Love in Black and White

Goodbyes are hard, especially when they are the furry, four-legged, tail-wagging kind. Last week we loved our dog, Bobo, into a much better place. Even though none of us could muster the word goodbye, we all felt what the head rubs, paw holding, and flood of tears were really saying.  

Bobo was a part of our family for six years, having been rescued just a couple of days shy of getting his premature ticket to the great dog park in the sky at the local animal shelter.  He was a black and white Pit Bull, reminiscent of Petey from The Little Rascals, but while considering the decision to adopt, I admit I had my reservations. The stereotypes and reputation of the breed were not the best. Weren’t Pit Bulls aggressive?  What would he be like around the kids? What kind of life had he had?

Wherever he came from, it wasn’t good. Scars were obvious around his neck and legs. A couple of his teeth were broken. Yet even underweight and in need of a veterinarian’s care, he was tender and sweet and no doubt coming home with me.

So home Bobo came where we gave him a bath, filled his bowl with the best dogfood, scheduled an appointment with our vet, and then settled and snuggled him in the most Taj Mahal of dog beds we could buy.  

He loved peanut butter, belly rubs, and unfortunately the comfort of our sofa, which he quickly learned was a big no-no. But that didn’t stop him when we left home alone. As soon as he heard the key in the doorknob, he would begin his descent from the couch and mope his way to our feet where he knew that we could not be mad for long. We tried to create a temporary Fort Knox to keep him off our living room couch, but the washable IKEA slipcovers helped when he breached security.

Though not a fan of water play in the creek or playing fetch, Bobo loved to go for long walks. He had plenty of room to sniff, root and roll all over the place. While we loved and mooched all over him, our felines were not his biggest fans and apparently the feeling was mutual. When a cat was in eyesight, he would lock into a stare of death that often tested my biceps and triceps beyond their limits as he pulled me on invisible skis across the backyard. As a matter of fact, our orange tomcat lost more than one of his nine lives under Bobo’s watch.

Yet sweet, sweet Bobo was there for the cornshucking, fiddle playing, fireworks, campfires, soccer practices, birthdays, sleepovers, snowsledding, and Christmases. He was always the first to welcome our college student home, vying for front row in a long line of hugs. He was also the saddest when that college student returned to school, often lurking by the window with a head hung low.

He loved to ride in the car and would sit in a chair while waiting his turn at the vet’s office.  Funny how human he looked at times, especially his eyes, the tilt of his head, or even his smile.  We knew when he was happy or sad, hungry or full-bellied, protective or afraid. We knew just how much he loved us with not so much as a single word being exchanged. 

But Bobo’s health began a sad descent in recent months. Even when his body didn’t plow forward the way it used to, those eyes still smiled at us. His head still lowered when he heard the word “bath,” and he still loved to sun his belly on the front porch.

Last week we knew his time was nearing an end, and we set out to rescue him one last time. A long conversation with our veterinarian felt more like a much-needed counseling session. We called the kids home. They came one by one.

Our son slept in the livingroom floor with Bobo, took him on a last long walk around the farm, and reminded him of all of the love he shared with our family over the years.  We were there when he closed his eyes for the last time to only wake up in a place where the couches are plentiful and the peanut butter jar is always full. We brought him home and buried him in the backyard with his favorite pink blankie in a place where bare feet and butterflies softly land.

Our family of nine felt the impact of the loss. Our youngest two perhaps carried the heaviest burden of his goodbye. “Did you know that Bobo was in my life longer than Poppy was?”  That one hurt deep. I hugged her and listened for my dad’s voice.

In these passing days, I hear him walk across the kitchen floor. I see an empty space where he slept. Even the pet aisle at the grocery store makes me tearful. Today I had to look twice out of my kitchen window as I thought I caught a glimpse of him by the chicken coop. It was only a crumpled feedsack, but gosh how it made me smile and sad at the same time.

In so many ways I’ve a deeper love for a pet who in my rescuing, rescued a part of me.  Through a career change, a global pandemic, the passing of my father-in-law, and a devastating cancer diagnosis, Bobo was a centering force of good, even on my worst days. He wasn’t perfect. He’d go to the door to be let out just as I settled in my chair after a long day. His skin maladies often left him smelling like a bowl of burnt popcorn. And his preference for peeing in the same spot in my front lawn killed grass and a gardenia or two. Yet I miss his imperfection.

Our pets allow us to care for living creatures who can never thank us with a kind word or deed, but thank us nonetheless. They show us how real, raw emotion can be simply shared in a head in our lap. They help us feel empathy and give us purpose. They help us to love.

Bobo, you will be long remembered in our house. Our grandchildren will know you through the stories their parents will surely tell.  

May your water bowl forever overflow.