My Friend Dubbs

 By: Kelly McDonald

“Once you have had a wonderful dog, 

a life without one is a life diminished.”

Dean Koontz

Yesterday, our son’s dog, Dubbs, died.

In the morning, I took the dog, an aging Jack Russell terrier, on our regular walk, which has become part of my regimen since they live so close to my home. The morning was chilly as I stopped to pick up Dubbs. But I leashed him, and we started out with only a brief delay. Dubbs was ready to go, spinning around and licking my hand. We followed our regular route to the park south of our son’s house, keeping to the sidewalk, giving Dubbs plenty of time to investigate each nasal encounter, some bit of trash dropped by someone earlier, or the evidence of other dogs passing by previously, occasionally relieving himself along the way.

Heading back to the house, Dubbs trotted ahead of me, looking back to see if I was still behind him. We arrived on the front porch, but before I could open the door, he let out a yelp and dropped to the cement. I called his name, but he just cried and thrashed about. I carried the little dog into the house, placing him in my son’s arms. We loaded the dog into the car and drove him to the vet. However, by the time we arrived, Dubbs had passed away.

#  #  #

I grew up in a small town where stray dogs roamed the streets, terrorizing children, especially if they were on bicycles. Beverly grew up on a dairy farm where the dogs were farm animals, employed to keep the cows in check, rounding them up from the field to the barn for their daily milking.

Neither of our parents allowed pet dogs. On Beverly’s farm, the dogs weren’t allowed in the house. When raising our own children, we also resisted their requests for indoor dogs and cats, but we sometimes relented on a goldfish or a lizard.

But several of our adult children acquired dogs as their family pets, and we accepted the animals into our home when the family came to visit, putting up with dog leaks on carpet or the occasional lacerated toy meant for grandchildren. We’ve tended the dogs, fed them, walked them, even bathed them, not fully appreciating how they had worked their way into the emotional fabric which now makes up our extended family experience.

Our son acquired Dubbs after an earlier dog had died. We asked him where the name came from, and he simply explained that when he picked up the young Jack Russell terrier, the previous owners told him the dog’s name was Chubbs. Not wanting to keep the same name, he simply changed the dog’s name to Dubbs. A second dog, a Chihuahua named Odie, arrived as Dubbs’ playmate some years later. No clear memories remain of the origin of Odie’s name.

I started taking Dubbs on my early morning excursions several years ago, when I converted my sunrise running into a walking endeavor. I tried to take Odie along, but when Dubbs was eager to move forward, Odie would hold back. For several mornings I returned home with Dubbs prancing ahead of me, and Odie in my arms. So, with Odie content to sleep in, I would stop at our son’s house in the morning, leash Dubbs up, then walk him to the park. Dubbs was usually waiting for me at the doorway, ready to begin our outing. He would walk beside me, then stop to sniff. Our walks became routine. If I didn’t show up because of poor weather or our Sunday morning church service, I would hear that he had patiently waited by the door for me to arrive.

When Dubbs was leashed and walking beside me, he became my guardian, growling at passing runners and barking at cyclists, other dogs on leashes, even crows flying overhead. He watched the other dogs and their owners in the park, but he never wanted to stop and play. He had his walking routine. On the way back home, Dubbs sometimes pranced a bit, like he was celebrating our finish. We only walked for about thirty minutes, but his dog-companion, Odie, rejoiced in Dubbs’ return like he’d been away for days. I unleashed Dubbs, gave both dogs a goodbye pat, then went on my way to arrive back home. This has been our routine for the last few years.

# # #

The acceptance of dogs as household family members has been an interesting evolution for our family. Although it's been easier to accommodate little dogs like Dubbs and Odie in our home, some of our other children’s dogs are large animals, occupying a lot of space in the living room or loudly barking at the dogs and cats which show up on television. But we still accommodate them, our ‘granddogs’, when they come to visit. I realize that we’ve become ‘dog people,’ like our children, probably because of our children. It’s interesting to observe that our older grandchildren are also beginning to adopt their own family dogs as they begin their adult lives and start the next generation of ‘great-granddogs’.

Our son has sadly endured Dubbs’ departure, cleaning up old toys, washing dog blankets, sometimes talking about getting another dog. Odie is still with him, though the way the little dog sometimes sniffs about the house, I can imagine he is wondering where his dog-brother has gone. The veterinarian’s office we visited offered a fitting memorial for a family dog. Not only do they provide a small box with the ashes of the deceased family pet, they also create a memorial paw print, pressed into plaster. We purchased the memorials for our son as a remembrance to be placed on the memory-shelf of his little dog, a family member, who has passed away. The paw print is a fitting reminder of the emotional dimension that Dubbs had created during his fourteen years of life with our son.

So why haven’t Beverly and I acquired a dog, as we live out our remaining years? We’re not ready to make such a major change to our living habits after the decades of dogless life we’ve had together. But we’re happy to accept and enjoy our granddogs whenever they come to visit.

# # #

This morning I traversed my usual walking path I have traveled for the past several years, but now without Dubbs. No little dog at my side, looking up to see if I am still his friend. We ascribe such human behaviors to our pets, with little understanding of their actual anthropomorphism. Some philosophers try to reveal this quality in animals by detecting its self-awareness, or the ability to recognize its image in the mirror as self. I have tried that test on my granddogs over the years. A few have stared at their image, wondering, I like to believe, what they can do to make themselves look better. But most run up to look behind the mirror to see where that other dog is hiding.

Later our son brought Odie over to visit with us while he took care of some business. We greeted the little dog like any family member, fixed him a snack, and opened the door to our backyard for a bio break. We made a nest for him with a blanket in the rocking chair, talking to him like we expected him to answer us. I believe our granddogs do become family, eager to share their own style of affection with us as we encompass them in ours.