Rocky's Crepe

Juliette and puppy Rocky, December 1998

I'll come out and say it. I don't quite trust people who don't like dogs. This is an ugly truth I've hidden for years; me, of all people, who doesn't know a stranger. Of course, it isn't that I don't like people who don't like dogs...it's just that non-dog people and I will almost always do fine on the surface but not on a deeper level that requires a bit more of something. Emotion? Compassion? I'm not sure but whatever it is, dog appreciation is a relationship indicator for me, much like a barometer is an indicator of the weather.

This is one of the many things I learned from one Rocky Balboa Mudd, the furry guy who padded into our lives, all spittle and fur and licks, in October of 1998, and died peacefully in my arms last month, as I choked back the tears.

There's no point in writing a doggy obituary here, although I've tried to do it countless times. Better writers like Anna Quindlen penned one of my favorite dog essays of all time, called "Good Dog, Beau. Stay," and there's "Marley and Me," which had me sobbing so loudly on the beach last year that my kids walked away in embarrassment. (Unsolicited advice: Skip the movie and read the book...but perhaps not in a public place, like the beach.) Yes, anything I could say has been said before, including "What I Learned From My Dog," variations of which have been shared all over the world.

At this point, those of you who don't care for dogs won't be able to close this post fast enough. I understand. Us dog people can be pretty odd. We exchange fur balls, chewed furniture, backyard poop and overturned trash cans for slobbery, tail-wagging, face-licking love. Many people call it loyalty, but I think that loyalty is the result of love--sheer, happy, unadulterated, running from one side of the kitchen to the other and jumping up and down love. Like a nectar of the Gods, this love, once experienced, is hard to give up. Even I have occasionally scratched my head when friends have paid thousands in canine chemotherapy or purchased those strange wheel devices for an elderly furry companion who can no longer use his legs. But I've never asked why, because I know why. Us dog people, we all know why.

There comes a point, though, where the compassion required for owning and loving a dog is the same compassion from which we must draw to make a final, humane decision. In his book "Me Talk Pretty One Day," humorist David Sedaris observed upon the death of his cat: ..."with the death of a pet, there's always an urge to string black crepe over an entire ten or twenty-year period. The end of my safe college life, the end of my 30-inch waist, my faltering relationship with my first real boyfriend: I cried for it all and wondered why there were so few songs written about cats."

Indeed, Rocky came into our lives when Juliette was a toddler and Karenna was merely an idea on the horizon. He stood watch, head titled and eyes alert, during countless Halloween parties, poolside luaus and family suppers. He presided over the decorating and tear-down of 12 Christmas trees and managed to get himself on the front page of the Chronicle, held tight under the jacket of our then 12 year old son, Jeff, who is now a 24 year old young man. He chewed up grade school science experiments, ate socks by the bagful, slid across the kitchen table when our backs were turned and flew like the wind down the street whenever the door was left ajar. He was there when I came back, exhausted, from my father's funeral in Florida, and sat by my side. No words, no requests, just a nuzzle and a lick, which was enough.

If I close my eyes, I can see our girls running after him over the years, evolving from sticky-fingered tots to knee scraped elementary school children to, now, young ladies...all legs, laughter, and hair flying in the wind. Rocky's crepe, it seems, wraps itself tightly around the most significant memories of our lives. Or, as I'd like to think, Rocky's very existence made our memories more significant...including the most difficult one, in which each of our children went up to him one last time, patted his back and kissed his forehead, before that final trip to the vet.

Which brings me back to that trust thing. People who don't quite get a dog's love are just fine, I'm sure, but we're cut from different cloths and we always will be. I doubt they'd consider the old saying "Lord, make me be the person my dog thinks I am," as something of value. But I do.

Rocky, old boy, I hope I am the person you thought I was, and may I always strive to be that person in the future. Thanks for teaching me what a joy it is to be a dog person. Odd or not, this is a club I'll belong to for the rest of my life.

Juliette and our boy, March 2010.