By Amy Palumbo-LeClaire

I’m getting attached. I’ve fallen in love with a spunky puppy who’s turned three and stolen my heart. I’ve watched him learn how to swim, catch a frisbee on the fly, and study ants. I’ve admired the magnificent way he soars across a frozen pond, and skids freely while I holler his name. “Lewwwk! Come.” 

The emphatic tone of the command resonates. He freezes and spins back towards me. “Don’t worry, Momma! I was just exploring the winter lake!” He settles down at my feet, lifts his head high and brandishes a wolfish smile. “Life is so good.” I massage his ears and compliment him. “You’re the best boy, Luke. Thank you for listening. Mummy doesn’t want to lose you.”

It’s true. Luke is a big part of my life now. I don’t want to lose him.

A dog’s life is short. Dog parents sign up knowing this—even those who have experienced multiple passings. The joy of owning and sharing a life with a dog seems to supersede the pain of losing one. Nonetheless, the loss is nearly unbearable. Regardless of our dog’s age, we are never ready to say good-bye. 

Ten years is considered an average life span for a Golden, with some studies suggesting that a decade is considered generous. Luke laps a wedge of blueberry scone from the palm of my hand. He’s trying so hard to “be easy” these days. He lowers his head like a lamb’s while I pet him. “Maybe you can give me just one more piece to reinforce a learned habit.” 

Ten years? My pup is already three and we have so much more to accomplish. There are beaches and rivers and friendships to soak up. There are trails and bunnies and football games to follow. His gaze rests on the last piece of scone. Luke is unconcerned with the doom and gloom of his too-short life, or the fact that his mom will suffer a numbing, hollow pain, one redeemed only by strange, erratic dreams. What just happened? Where’s Luke? Oh, not this. My dog. Sigh. 

“You’re having a good day, aren’t you, Luke?” He lifts a paw to agree. “Every day is a good day when we’re together Momma.” Luke does not concentrate on suffering. He has people to see and places to go. That’s what got me thinking. 

Dogs Live in the Moment

Dogs naturally live every day as though it’s their last. Have you ever noticed how grateful a dog is to be a part of the simplest of routines?  “I GET TO COME ON A CAR RIDE WITH YOU!!!!” He barrels down the stairs when I give him the affirmative signal, the jingle of his leash and a high-pitched voice. “Luke can come to.” It doesn’t matter where we’re headed, but only that we are together. Traffic jams are simply an opportunity to see drivers up-close. 

“Hey, Mom—that lady is laughing at me.” I notice him tilt his head to the driver behind us. Indeed, her smile is lavish. I explain to him that adult drivers love to see dogs in cars. “The sight of a cute dog is a welcome surprise and respite from road rage. She’s not laughing at you, she’s just happy to see you, Luke.” His frozen stare becomes a smile. “If you think I’m cute, you ought to see my Daddy.”

Dogs Receive and Give Freely. 

In life, giving often feels better than receiving. The “giver” receives a surge of joy when presenting a gift to a loved one. “I thought of you when I saw that stuffed bunny on the shelf. I know how much you love to watch them in our yard, so I found you one. This brand is known for the longest chew time, too.” We pat ourselves on the back and glimmer with a giver’s high. Here’s the truth. A stranger could offer your dog a cardboard box and he will be just as happy to receive it. “I love boxes!! Especially square Amazon boxes!! Let me at it!”  The box will move and bounce like a live cartoon while he wrestles. Dogs are fully and naturally appreciative. They give and receive freely.

In a dog’s world, giving is natural. Receiving matters just as much.

Our dogs provide us with intangible gifts, the stuff money can’t buy. They give us their time, companionship, unconditional love, loyalty and affection. We give back all of this, along with a forever home. When we are sad, we need to think about all that our dogs have received. Like them, we need to be grateful. 

Where would Luke be without all that he’s received from me? What if a different family with a different lifestyle didn’t realize that he has a mild case of claustrophobia? “These people are cool, but these four walls are getting old.” What if he sat crated all day long? He’d scratch at the latch, I imagine, and find a way to free himself. Then, like an episode from Lassie, he’d run and run along back roads and find his way back to me. “Luke!! I missed you so much!” We’d roll around on the ground like a pair of fools.

Right now, I don’t have to miss Luke or worry about the future. I have today. We have today! He curls up on his bed like a fox, tail wrapped around his mouth. “Love you, Luke.” I collapse by his bedside and snuggle for a few moments. Then I fluff up his blankets on the floor, in case he wants to change positions throughout the night. 

Luke will receive rich and priceless gifts from me each day, until he’s ready for his last. Life is too short for my gloom. We will stay blessed by a life lived out loud—and with a potent kind of love. (I still pray that this meatball will reach a solid nineteen). 

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