Suddenly this year, gray hairs are showing up on his mug.
I've been through this more times than I want to count, with old dogs named Cecil, Cleo, Jake, Woody, Sam, Jack, and now Mitch.
I spent years telling every one of them, every darned one,“You're the best dog in the whole world.”
After putting each one to sleep – and that's the kind term I insist on using for losing a best friend – I feel guilty telling the next one he's the best. So I hold off a while, but always come to believe that, no, this one is the best ever, too.
I have an old friend in Nebraska who adopts abandoned dogs. She usually has two or three, and the windows of her mini-van are always dotted with nose prints. I kid her about it.
She'd come into work some days and be kind of quiet. Didn't take long to figure out that she'd had to put one of her old friends to sleep. Within weeks, though, some other old dog would need her, and she'd take him home, too. She's a saint.
It's the “near the end” part that has me looking over my shoulder lately. Because if you believe the actuarial tables, my next Lab – if there is one – could well outlive his owner.
Don't get me wrong. Our Mitch seems to have plenty of good miles left in him, maybe more than me. We've kept the weight off him – he hovers around 75 pounds – and his hind legs seem to be holding up. (Better than mine.)
We don't know how old he is, because we got him from the pound up in Torrington. Probably around 12. And we didn't know his name, because he was on the lam between Mitchell, Nebraska, and Torrington, Wyoming, when nabbed by Animal Control.
So we call him Mitch.
Problem is, these older Labs seem to end up riddled with cancer. The one before Mitch was chasing rabbits on a Friday afternoon, but then couldn't get out of his bed on Saturday morning. Nothing we could do but put him to sleep. My last words to him: “We love you, Jack.”
Ever since I was in junior high, there has been a black Labrador Retriever in the family. The first one, Cecil, was named after one of my dad's bosses. (Long story.) Cecil had a lot of girlfriends, and lived to a ripe old age, moving with my parents when they retired from Chicago to a little farm in Wisconsin.
My dad loved that dog. My mother said when they put him to sleep, it was the only time she saw my father cry.
When I was on my own, I had a black Lab named Jake who was born at the Blind Camp up on Casper Mountain. Jake saved two lives one night up in the Snowy Range. We were building my cabin, staying in a tent. One rainy evening, we left a propane lantern going in the tent. The rain sealed off the canvas, and the exhaust from the lantern filled the tent.
I was just turning in (after a few beers) when Jake, sleeping on the floor, let out the most mournful wail I'd ever heard. “Get up!” I yelled at my friend, who was just drifting off. “There's no air in here!” We scooped up Jake and sat in my pickup for a while, until he came out of it. A hero. From then on he got a little beer in his dinner bowl, as a reward.
One of the joys of my life has been morning and afternoon walks with my best Labrador friends, in town on a leash, and off lead at the land we have now. I sit on an old bench, Mitch leaning against my leg, and I say, “Train's coming, Mitch!” Best way I know to keep an exercise routine going is an old dog, eagerly waiting for “time to go out.”
Not sure I should have another dog after Mitch goes off to his reward, though. My wife has let it be known that it will be time to travel more, without worrying about a dog. Easier to decide at the last minute to go see the granddaughters in Gillette.
So the question remains. Should a guy who is 75 forgo the joy of two walks a day with an old friend who is always excited to see me, who never complains, and who rests his furry chin on my thigh when I sit on my old bench?
One of our old dogs, Jack, belonged to a man in Cheyenne who was in his 90s. He would see Jack in his neighbor's back yard, and befriended him. But then his neighbor moved away, and she took Jack out to the Cheyenne pound, figuring she couldn't take him with.
And you know what that old man did? He went right out to the pound, adopted Jack and brought him home. The fact that the old man was in his 90s didn't factor into his decision at all.
And when the old man died, we heard about Jack from his family, and we adopted Jack. (He was the big Lab that chased rabbits on a Friday afternoon, and couldn't get out of bed on Saturday morning.)
Whether there's another black Lab in my future is up in the air right now. My wife gets to enjoy retirement, too. And I know a lot of oldsters who have rung down the curtain on their dog-owning years in favor of being able to pack up and go, without worrying about what to do with the family dog.
But, the loss...
This could take some getting used to.
After a lifetime of black Labs, I'm having trouble imagining what it would be like out at that old bench, without my best friend.
Without an old dog to tell, “You're the best dog in the whole world!”
Dave Simpson can be contacted at DaveSimpson145@hotmail.com
