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This post might be a little premature, but it’s been something that’s been resonating in my brain for quite some time. A dog’s life is something that’s quite like the elderly grand parent who’s accepted their better years are behind them and any day could be their last.

Everyone around them senses this feeling and feeds off of it, almost accepting the fact that life as they know it has come to an end, or will eventually. And when that day comes, we cry, we laugh, we gather around and celebrate their lives. Even with the overwhelming acceptance we’ve held for the previous days, months, years; it still hurts.

I’ve had three dogs in my life. The first was crackers, a stray my parents picked up around the time I was born. She was a collie and German Sheppard mixed, all white with a brown spot on her left hind leg and a pink nose. She was the sweetest dog; greeted you when you entered a room, slept at the end of the bed, didn’t have to go out too much, never really begged for food. As a child I was more concerned about friends, school, sports, etc, to really pay attention to the dog. She wasn’t mine per say, either. I loved crackers just the same, when she passed it was only a few weeks before my 13th birthday. We cried, she was cremated and now sits on top of my parents hutch.

We rescued Kirby from the Humane league in 1994. He was a 1o month old lab and border collie mixed. I remember when we picked him out, my mom put her fingers in his cage and he licked them, we knew he was the one. For those of you who know anything about border collies, they are extremely smart dogs, probably the smartest breed out there, they are also very hyper and very active. They love to run, they love to play. We did not know this.

The first night we had Kirby we didn’t have a crate, we had two baby gates stacked up on top of each other and kept him in a hall way, that was until he figured out how to jump over them. After purchasing a crate we thought the problem was solved until he was trained, but he figured out how to get out of that. It had three latches that slid behind bars, and another little turn key that wrapped around the bar and held it in place. Whether kirby was let out by someone or bashed his head against the crate until he escaped, we had no idea. Finally, a padlock was used. This was until the babysitter left it off, kirby escaped and decided to chew stuff meaningful to us. He chewed Kyle’s favorite Falcons hat and my sisters favorite barbie.

He knew what he was doing, he was no dummy. But we forgot about him trying to run, that was until he took off a couple times. He’d be laying in the middle of the living room, we’d open up the front door and before we could say hello, boom he was gone across the street and into the fields behind our development. We lived around a lot of farm land so as soon as he got off of our block it was all open space. Kirby was so fast, he’d get so far ahead of us that even if we ran full speed after him, he’d have time to squat and take a dump and we still wouldn’t catch him.

All he wanted to do was run, and after he got done and you were done chasing him or a neighboring farmer would catch him, he’d smile at you, tongue hanging out and walk home next to you. It was like, “ok guys that was fun, let’s go home.” He’d sometimes let you catch up to him, then as you stood face to face, he’d do this move where he’d duck his front shoulder down as if he was going to take off that way and then as soon as you froze or moved that direction, he would break your ankles and take off the other way.

I remember one time we chased him in a foot of snow, he was just this little black dot hundreds of feet ahead of us, the only reason we caught him was when he got caught in a snow drift.

My brother use to run football plays  in the back yard with the dog. Kirby would stand 4 feet behind him, my brother would yell  “hike” then all of a sudden kirby would run to the left or right and grab the nerf football. Hed take off to the end of the yard, stop, turn around and trot back. It was as if he knew it was football practice.

As kirby grew older, his back hips got bad. He started having trouble climbing the steps, or getting up on the couch to sleep. When my brother would leave, he’d cry and howl and whine. He’d take 2 minutes to walk up a flight of steps, but if you opened that back door he took two steps jumped off the first level of the deck to the second level, one bounce and was in the yard. You’d approach him and he’d still duck his shoulder, and run the other way.

Now, he sleeps all day, when he gets up he has trouble walking. It’s like he sleeps all day to avoid walking up and down the steps, but when he does get up, he can barely walk. He runs in the yard, his back legs move together as if they are one, he barks at whomever is out there and bumps into your legs cause he’s blind and has no idea you are actually there.

Kirby’s best days are when PJ is there. PJ is my 5-year-old lab mix, a ball full of energy and the sweetest dog you’ll meet. She’s the kind of dog that if someone broke in the house, she’d lick them and show them where all my cool stuff is. When PJ is there, Kirby runs, he jumps off the deck, he plays with PJ. We keep pj on a chain still, kirby knows exactly how long that chain is. He’ll sit there and bark at her as she runs towards him only to have the chain keep her away. Then he’ll trot around a little in front of her just to tease.

Kirby is now 15, he’ll be 16 at the end of November. It pains me to think that he might not make it through the end of the year. Dog’s are incredibly loyal, no matter what day I’ve had or what mood I’m in, Pj is waiting for me when I get  home. Her tail is wagging, her tongue is out, and she wants to jump up and give me a hug. She can’t wait to see me, she can’t wait for me to sit down at my laptop so she can sit next to me and stare at me as I work. Sometimes I eat lunch at my parents house, if kirby realizes I’m there he will come down sit on the couch next to me as I eat my lunch. As soon as I’m done and I clean my plate, he heads back up stairs. It’s as if he comes down to keep me company while I eat.

Whenever I’m home, PJ wants to spend all her time with me. She’ll grab a ball, bring it over to me and drop it next to my leg. Or she’ll get another toy and put it on the couch next to me so she can be right there while I work. At times I feel like I’m being watched, and I look over to see PJ’s big brown eyes starring at me. In the morning, when I get up, she doesn’t wait more than a minute to move into my spot in bed as if to keep it warm for me. Thinking, maybe he’ll come back and snuggle a little longer.

Dog’s are loyal, dogs are loving. They’ll forgive you when you’re mean, they’ll love you just for feeding them some bland food. They keep your bed warm, and there is never a shortage of doggy kisses.

Kirby is still alive, for how long I don’t know. I wish forever, it’s almost not fair that dog’s lives are so much shorter than humans. How is this animal who’s so loyal, so trusting, so trustworthy punished with such a short life.

For dogs, the pain isn’t as visible. Humans cry, complain, scream and talk about how much it hurts. A dog will limp a little bit, not be as energetic or just sleep all day. Sometimes it is nice, just because they aren’t bugging to go out all the time. But when I think about it, I’m going to miss him bugging me to go out, I’m going to miss his little duck and jive move, his dog hair everywhere. I’m going to miss his bark, and when he nudges your leg because you are paying too much attention to the TV instead of him.

And when I think about it, the more I hate myself for being a dog lover. Why get so attached to an animal that is unknowingly going to break your heart in a matter of years. It’s like any year after 10 is borrowed time almost.

When PJ turns 15 I’ll be 39. Hopefully old enough to understand more about death, pain, and more mature to handle the sadness. But right now, as kirby celebrates his 16th birthday, I’m not nearly able to handle it. This weekend I’m heading out-of-town and I’m dropping off PJ at my parents for the weekend. I think before I leave I’ll let them out to go for a run, so I can hear his bark, see his move, watch him play and leap off the deck. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to see it again, for the last time.

When Kirby actually does pass, I’ll write some more about  him… I hope I don’t have to do that for a while.