Hunter

 I never wanted to be that friendly with Hunter or for that matter with any dog before Hunter.  It was my son and his girlfriend at the time’s idea to get this dog.  I was bitten when I was four years old by some scrawny little mutt, and that scare scarred both my leg and my mind, programming me to see any dog as a big mouth drooling saliva with sharp teeth shamelessly waiting to snap or snack on anything and anybody.  Dogs were animals and biting was instinctive.  Only humans had intelligence and would never think of biting an animal like animals live to bite humans; humans have compassion, creativity, discipline, civility and intelligence.  Animals were beasts of nature, to be sure, they bit harder than humans but unlike humans, they were unpredictable and unnecessary. I never really understood why folks took such good care of these beasts?  I figured it was because they can’t or refuse to relate to other humans and so they settle for some phylogenetically inferior creature that has been conditioned to be docile; trained to be obedient, to do tricks, to not argue, to be there pawing and swooning at you for attention, for love and most importantly for food when you got home, licking your face when you wake up, slopping around when you plop out of the shower, and even tolerating you when you are mean and nasty.  They are there to always flower you with attention, to make you feel loved and important even if dogs have absolutely have no capacity for love, they still love you unconditionally - even when everyone else in the fuc….in…world thinks you are the biggest piece of shit. 

Hunter changed all of what I believed.  The first dog I really wasn’t afraid of, the first dog I really wanted to be around, the first dog I really felt knew who I was, the first dog I really liked in the whole world.

So - now as I see his life closing down to last few chapters circa 14 years later, I find myself dreading and mourning his departure before it happens.  Will it be a month, a year, or two, Hunter is no longer the frolicking powerful dog he was, sprinting and changing directions in the back yard like a billion dollar running back, seized with joy the instant my son collects his leash forecasting his one hour run, walk, the ritual pee, the shuffling dance he does before his poop plops onto the grass, the strength of his legs when he walks or runs - strong enough to jolt you off your feet at will, his Joi De Vivre.  Hunter was happy to be alive and the ruler of his universe.

I see the same beautiful………….truly beautiful dog…sitting there, but can’t understand the ravages of time until he attempts to walk; this jolts me off my feet in sorrow that he can barely do so.  I feel his pain.  He is not the same 14 years later than he was when I first met him.  Does he remember me?  Does he remember anything?  He seems happy and every time we observe his limping walk, we ask ourselves whether his quality of life is still there…he doesn't grimace when he hobbles down the street, but we all know he can hardly walk; his right hind leg deformed and barely weight bearing, his leg muscles wasted and barely visible.  He does not complain.  He seems happy just to be alive.  What human would remain so stoic?  We are left speechless and in awe.  We try not to cry and he does not want us to cry for him.  But we do so anyway.