Big, Big Pawprints to Fill

Argos, the grey-muzzled dog of my heart, on his last day.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

I love dogs.  I am, admittedly, a little bit crazy about them.  I have to admit being more sentimental about dogs than I am, really, about anything else.  They melt me.  I can't look at a dog with a white muzzle without getting tears in my eyes.  I have a stack of unfinished dog books on my shelf because all good dog books end with the dog's death and I can't read on, knowing that the dog is going to die. 

It tears me apart when my own dogs go.  They're the better part of me, those dogs.  I console myself that I give them the best part of myself -- the patience, kindness and unconditional adoration I rarely seem to muster for the people around me.  I tell myself that as devastating as it is to lose a beloved wag-tail friend, it allows me the opportunity to bring yet another such special soul into my home.  The only up-side of a dog's unfairly short lifespan is that it gives us the chance to know more amazing dogs.

Two weeks ago, I said goodbye to the dog of my heart, Argos.  Barely on the heels of losing K8 the Gr8, my Papillon, Argos left.  He was eleven, a good number of years for a dog so big -- well over 100 pounds of big, and not a soft, TV-watching 100+ pounds, but a hundred pounds of muscle and athleticism.  Bigger still was his loving, gentle heart.  I may never meet another dog as kind, sweet and gentle as Argos. 

I picked Argos out from a litter of black Labs from the yellow Lab owned by my friend Adrianne.  It was an intentional breeding by an unintended male dog:  Adrianne's blonde beauty, Maggie, had already been bred to a stout, finely bred field-trial champion -- another yellow Lab.  I already had Emma, from Maggie's previous litter, and wasn't looking to get another dog at the moment.  Still, I'd loved black Labs since childhood.  Adrianne convinced me to come choose one.  She had one in mind for me:  a spunky pup with a white steer-head shape on his chest.  She called him "T-Bone." He immediately attacked my shoelaces.  

As I admired the litter of pure puppy mayhem, I noticed one solemn-looking pup sitting before me, almost unmoving among the black mass of activity.  A solid black pup, he stared at me with the most amazing, deep, loving eyes.  As the others yipped and play-growled and bounced, my Argos just studied me with quiet affection.  I lifted him up and said, "This is the one I want!"  Adrianne replied, aghast, "But that's just Plain Black Wrapper!"  No, I said, it's Argos.

I named him for loyalty and devotion.  In Homer's Odyssey, Odysseus travels for 20 years before returning home.  After his lengthy adventures, he had heard that his wife, Penelope, was entertaining other men and had been disloyal.  Intent on learning the truth, he disguised himself as a wanderer -- a transient.  As he approached the door of his own estate, he was turned away by his own servant, who did not recognize him.  Beside the entryway, lying near death where he'd been cast away on a pile of manure, was his favorite hunting dog, Argos.  That Argos -- unlike the humans in his life -- recognized Odysseus and feebly wagged his tail before dying.  

Loyalty.  That was my own Argos.  During my cancer treatments, I had to hurry home and lie down for an hour afterwards.  Argos lay beside me on the bed, his huge head resting on my stomach, chest or hips.  He knew.  Good dogs do.

Argos contracted cancer, himself, after that.  We had a large tumor removed from his side and he bore a great scar as a reminder of the incision and the drainage plugs.  Still, he stayed with me.  Still just a young dog, he then developed spondylosis.  His spine fused in three places and his ever-wagging tail fused to where it was a stiff, hard appendage -- and still it wagged.  I called it "the very lethal tail" as he clubbed us with it.  

When hungry, he picked up his rubber bowl and carried it around, dropping it before me -- usually on my feet.  He was always, always hungry, that dog.  He had a special fondness for carrots and I often bought them by the 20-pound bag.  Inevitably, a fellow shopper would ask, "Is that for your horses?"  "I do have horses," I'd reply, "but the horses don't get as many as my black Lab."  Argos would sit in front of the refrigerator for vast lengths of time -- twenty, thirty minutes -- staring at it.  I'd leave the room and return; still, he'd sit, waiting for the door to open and yield a carrot.  Those lab eyes always worked.  Just as that stare had convinced me to bring him home, he'd get a carrot every time.  

Argos loved belly rubs, too.  He'd roll over and grin his appealing, mirthful grin.  Who could resist giving him a belly rub, that lethal tail wagging madly?  And when we'd be having a conversation around him, he'd lie motionless, his eyes closed, but he never missed a word -- when something struck him as funny, he'd start that wagging from even across the room.  I'd ask, "Is that funny, Arg?" and the tail would go into overtime.  

He had a terrific sense of humor, that dog.  At night, he'd go out to do his business.  I'd open the door for his return and hold his collar for a moment and then we'd race to the bed.  He loved to get there first and jump into my place, his head on my pillow, and immediately close his eyes -- pretending to be either dead or sleeping.  I'd tug on him, push him, yell at him -- and there he stayed, unmoving.  It was his own special joke.  Only by giving him the animal crackers we kept on the dresser could we get him to move.

Argos, laughing at life.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

Arg sneezed on command, retrieved his bowl whenever asked, and could catch a biscuit placed on his nose.  He could hear a crumb drop from 40 paces and find it wherever it had fallen.  He adored babies of all sorts -- from human babies (whereas I am baby-intolerant) to foals and puppies.  Every time a mare foaled, I'd take Arg to the barn where he'd wag madly and crawl under the rails to sniff the foal all over.  Argos was as proud of those foals as if he'd fathered them.  When I brought home kittens in his final year, his life was complete.  No dog ever adored kittens like Argos did.  The big dog who always followed his nose -- often in the opposite direction of where I stood calling him to come -- would run, bouncing as well as he could with his crippled up back, when I'd yell, "Argos!  Kitties, kitties, kitties!"  No dog -- no living creature -- ever had such infectious happiness.

He loved his rambles.  I'd let him out the front door and call out, "Is there a ramblin' dog around?" And Argos would start to bounce and lope toward the trail, pure exuberance.  Off we'd go, Argos making whuff-whuff noises as his big nose took in every smell the trail had to offer.  Earl the McNab would race ahead and stop, looking back, making sure we were all coming.

Thanks to Duralactin, Cosequin and Adequan, Argos' spondylosis remained at bay for several years, despite the occasional painful flare-up.  Two weeks ago, our little family -- me, my husband, two kitties, Earl the McNab and Argos the Lab -- sat outside, enjoying the warm spring afternoon.  A breeze rocked us on the hammock; Argos sat in the pineapple weed beside us, Earl nearby.  He'd been doing well and had been active and happy in recent weeks, although his age and condition had been deteriorating steadily.  He'd been playful and had gone on regular rambles around the property -- but he voluntarily cut his rambles down and quit halfway through, rather than making the full perimeter loop.  We knew something was starting to change.  I said to my husband, "I hope that, when Argos' last day comes, he gets to spend it just like this, surrounded by his family in the sun."  

I didn't know that it was prophetic.  That Saturday afternoon, unexpectedly, Argos suddenly declined.  I will spare you, dog lover that you may be, the details that still break my heart.  Suffice it to say that the next morning, we said goodbye to Argos, the dog of my heart.  As the veterinarian inserted the IV into his leg, he licked her face and wagged that lethal tail.  

Several months ago, when we lost our 13-year old Papillon, K8 the Gr8, we got onto a waiting list for a female McNab puppy.  I had always hoped she would arrive before Argos left us.  He would have found such joy in meeting a new puppy.  He would have much wisdom to share with her:  wag often.  Look for reasons to grab happy.  Never lose your sense of humor.  Steal a kiss from your favorite human whenever they lean in your direction.  Wait patiently, and the carrot will come to you.  Follow your heart (and your nose).  

Molly McNab joined our family exactly two weeks after Argos left it.  She has only Earl, her McNab "brother," to terrorize -- and terrorize she does.  I've named her after Molly, my Dalmatian of many years ago, who had the same gentle old soul that Argos had.  Our little Molly is putting sloppy kisses on the wounds Argos and Kate have left in their passing.  She is a rambunctious, happy, wag-ful little girl.  She has big, big paw prints to fill -- but I think she's up to the task.  

Just as we make room for another when we depart, so do our beloved dogs.  They leave us too soon, but another joins us and helps fill the inevitable void.  Meet Molly McNab:  we're so happy to have her.

Molly McNab Miller
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

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