The Old Black Dog

by Brooke McLaughlin Mitchell

Fourteenth birthdays are generally not considered to be a big deal; they don’t mark the beginning of our teenage years or our entrance into “adulthood.” But this all changes when we start talking about the birthday of an old black lab. And today, my old black lab turns fourteen.

This birthday is harder than her others, although I have been achingly aware of her mortality for several years now. Labs simply–statistically–do not live into their teenage years. And now we have hit fourteen.

She was a gift to me when she was two years old. I was in my first semester of my new position, and, while I was adjusting well, I was still a little lonely. Dosi was never supposed to be a pet; she was supposed to go into service for Canine Companions for Independence (check out the organization at http://www.cci.org). Unfortunately, a predisposition to hip dysplasia (that has never manifested itself) resulted in her removal from the program, and she ended up with me through the generosity of my aunt and uncle who were her puppy trainers.

She is a special dog, and not in the way that every precious dog is special. She has a truly superlative gentleness and quietness  to her. I used to feel some guilt that she came to me rather than going into service. But I have gotten over this. I know that she ended up serving exactly where she needed to serve. For a long time, she was my constant companion. If I ran errands, she rode with me as long as the temperature was cool enough for her to wait in the car. She walked miles and miles with me. She curled up with me and kept me warm when I was foolish enough to buy an old house that I couldn’t afford to heat properly. She soaked up my tears in that terrible, lonely winter before I met my great love.

And she has adapted. When my husband came into my life, there were miles and miles of travel–not to mention that beagle who came to rule our roost. When we got married, she got kicked out of the bed. The beagle bossed his way to alpha dog. Then came the cats. Then the foster dog. Then the baby, who seems to think that she is a horse–and she lets him crawl all over her without complaint. Through all of this, as her position in our house has shifted over and over again, she has remained that faithful companion with those big, understanding eyes and those velvety ears that can calm almost any anxiety.

Three times I have thought that I was going to lose her. The first, my roommate at the time let her out to go to the bathroom and did not stay with her. I have rarely felt the kind of fear that I felt as I sped home that day, fearing that I would see her on the side of the road. When my roommate opened the front door and my sweet dog walked out, I collapsed on the porch in relief–and this is not hyperbole. The second time, she developed a mysterious illness, then just as quickly snapped out of it right before we started to do all kinds of scary tests; we still don’t know what was wrong. Then, six weeks ago, we found a nasty growth on her toe. A month ago, her toe was amputated to get rid of the cancer that had eaten the bone of her toe and swollen it to the point of constant pain. I had the scary conversations with the vet about putting a dog of her age under anesthesia. I was sick with worry, but I had no choice. She couldn’t live with that growth, and it was growing fast. But true to everything we have ever seen from her, she popped right back from the operation like she was a young pup.

And now we are at fourteen.

This number looms large partly because I have watched other beloved labs leave us at this time; I have watched two dear friends each mourn their treasured companions during this year of their lives.

But for now, I still have my sweet friend with her sweet grey muzzle. She cannot hear so well anymore, and the steps give her some trouble, but she’s doing pretty well. And I am so grateful.

Happy birthday, old girl. Give us another great year.