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It's been five years this week that we let our dog go. This is the column I wrote shortly afterwards.
Dylan, the coal black Retriever, died a couple of weeks ago. He was over 13 years old, but he hadn't lost much of his step. Then he got real sick in a real hurry. We barely had time to tell him goodbye.
We got Dylan when he was a day shy of five weeks. My wife and sons begged for a puppy.
They had to beg because I was never a dog person and was adamant that we not have a pet. I grew up with a fear of dogs, then developed a plain dislike for them.
You might understand how pathetic it is to see two small boys and their mother begging. You finally cave in just so they'll stop following you all over, crawling on their knees and wringing their hands.
It was embarrassing. Especially at the supermarket.
So I gave them the green light and they located a gentleman across town who was giving away puppies and they brought one home. He was a tiny, trembling ball of fur so black you could barely see his eyes. They named him Dylan.
"How did you happen to choose this one?" I asked my youngest son, who was six at the time.
"I didn't choose him," Ryan said. "He chose me."
Then Dylan chose me.
We became friends and it lasted a long, long time.
I could tell you all kinds of stories about Dylan, but most of them would mimic stories you've heard time and again from other dog owners. It's like the proud father who never stops showing wallet pictures of his kids. There's no point in being overbearing about my dog and his canine antics.
Besides, I made Dylan famous in the pages of the Sunday edition of our local newspaper. I wrote a weekly column for the paper for nearly ten years and many, many times I wrote about my dog. Folks in this community got acquainted with Dylan.
In those newspaper stories, Dylan was always smarter than me. He was philosophical and wise. He spoke a language I understood and he drank beer.
I may have stretched the truth in those columns, however. Although, he really did like beer and in some respects he really was a hell of a lot smarter than me.
Spring and summer with Dylan were my favorite times. I would spend a lot of time in the back yard. He was always perched next to my lawn chair. I could sit there and pet him for hours. He would let me.
Dylan slept in the garage in his big pet carrier. I let him out every morning. I let him in every night. Over 13 years...that's a lot of mornings and a lot of nights.
My oldest son, Adam, fed Dylan every afternoon right on schedule. Over 13 years...that was a lot of afternoons.
I still have to remind myself not to go out to the garage in the morning and let the dog out.
Some afternoons, Adam still catches himself on his way to fill Dylan's supper dish.
My wife still glances out the kitchen window looking to see if Dylan is curled up in his favorite spot along the shady side of the garage.
On his way to work in the mornings, Ryan still stops at the gate and looks twice before he realizes that Dylan isn't going to come bounding up for a goodbye hug.
Dylan's water bowl and supper dish, his leash and his rubber ball, along with his big pet carrier, are all in the garage.
It's the back yard that's so empty.
Copyright 2006 Wendel Potter
