“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.”
– Agnes Sligh Turnbull
It started as a “normal” Monday morning – the alarm clock screaming at an ungodly hour, interrupting a soothing snorefest to signal the start of another wild week at work.
The talking heads on CNN, determined to drown out the coffeemaker, dishwasher and shower, are going on about politics, the plunging U.S. economy and the world of corporate deeds gone wrong.
One expert called it “Black Monday,” which seemed appropriate – it was 14 years ago to the day that our first home in Abbotsford became a B&E statistic, with thieves helping themselves to stuff that reflected years of hard work and priceless memories.
My significant other, crushed by this despicable violation, couldn’t speak to the officers as they inspected our ransacked home.
“What did they say?” she asked after the tears subsided.
“We need to trim the hedges, install an alarm – and get a dog,” I said, not confessing for several years that I tacked on that last bit about the dog to fulfil a boyhood dream.
Jocko, a lovable black lab also born on that otherwise terrible day, would become our “protector” once his mom was done feeding her litter.
For the first two years Jocko “patrolled” our home, he did more freakin’ damage to the place than any thief could manage. Pillows, shoes, carpets, hats, gloves and toilet paper all became “chew toys” for the bored mutt while we were at work. Forgiveness became a mandatory trait once our furry friend arrived. The love part was easy.
Fast forward to last Monday when Jocko, celebrating his 14th birthday and showing signs of slowing down, was begging me to share breakfast, despite a large dog dish behind him overflowing with “senior” kibbles.
“The plan” was to get home after work, take him to the park and spoil him rotten. He was, afterall, the “baby” of a DINKs household, a dog that brought joy to so many for so long, ironically with his rendition of Happy Birthday. Many a voicemail carried his happy tune. He was “Dog Juan” to the ladies, “J-Dogg” to the guys.
After a long day at work, highlighted by iconic Mayor George Ferguson’s emotional departure from civic politics, I rushed home. Jocko, who always waited by the back door to greet me, was “in position” for his usual hugs and kisses. We cuddled, played and “shared” a late-night treat. Then he went outside to sniff the same grass he has sniffed every night and take care of business.
Taking longer than usual, I went out to check on him. He was sprawled out on the lawn, his breathing racing out of control and he was crying, something I had never seen this happy dog do in 14 years. I panicked, grabbed his blanket and we rushed him to an animal hospital, a five-minute ride that seemed to take forever. I prayed. I cried. I hugged him and rubbed his ears. I went numb as I whined this was no way for our beautiful dog to spend his birthday.
I placed him on the vet’s table, begged the doctor to just make it all OK. We were escorted to a small room and promised to be updated with news that we knew would break our hearts. The vet returned moments later to a tsunami of tears, informing us Jocko’s health had failed.
My tear-filled wife went to take care of the paperwork, while I struggled to find the energy to go home empty-handed. I couldn’t sleep or stop crying – and still haven’t.
If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where mine did.
Rest in peace, Jocko!
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