All Dogs Go To Heaven

I was raised in a family of five. There was my mom, my dad, me, my younger sister and Buffy. Buffy was a glorious Airedale, medium sized, dressed in a coat of curly beige fur, a black saddle, and velvety soft ears that flopped down. She was a constant companion to my sister and me. When she died, it was sad and one of my first real losses I remember. My parents couldn’t seem to be in a house without a dog, and consequently they always had one.

My husband was raised in a family where the desire for a pet was a mystery. Although considered cute, dogs were viewed as a nuisance when kept indoors.

It didn’t take long after we were married that I started to campaign for a dog. We had a home with a nice yard, and my husband often travelled for work. I argued a dog would make me feel more secure, help to keep me company during his long and frequent trips away. But no matter how often I asked, he kept a firm position of not wanting the hassle of a dog.

Eventually though, he grew tired of listening to my constant pleas and relented. We found a dog up for adoption, a two year old Westie named Kobe (he was named after the famous athlete Kobe Bryant, but not being a sports fan, my husband preferred to think it was after the city in Japan).

Kobe was a darling pup, short legged with perfectly shaped triangle ears that stood at constant attention; he was snowy white with a faint dirty hued stripe down his back, his beard tinged with rust. He communicated a multitude of moods with expressive brown eyes.

The first day we brought him home I delighted in the sounds of him that quickly became common place in our home; the quick clicks of nails on hard floors, of padded paws on rugs, the hearty way he lapped up water from his dish, his incessant barking at nothing in particular. At night he slept beside our bed and I was shocked to learn another grown man had joined us, deep grunts and wheezy sighs rose up all night from that small body, and I would joke with my husband who made more noise, him or Kobe.

Kobe had a great dog life in the beginning. We took him everywhere; obedience school (he had issues with big dogs and we wanted him to learn skills to feel secure), dog parks (to socialize him with other dogs, and practice his new skills he had learned in dog school), walks around lake Calhoun where he would be admired and commented on by strangers.

He was the best groomed dog in our neighborhood, with the exception of the one time my husband brought him in and Kobe received what I would describe as a military buzz cut. Being a terrier, Kobe was occupied by his genetic obsession to chase squirrels in our back yard, he frolicked back and forth, never growing tired of being sentry to our borders.

As the years passed, children came. The first baby allowed a similar lifestyle for a while, but when the second one arrived, Kobe became last on the totem pole. I was immersed in feedings and diapers, laundry and nap schedules, tantrums and doctor appointments. He quietly grew older, the prance in his walk slowed down, he could often be found lying in a pool of sunshine, only moving to cross the house in accordance, a living Sundial.

Although less active, and not as central to our thoughts, he still remained a constant in our lives. Greeting my husband at the door, underfoot in the kitchen as I cooked, a fixture in our yard. Kobe was a comfort and presence that was relied upon a hundred different times a day.

I have taught my children since they’ve been small, that everything living dies someday. It’s the way of the world and how things should be.

Kobe died over Labor Day weekend. Though he was old and lived a very good dog life, his absence is something I have still not come to terms with fully. I have lost dogs in my youth. I find having complete ownership of one, brings a new dimension to the experience.

Perhaps the loss is felt more because I was at home raising children for all those years with Kobe alongside me, soothing what was often a difficult time. Or maybe because I know we won’t ever have another dog (this was my one time shot). Or maybe it’s because anyone who has ever owned and loved a pet knows they alone have the ability to fulfill a universal human need in a pure and complete way; they give us unconditional love.

The emptiness of the house is acute and weighted; I am biding my time until the silence becomes a sign of normalcy rather than loss. I catch myself teary-eyed when I’m alone, embarrassed by my own grief.

And sometimes, I see him out of the corner of my eye, sprawled out like a cat in a square of sun on the floor, I catch a whiff of his earthy smell, a peculiar blend of dried leaves and young grass, but when I turn to look at him-- he simply disappears.