During the first week of the New Year I was standing in the order line at a local store and someone asked me, "How's your New Year going?" Normally I would say "great," treating it similar to being asked, "How are you?" to which I automatically say, "good", or "great," or "terrific." But on this particular day I knew straight out I was going to respond differently, and it required as little thought as my other automatic responses, but with far greater need and emotion.
"Not so well," I replied, "My dog died this week."
Maybe I imagined it, but the person who asked the question looked at me in just such a way that I was drawn to it like a hug. I wanted to say more, and I did. In a crowded restaurant I revealed in sixty three seconds more sorrow than I have in sixty three years. My wounds of loss were bleeding and I was still raw from two days of crying.
I still miss that dog.
I try not to imagine him peering in at me as I write. But I do. Several people have suggested that I remember the good times we had together, and I do. But I am greedy. I want more. Not as memories, but as new adventures. He was a great dog.
The world is divided on many things, and dogs are no exception. We don't have to travel outside of New Hampshire to discover the variety of ways dogs are treated. I, however, am in the category of those who love dogs-all animals in fact. I talk to flies, and do everything possible to help them escape when trapped behind windows.
But this week I became a compassionate killer, if there is such a thing. The vet said his lungs were filling up with fluid because his heart was not beating as it should. He said Mulder (taken from the X files) was drowning and it was time. I didn't hesitate. So ended a sixteen-year relationship, one I can honestly say is one of the best I ever had.
This is why my dog's death made it to this column. As I write this, not quite a week has gone by since his death, but I know with certainty his life brought me uncountable moments of bliss.
His name deserves to be here. He deserves to be remembered this way. He was loyal and loving, funny and adorable. I never struggled to have him understand me. I didn't have to explain myself; he accepted me unconditionally.
All of us want to think our lives have brought something to this world. I want to be a good pastor; one who brings God closer to those I meet. I also want to write a book, be a good husband and father, and a loyal friend.
For those of us who have connected with a dog, we know we were the master in name only. In truth we were the student. All of what Mulder gave to me, I want to give back to everyone I meet. For Mulder, this was piece of cake; his good qualities were as automatic as my usual response to "how am you doing", and with a far more favorable and powerful effect.
Yes, Mulder does deserve to be in this column. He offered me many moments of bliss. But there is an even greater reason for my mentioning him here, in the place where I talk about my faith life, about finding or not missing moments of bliss.
He modeled, in the best of ways, how I could give them to you.
--Bob Ritchie
www.madetomatter.org