new dog right away. It wasn't liked I needed to go to JCPenny's and buy a new pair of shoes. There would have to be a gradual transition phase to any new dog. But there was always going to be a new one.

Without the presence of a dog, I'm lost. Sure, we went through a slew of dogs, looking for the right one like it was OkCupid and we had to find the right match.

One even seemed to not like me because I found her at the end of my bed after having peed on it giving me a nasty look. She was still cute at least.

Then we found Dallas, a German Shepherd/Collie mix named after the Cowboys. She had Jessie's brown, glossy eyes.

I come home every day and by the slit of a window next to the front door, I see her beaming, waiting to play.

Once inside, it's a mad rush to the living room to roll around and rub her belly and scratch her ears. I long derided those that did the annoying baby talk with newborn babies. Get me with Dallas and I do the baby talk voice. Yep.

Sometimes, admittedly, the world feels like a vice grip worthy of Jigsaw, but a potent thought that often gets me through it is the thought of coming home. No matter how bad something is, at least I'll eventually get home and put it behind me.

Dallas will be there, waiting, too, to help. The thought of ever leaving her waiting is much worse than any conceivable pressure from that vice grip.

I will never understand those that can live without a dog in the house and in their lives. Maybe those people are made of some different material. Maybe their hearts have some internal tail-wagger, face-licker that keeps them going.

As for those with cats, well, my musings do have a limit and that limit does not suffice to explain why dogs are obviously superior.

Finishing this column, Dallas's two paws sit on my lap with her head titled back waiting for the next adventure. She doesn't know that I'm about to run and the chase will be on.

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