Two weeks ago, on Wednesday night, I hit the pavement for a purge for the first time in many, many years. It had been grey and raining all day - weather fitting for the circumstances. Like an entire city in mourning. I finally pushed off after the sun had set and headed to the river. And along the cold, black waters of the Charles, I searched for a rawness to numb the loss.
I ran next to a memory of my dog, Leo. It was autumn a few years ago and he was galloping along a leaf-covered path in Allandale Woods, breathing hard in sync with his stride. I placed myself running next to him in my memory so I could see the goofy grin that he always had on his face when he was panting. To stop the thought from destroying me, I pick up the pace.
I kick cold puddle water up against the back of my legs as I pass by the dock where only a few weeks prior, Leo made an attempt to jump into an ice-free but still freezing cold river. He looked up at me, into my eyes, as I put my arms around his broad chest to stop him, panted, and wiggled away to retreat to eating snowballs along the banks. What a little devil.
Dipping under the pathlights, I remember the few winters when Leo was younger and I would bring him on these runs with me occasionally. He would sprint up ahead, Canadian geese scattering in all directions. Little did they know Leo had no interest in pursuing them. He just wanted to get far enough ahead of me to find a good stick and settle in for a solid 10 seconds of chewing before I caught up. 
I make the turn for home, completely soaked now but glad for the rain cleanse, and I remember the windiest day I ever attempted a run along the river and Leo happened to be with me. I was barely making any progress forward and I looked down at the loyal dog trying to keep up with me while getting knocked around, and he looked up at me and gave me a “MUM, this is nuts!” eyebrow raise and I laughed as I decided to retreat and we turned around. The concern left his eyes as the headwind turned into a literal tailwind, pushing his fat, furry butt home.
I had hit the river for a respite from his memory, but he is everywhere.
Many of you already have heard the news that Leo was put to sleep on February 23. He had a large tumor attached to his liver that had partially burst. It was an unexpected, shocking diagnosis. The only comfort comes from knowing he did not suffer and for a few hours before we eventually chose to put him to sleep, I sat in his kennel with his head in my hands, stroking his face and rubbing his ears.
I can only share a fraction of what I will miss about Leo without turning this into his unauthorized biography. Something new strikes me every day because he was an integral part of every day. I already miss the comfort he brought me over the years - a subtle tilt of the head while watching me cry or a gentle placement of his head in my lap while I was sick on the couch. Whether I was missing my mom, stressed out, or hunkered down in bed with the flu, Leo always seemed to know and being sensitive to these things, often commiserated. My “murse” (male-nurse) would slowly creep up onto the couch next to me and squeeze in along the length of my body - a warm golden fleece.
I miss his presence in the space that was our home together. He had his spots, I had mine. They often coincided. I stopped needing white noise to fall asleep at night as Leo got older and his snoring provided the most soothing lullaby. The sound of him pulling his 100 pounds up onto couches over the years always had accompanying sighs and exhales of exhaustion, especially if he was settling in to do his best lapdog impression on many of my friends or Maia, who would let out equally loud groans under his weight. 
Leo would settle down and chew his bones when he was comfortably excited about the company surrounding him. I noticed this routine whenever Maia would join me and Leo in the evenings in my room to watch TV. After greeting her, he would quickly find a bone and settle down in close proximity to us, gnawing it as Maia and I happily chatted. More recently, when Maia would come over to say hi, Leo would greet her, trot over to the $200 L.L. Bean dog bed he was using as bone storage rather than for sleeping, grab one, and return to be in our company, chewing so loudly at times it was a wonder he never broke a tooth.
For a dog with no guard dog instincts, Leo had a deep, rumbling growl. Ears perked and looking out the window, he would use it when he spotted another dog, baby carriage, or postman walking down the sidewalk. When I’d tell him to knock it off he’d look at me slowly wagging his tail - proud to be protecting me from the most innocuous things (see Appendix A for the list of growl-inducing situations, not one of which was an actual threat, e.g., the Red Sox blimp, the garbage cans). The loss of the sound of him has left a painful vacuum in the apartment; a silence that for the first time in a decade, makes me feel alone. 
Leo had a precise awkwardness in almost every movement, whether attempting to hump the balance ball on the wood floor (picture a baby moose ice skating), rolling over on his back to paw at his whiskers, attempting to bring sticks into doorways that were too narrow, getting into the car (always a running start was required), the minutes of build up as he anxiously psyched himself up for hopping the 12 inches down from the car, his ability to squeeze into spaces but not be able to back out, his ability to nimbly get through a power cord obstacle course on some days, while bowling right through them on others. Over the last few months I got too lazy to put my yoga mat away and he was remarkably good at settling in for a nap on it about 30 seconds before I was going to use it. While he enjoyed his solitude, he also enjoyed being as close to me as possible, especially when I was trying to do work on my laptop or of course, when I was cooking. I still have his drool marks on my keyboard. I miss the weight of his giant head on my foot as I prepare dinner in the kitchen.
I won’t go into too many food-obsession memories because I’m sure nearly all of you witnessed or were victims of his begging (or stealing). He was unexpectedly stealthy when it came to snarfing sticks of butter, whoopie pies, sausages, sushi, corn on the cob, etc. One bite and they were gone. He had an impressive memory when it came to knowing which local businesses distributed treats. First thing Leo would do when we went into the hardware store was pull me to the backside of the counter where the treat jar was kept, “One per customer, Leo!” the owner would exclaim as Leo gulped the first treat down, always knowing a second would follow. The guys at the liquor store loved Leo, but after one visit where he stuck his head in the trash can and knocked over an entire bottom shelf of seltzer with his tail somehow at the same time, I opted for tying him up outside. The guys always reminded me to take a treat out to him. 
Although Leo retired from marathon training after a few seasons, he was still a committed coach and cheerleader. He patiently allowed me to dress him in outfits, make him hold signs, and generally exploit his adorable mug for fundraising purposes. Every long run on Saturdays was followed by a stretching session at home, where Leo would come over and sit across from me, pawing my hand every so often as a reminder that he needed a good stretch too. Somehow those sessions always ended with me giving him a doggy massage. He was a master human-trainer.
What I realized after my mom died was that memories can stoke the fire and allow for a momentary resurgence of that person. But those remembrances were always slightly tinged with sadness, only artificially filling the emptiness left by her loss. Being able to take her legacy - the lessons I learned from her - and apply them to my life moving forward, brought a lot of comfort. Because then she was with me every day.
Leo’s short time on this earth was the embodiment of the simplest values and lessons that are the first to be forgotten in our busy lives:
Leo’s short time on this earth was the embodiment of the simplest values and lessons that are the first to be forgotten in our busy lives:
Communicating love. I would come home from work and nearly everyday Leo would greet me at the door, or as he got older, slowly extract himself from the couch to walk over and welcome me home. I would squat down and he would move towards me, pushing his head into my chest, near my heart, and I would rub his ears as he breathed deeply. There were many days when this was a turning point for me - a realization that love is simple and easily displayed and that no matter what the day presented, Leo was going to love me all the same. When we would go for our walks, I would catch him sometimes looking up at me, just checking in to see if I was okay. Satisfied he’d turn his head back down, smiling and trotting along next to me. There are complicating factors when humans love one another that aren’t present with our dogs. I learned that an expression of love and kindness doesn’t always require words, it can just as easily be a paw rub or a deep sigh with the soul you love in your arms.
Every day is the best day. For Leo, every breakfast was the best breakfast. Every walk, his favorite walk. I sometimes would take Leo with me in the car as I ran mundane errands because he’d hang his big golden dome out the window and it would look like he was in heaven. We don’t all have the luxury of being a spoiled golden retriever, but I try to find my Leo moment once a day; a moment when I enjoy everything that I am and everything around me. 
Committing to and learning from another being. As simple as it sounds, I chose to bring Leo into my life and learned many lessons about what taking responsibility for another life means. There were mornings when I was running late or was tired and it would have been a simple decision to skip or shorten Leo’s walk. I rarely did. I was deeply committed to giving that dog a good life and it was unfair to make him sacrifice for my issues or mistakes. Beyond taking responsibility for his life, I could look into Leo’s big round eyes and see how similar we were more than how different. We share this earth and universe with many creatures that feel sadness, experience excitement, and enjoy naps just as we do. We are much smaller than we like to believe.
Old dogs can learn new tricks. You are never too old to conquer fears, even as you remain comfortably set in many of your ways. About a year ago, I was leaving for work and Leo stuck his snout in the door to stop me from closing it. This was a ballsy move for any dog, but especially for a dog that had a fear of closing doors/gates his whole life (baby gate incident as a puppy). It was really fun watching him get older yet bolder. The senior stage of Leo’s life was perhaps my favorite as his weirdness was amplified and similar to his mother, he stopped giving a fuck about things that didn’t matter.
Little did I expect that only a few short weeks after writing about dignity in death and quality of our last days that I would have to apply these lessons to my favorite being on this earth. Yes, I wanted anything possible to be done to keep Leo alive, but not at the expense of his comfort and quality of life. And I have to be honest, it hurt. To extract what is best for your loved one from your love for them, from your attachment, from your selfish desire to have more time, didn’t feel good. Unfortunately, Leo couldn't communicate what he wanted at the end. But while we spent a few hours with him before he was put under for his CT scan (and eventual euthanasia), he was as he had been in many of the photos and memories I have - lounging in my arms, breathing steadily, and lifting his head up if he felt the ear rubs or butt scratches stop temporarily as if to ask, “why are you stopping?” I know it wasn’t his ideal end, but we were together, communicating a lifetime of love through a gentle touch and sweet gaze.
Last night a group of my favorite people gathered together to pay tribute to my golden bear. We laughed, and drank, and ended the night sharing some thoughts, including a beautiful eulogy from my dearest friend:
What I am suggesting is that perhaps Leo was not actually a foil to Martina, but that their souls were intermixed. They brought out each other’s underlying essence and therefore shone the brightest together...I know that Leo came to Martina because their souls were searching for each other, and he stayed here only as long as he knew he was needed…
Thank you to everyone who has reminisced with me over the last two weeks - you have lightened the load on my heart by sharing your love of Leo with me. I come back to what I named this blog many years ago, because lives can be forever changed in one day, in one hour, in a brief moment. I was lucky to have had so many best days with my best friend. Rest in Peace, dear Leo, until we meet again.
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