There is lot that comes with the gift of a fine dog. Care and feeding. Training and enjoying. Loving and learning. Making room. Making time. Making memories. Gathering stories. And an invoice for a broken heart that will inevitably come due. The better the dog, the bigger the bill.
Ours arrived last week.
Cotton came to us nine years ago at the request of some good friends when it turned out a hundred plus pound Pyrenees had outgrown their son’s college lifestyle. We had a big yard and another dog that could use a friend, so we took him in. More accurately, he took us in. We had no way of knowing the depth and capacity of his old soul to make us so known and so loved. We learned soon enough.
First the obvious, Cotton was a beautiful animal, large, distinctive, impressive and inviting. A noble beast bred to care for flocks and herds, he adopted us as his own. Since we needed little in the way of physical protection, he cared for us and others in different ways. I don’t know how, but he always knew just what that was. Sometimes it was in amusing us. Asking for a walk when he thought we needed it. Greeting our friends with his special nudge. He was both pillow and steed for our grands and a gentle giant for any kid that wanted to pet our “polar bear dog.” I still remember the voice and smile of a young British boy who shyly asked, “May I please stroke your dog?” He brought tidings of comfort and joy, whichever the moment called for.
I cannot explain it – or prove it for that matter – but Cotton had the gift of sensing how people felt and having a ministry of presence in the moment. A certifiable, though uncertified therapy dog. One day in St. Pete’s Northshore Park, he pulled us thirty yards out of the way toward a lady sitting alone on a bench. (When a dog as large as Cotton insists, you go where he wants to go.) He eased up to her as she quietly began to pet him. No words were spoken until she broke silence saying, “Thank you for letting me love on your dog. My husband died two days ago, and this is the first time I have come to the park alone.” He knew.
On another occasion I got a call from a nice fellow who got my number off the collar of a big white dog. We were eating dinner out with visiting friends but hustled over to reclaim our wayward son – still with no idea how he got out of our yard. Turns out he was inside a house on the street behind ours, at a wake. Smiling. They kind of hated to see him leave as he had made himself at home, spreading love, care and his white hair all over folks dressed in black. That was Cotton.
His walks took twice as long to go half as far. Trips to the farmer’s market in St. Pete and Murfreesboro were all morning affairs when Cotton came along. Everybody had to greet him – and he felt obliged to greet everybody. He all but talked with his eyes and the tilt of his massive head. Everybody loved Cotton.
Not one to run away, he did have a mischievous habit of wandering off when we weren’t looking. He would just take himself for a walk to visit folks down the street – always the friendly ones. Once we found him lying beside a pool where a group of men were working. Another time he tripped the video doorbell of some church members a neighborhood over. Funny how he did that.
I know it is natural to think one’s particular pet to be uniquely special compared to all others. But trust me when I say this, Cotton was. Patient. Playful. Purposeful. Pleasing. He loved to lay beside the fence and bark out to those passing by. And on the rare occasion he did not “cotton to” a particular dog or person, I figured he knew something I didn’t. (And that was usually born out.) When company stayed over, he slept just outside the guest room door. It was never about him – that would be his young charge Arlo – but all about those in his care. And the center of that large circle was the two of us. We were so blessed.
In the spring we began to see and acknowledge signs of decline. In late August, we took him to the corner of a pasture where a friend kindly said we could bury him. That day he walked the perimeter, pranced about a bit and then looked at us with those ancient eyes as if to say, “This will be just fine.” The old boy surprised us by rallying through the fall, but on the day after the first snow, we knew it was time to say goodbye. He was ready, even if we were not.
So, last Wednesday afternoon we sat beside him on a veterinarian’s floor to offer the last measure of kindness we could. Tears were plentiful. By the light of the moon, we returned him to the spot in the field we were graciously afforded; the perfect place for this great Pyrenees to stand watch.
When I think of the many sacred steps I am invited to take with others, it seems silly to carry on so over the death of a dog. Such should not so shake a grounded soul. But it has. And as one who measures his life by the meaningful relationships shared with the faithful, the family, friends, and our furry fellows, I just thought you all should know.
Thank you for understanding. If Cotton were here, I know he would find a way to tell me he did too.