As a pup, Nellie charged down the path to greet me, mouth open, tongue dangling and both front paws airborne.
Broken of that, she’d charge halfway, then sit abruptly, ears back, eyes squinting, tail sweeping the ground behind her.
Then later, in full maturity, she would stay in place, an elegant, elderly golden retriever, stretched out across the front steps, limiting her greeting to a few thumps of her tail.
Now, after 13 and a half years, she’s gone, succumbing to age, kidney failure and a veterinarian’s needle. And while my wife and daughter are still relatively happy to see me coming down the path, I get the sense that the event is no longer the high point of anyone’s day.
I think what I’m going to miss most is the flash of recognition.
I don’t fool myself. I know she wasn’t pining for me all day. As soon as I was out of sight, some crumbs between the floorboards, a squirrel on the fence or the daily intrusion of the mail carrier were much more on her mind.
But when I came home, she knew who I was.
Some people have pets who don’t know them at all. Fish, for instance. Or lizards.
My sister has had a white rabbit who has had the run of the house for a decade. Marshmallow has hopped from room to room and has severed most of the power cords from the family’s electronic devices with his gnawing.
But, after all these years, he still looks shocked every day when my brother-in-law comes down for breakfast.
Nellie was the best dog I ever had, which in my family isn’t saying much.
Yes, she usually managed to eat the Halloween candy or someone’s chocolate bunny at Easter.
Yes, she jumped on the couch or our bed the second she thought we were out of the house.
Yes, in her old age, she developed an unhealthy interest in the neighbors’ garbage.
But from the first day we brought her home, a gangly year-old dynamo, she knew her name (even after we changed it from “Bubbles”) and came when she was called. No matter what she was doing, when you called her, she would stop, like she’d heard a bell ring, and run full speed back in your direction.
That connection we can have with a dog goes back over the centuries. They want to be with us.
Do you think a caveman climbed into a wolf’s lair to steal some puppies, thinking he might be able to teach one of them a few tricks?
No. Our dogs’ ancestors started following our ancestors, and the smarter dogs figured out how to get a few extra scraps by begging on their hind legs. They didn’t have to be tamed, they volunteered.
And why not? How many times did I look at Nellie, stretched out in a patch of sun while I was on my way to work, and wonder who had the better deal?
Her every need was taken care of, and all she had to do was treat me like a big shot when I came home.
In the last few months, her needs became more apparent. A blood test last summer showed her kidneys were barely functioning. She lost a lot of weight and most of her energy. She ate less and slept more.
I probably waited too long. I wanted one more flash of connection. My ideal came from the “Odyssey.”
After 19 years of war and calamity, Odysseus returns to his palace disguised as a beggar, recognized by no one but Argos, a neglected old dog, covered with ticks, lying on a dung heap.
“Now, as he perceived that Odysseus had come close to him, he wagged his tail, and laid both his ears back; only he no longer had the strength to move any closer to his master, who, watching him from a distance … secretly wiped a tear away.”
Odysseus left to confront his enemies, “but the doom of dark death now closed over the dog, Argos.”
Unfortunately, we don’t live in a heroic age and that didn’t happen at my house.
Dogs can’t see into the future, but we can, and it’s up to us to do something when we know that it’s the end.
This is when taking care of all of an animal’s needs takes on a much harder meaning.
How do you respond when you know that an important part of your life has tipped over her last trash can?
I knew it was the right thing to do, but what I would give today for just one more thump of that tail.
Greg Kesich is the editorial page editor. He can be contacted at 791-6481 or at: gkesich@pressherald.com
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