Our Boy

We buried our handsome, pup of a friend, Toby this morning. He died early this morning while I sat beside him whispering love and doing the only thing I knew to do, stroking his head. He went quickly, an answered prayer. He hadn't been sick and his last day was a good one. He liked cool fronts and while I worked, he spent most of the day sitting in the sun, his nose to the wind. I snuck him extra treats after dinner, and then he chewed on his bone and snuggled on the couch with Stan. It was a perfect day as far as Toby was concerned. He didn't need much.

I heard someone say one time that they wanted to be the kind of person their dog thinks they are. That's how I feel about Toby. I always wanted to know what was going on behind those soulful brown eyes when he sat in my lap and held my gaze. He loved us with his entire being. Just being with us was enough for him. Beside us or in our laps was his favorite place because we were his favorite people. He showed us what contentment looked like. And tail wagging joy. He was the embodiment of faithfulness.

I found myself saying twice today "I know he was just dog." I'm not going to say that anymore. He wasn't just a dog. As Stan said this morning, bent over Toby's grave, "He was our boy." He was Our Boy. And we were his people. He showed us so on many occasions. When I was in bed recuperating from surgery and he pulled his own bed into the room and held vigil by my bedside. When I found myself a crumpled mess on the kitchen floor, crying, my hopes for children dashed with a simple phone call, Our Boy was there. He came up alongside me and leaned into my grief. Literally. He was there after Stan's surgeries, and a long recovery from a staph infection. Our Boy was there. Always faithful.

I do want to be the kind of person my dog thought I was. Our Boy thought I was kind. And patient. Steadfast and ever loving. And maybe I am. But if I am, it is because I had fifteen beautiful years to learn from him. The love of a dog made me a better human. But he wasn't just a dog. He was Our Boy. And we will miss him always.

Farewell, Sweet Toby.

 

Nose kisses

Some days I wonder who I am. Who is this crazy woman wielding a spatula, screaming at her dog to "STOP BARKING AT ME?" Screaming in a way that makes the one other human and the one other animal in the house cease movement and look at her as if a crazed stranger had taken free reign of the kitchen and body of a previously sane woman. A woman who has a personal code against raising her voice in anger against humans or animals. A woman who is ashamed that she can suddenly have so little control over her emotions. A woman who says "I'm sorry," turning back to the dinner she is preparing in tears and shame.

And then there is that little barking dog who not even thirty minutes later stands in the doorway sneaking shy peeks at the woman. There are smooching noises. A wagging wisp of a tail. Nose kisses and forgiveness.

Sometimes our broken humanity comes crashing down on us like that. And we need little barking dogs to remind us we are human, to offer us the forgiveness we don't always allow ourselves.