It was only a matter of weeks after our beloved family dog passed away at age 15 that I was researching lab rescues with the tenacity of a bloodhound on a hunt. My husband thought it was too soon and reminded me of the countless times I pledged I would never get another dog.
I didn’t want to want a dog. I didn’t want their hair that floated and coated every possible surface, or to operate as a reluctant doorman for an indecisive canine who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be inside or out. Mostly, I wanted to avoid the crushing heartache of grief from losing a dog’s loyal and unyielding love when the inevitability of death came.
Yet the emptiness that filled my hairless house and my aching heart made these objections seem trivial. Within weeks, I adopted a three-year-old yellow lab from Labrador Retriever Rescue of Florida. He had been abandoned at a house in a rural county and was undergoing treatment for heartworms. He was mellow and acted older than his years. We called him Mack because he seemed rugged and manly like the Marlboro man, if he had been a truck driver instead of a nicotine-addicted cowboy peddling cigarettes from a horse. Besides, at 94 pounds, our new dog bore a certain likeness to a Mack truck.
During our first few months together, Mack wouldn’t go in the backyard alone, so I often sat outside with him for long stretches of time. He didn’t feel well because he was still recovering from heartworm treatment, so mostly we just sat together in that empty space of contemplation. I often found myself looking over at where we had buried our beloved family dog and wondered if Mack was also thinking about someone he loved and lost.
It felt as if we were starting in the middle; in that tenuous space where we think we should know more than we do about ourselves and each other. His formative years were shaped by someone else. There are gaps and details of his previous life that remain a mystery. It didn’t bother me to think that maybe he missed his other family. I miss having young children and the raucous black dog that fit so perfectly amid our pack. I didn’t need him to be the family dog or the best dog ever; life already blessed me with that. When we found out Mack needed knee surgery and has hip dysplasia, I didn’t lament his imperfections. My body had already shown me its share of its own. Read more
I love my dog. I know that’s about as interesting as one of those stick family decals on the rear window of a mini-van. It even sounds like something you might read on a bumper sticker.