A Conversation About A Dog And Heaven

Father’s Day, June 20th, 2021 I had to say goodbye to Mac.

I’ve had him since March 2007, adopted him and his brother Mace at the same time from the same litter.

March 2007

Back in September 2020, there was this conversation with my daughter, on having to explain this inevitability.

Edited to add on 07-6-21:

I finally have the mind and the heart to properly eulogize my own pet, Mac.

Mac was the runt of his litter, the seeker of attention. I named him Mac after my laptop, which at the time was black with a white Apple logo, since Mac was a black lab with a white blaze. His brother, I chose Mace as an homage to my love of Star Wars and the Mace Windu (who I maintain is alive) character. The other option of course being Lando, but “Mac and Mace” had a better sound to it.

Mac had the ability look you in the eye, and mean it. He had the most sensitive and yearning for connection gaze of any dog I have ever met. It was like he knew there was more to me, another creature, than just what he saw. His brother, only in moments was he like this, Mace was more here and now and accepting of here and now. Mac seemed to have been faced with an existential burden.

Mace was concerned with everything happening, Mac seemed to be curious as to why.

In their later years, Mac seemed to have become no longer burdened by the ‘why’. His worrisome gaze turned more into something more grounded and intentional as though I was all he had that made sense. I loved getting to be that for him. He was a constant interruption, he loved placing his head on my lap. If I didn’t move or only stared at him, he would nudge my hand, and if my hand was not close, he would whimper. Mac was amazingly adept at eye contact. A head scratch, and some meaningful petting would make him happy. He would lay down next to me and just be there.

In hindsight, prior to his passing I had noticed that he would be taking a bit longer to recover from his time outside, even routine potty breaks he would come in panting and take time to recover. Summer in Texas hadn’t really shown up yet, we were hitting low 90s, nothing to really create concern like July and August would. At 14, I’d come to terms that my time with them would be concluding sooner rather than later. Our most recent visit with the vet was that conversation where she said that my goal for them should be to keep it comfortable, and keep it normal. Easy to understand, hard to do without feeling sad.

I think I had hoped or imagined that the end would become something I could predict more accurately than that, but that wasn’t to be. I let Mac and Mace out during our lunch time, and when we returned from our neighborhood jaunt to the pool, Mace was his usual jogging self ready to come in. Mac, however, was in the grass, in one of his spots. My heart fell. I walked over to him eyes affixed to see if he was just snoozing as he is known to do, but I saw nothing. I reached him, I picked him up and absorbed the feeling of his lifeless body. I knew he was gone. I lost my puppy.

I placed him down on one of our chairs, and went inside to let my wife know. I called our vet and got their emergency clinic info. I made the arrangements to dispose of his body.

I cleaned him up a little bit, and placed him in my Jeep as comfortably as I could make him appear. I brought my kids to say ‘goodbye’ and my daughter cried. My son, not quite getting it, viewed him as a ‘see you later’. So I began my final drive with Mac.

When we reached the clinic, I went and sat with him in the back while we waited for techs to come. I cried and pet him for what I knew was going to be my final moments with him. We went inside, and they brought him back to me for one last viewing. I reminded him how good of a boy he is, and that I’ll have to remember life without him, and that I don’t want to.

I felt my heart release, and I conjured the ability to walk out and leave him forever. You never really can say ‘goodbye’ though, and so I said the best thing they can hear.

Good boy.

Good boy. A really good boy.

Updated on 07-12-21

Mace is my go-getter, my guard dog, the hyper-vigilant squirrel detector. Mac was my keeper. Mac never strayed away from me, and Mace never really strayed too far from Mac. Mac could read a room, he could read me. I jokingly tell my wife that Mace’s conscience died with Mac, but the reality is that Mace is all I have, and I’m all he has now. I’ve learned that Mace was the responsive one, where I thought it was his brother. His brother was Mace’s sin-eater, suspected of all the blame and absorbing all of the reprimands whether it was directed to him or not.

He and I have experienced a change in our dynamic. He knows I’m probably fine, but he’s anxious now more than ever. He won’t sit still unless I’m around. He still does his own thing and sits by himself away from the action, but every couple of minutes he pokes his head out and looks to find me. He sees me and disappears again. He comes around more often for pats on the head, he’s become more communicative. He’s becoming more like his brother.

Truth is, I’ll have to endure losing him eventually. Sooner, rather than later. Inevitably, I’ll have to eat my popcorn alone, and I’ll have no one to give pizza crusts to. In the bigger picture of life where he and his brother’s presence slowly diminish with their age, I look forward to and profoundly regret the freedom of not having to be their caretaker,.

Good boys. Really good boys.

For now, Mace gets every crust. He gets every piece of popcorn. He gets the gravy on food, the blessing and curse of surviving his brother. He’s a real trooper though, I worry that the dynamic of Where the Red Fern Grows will no longer be a literary reference, but a life experience. In a way, I’m grateful. In a way, I’m incredibly sad.

But, it is okay. It’s life, the beauty of dogs and their unwavering commitment to their humans. Fourteen years is a long life for them, and there’s solace knowing that it was fourteen years of my commitment to them, taking them to the vet, feeding them consistently, allowing them to remain indoors at night-time, and never far from me. If they knew any better, they’d know that they lived quite a blessed life, but alas, my gift to them was their ignorance, and it was my pleasure.