Love From the Start

Silky little tummy, sweet puppy breath, steady focused gaze; we imprinted on each other like geese. Only four weeks old when we found him abandoned with the rest of his litter, the hand feeding, cleaning, and hours spent in puppy snuggling and play forged a deep bond that seamlessly crossed the species barrier.

Nicholai and I were attached at the hip. Literally, when he was young, I attached him to a leash that fastened around my waist as a bonding "whither thou goest, I go too" kind of training. Wildly successful in that Nicholai paid devoted attention to my whereabouts ever after, I found it worked in reverse as well. I liked his company as much as he appeared to like mine. He rode frequent shotgun on errands, accompanied me to work where he always had a place to hang out, and became not just my dog, but my canine friend.

A dog is a special kind of friend, never critical of clothes, weight, hair style, car, or job. A friend who is always willing to go where you want to go when you want to go there. A friend who tolerates all your moods without complaint. A friend who is always glad to see you.

I loved Nicholai because in addition to all those attributes, he asserted himself too. He insisted on going with me (and succeeded too, except in the case when weather contraindicated), making me feel valued and loved, whatever it actually meant to him.

Nicholai had opinions about our activities. Never slavishly devoted, he made it known that repeatedly chasing balls, or Frisbees, or anything else was an activity best saved for other dogs. Neither was he particularly fond of hanging out at dog parks, milling about and socializing. He'd soon whine at me and with a toss of his head, indicate his opinion that we should hit the road in search of wilder places to roam. He pushed me out of the city for long hikes, something I too craved but often didn't allow time for. For the better part of a decade, the need to "walk the dog" gave me the permission I needed to honor my own wild side.

Being with his Mary mattered to Nicholai right up to the last. On Wednesday, after two conversations with his vet, after his refusal of breakfast, after he struggled to stand, after it became obvious no more days were left, after the appointment had been made, I left to walk to a neighborhood store for a bouquet of roses. As I walked out the gate, Nicholai struggled to his feet and tottered to the fence. "Take me," his eyes begged, still bright in his tired face, "take me."

As I looked at my old man, with his breath heavy, his jaws swollen with tumors, and graying muzzle, I could still see the soul of the adoring puppy, the wild adolescent, and the independent canine partner I loved.

It was love from the start, and love till the end.