Dog years

The seven things he taught me

This year I will be turning 245 years old — dog years. To the dog, we are immortal. We were born into a world well before their ancestors existed, and we will die long after their descendants have gone. Canine storytellers pass legends through the generations about how the humans who cared for their great-grandparents are the same that will care for their great-grandchildren to come. A dog year is a measurement of time we rarely use from a dog’s perspective, but as I face the end of life for my yellow labrador, Theo, I can’t help but look back at the last 70.

I had just moved for a new job — my previous was going nowhere, and I was barely affording my half of the rent. My roommate was moving in with his girlfriend, which meant I was out of a home if I didn’t act soon. I packed all my belongings into an ugly, yellow truck and left the life I built over the past five years behind. When I arrived in the brand new city, it was during the height of midwestern winter. The sun graced the horizon for a few hours each day, but I was trapped in an office without windows. The short days meant I would come to work when it was dark and then go home when it was dark, and I would go days without ever seeing the sun. My new co-workers had taken the long weeks before the new year off for the winter break, so I spent that time in an unfamiliar place by myself. I had never felt more alone. My nights included sitting in front of my computer screen, binge-watching Tv shows while slurping down microwave noodle meals made in styrofoam cups. Dinner was always served with a sleeve of Oreo cookies and a side of too much beer. Showering and shaving became optional, as did answering the phone or replying to text messages. As the days grew darker, so, too, did my outlook on life. That was when my then-girlfriend, now wife, mentioned, “Why don’t you get a puppy?”

Theo came to me as the runt — a pale white puppy in a sea of rolling yellows and golds from a litter of eleven. He was always sitting by himself while his siblings climbed and nipped at my hands as I decided amongst them. His small stature is not a physical trait Theo maintains today. Now weighing between 100 pounds and 70 — the peak from a corpulent year at age two and the latter from his post leg amputation — he stands a good head taller than his father. He was my first dog and a companion that, admittedly, saved my life. He didn’t save me through some great display of courage by tackling a mauling bear, nor by dragging me from a burning building. Instead, it was an equally as meaningful and vital measure: Seeing me and understanding me through a very dark period of my life. It wasn’t long that I realized while I was training him to sit, stay, and be still that he was teaching me the very same things.

Lesson 1 — Always ask for help

I nod to my upbringing for this one, as many of us probably do. Good enough was never good enough for myself or my family in my youth. Asking for help was frowned upon, so I learned to never look for it. If I couldn’t do it on my own the first time, then it was my own failure because I didn’t try hard enough. Because of this, any schooling was a struggle no matter how hard I tried. Regrettably, I never knew how to ask for help with my depression. When I was at a low point, it was because I wasn’t doing something right, and it was up to me to climb my way out of it.

That was the first lesson Theo taught me. He loved to fit into small places to sleep as a tiny puppy. Unfortunately for him, at 5 months old, his body didn’t always agree with the available space. One of his favorite spots was underneath the chaise lounge in my living room, and one evening he woke up and realized he couldn’t get out. He thrashed and pushed as hard as he could, but nothing was working. That was when he stopped, sighed, and looked up at me for aid. With a gracious thump of his tail, I knelt down and quickly pulled him free.

Lesson 2 — Be in the moment

The depression in my early life had a best friend: anxiety. It drove me to countless sleepless nights, always thinking through every eventuality, planning for every contingency, and potential social interaction. If something wasn’t accounted for or didn’t happen exactly as I expected it, the plan and the day were lost.

Being a dog, Theo is gifted with an inability to think 2 minutes beyond his nose, nor can he look back at what he has missed. During a walk, I accidentally stepped on his paw. He limped off the sidewalk with a yelp and laid down in the grass. I ran to him and checked for broken toes but was delighted to find none. So I rubbed his foot and then his ears and said, “I think you’ll get to keep it this time.” With a bound, he was back on his feet like nothing had happened and proceeded to splash through a nearby puddle. Watching him sling mud up onto his back, I first felt distressed as my perfect plan for the evening was now caked around his belly and legs. But, that was lesson two: Pain doesn’t always mean something is broken or wrong, and when a plan becomes covered in mud — go with it. You can always wash it off in the tub later.

Lesson 3 — Be kind; it could be you someday

I returned home from work to the worst smell I’ve ever been greeted by. Theo had gotten sick from both ends. With nowhere to go, he had pressed himself against the far side of the cage, trying desperately to stay away from what came out of him. Instead of thinking about all the work I now had to do, I simply undressed, carried the shivering boy to the shower, and climbed in. After drying off and dealing with the delicate task of cleaning everything in my room, we sat on the couch. We fell asleep together, forgetting even to make dinner.

Lesson 4 — Triumph despite adversity

The hardest decision we had to make for Theo was removing his front right leg. A benign tumor had taken root and aggressively grew on the tissue from his paw pad up to his elbow. Multiple attempts to remove it had failed and resulted in any piece that remained to grow back twice as fast and twice as big as before. Going on walks became difficult, swimming was almost impossible, and jumping up and down off the bed or couch came with audible sounds of pain. The real danger was that it could eventually find its way into his chest.

I was shocked when he rounded the corner at the vet after his surgery. Not at the missing limb or the staples where his shoulder once was. He ran to the car two days after surgery like he always did. The vet tech bringing him out handed his leash over, out of breath, and said, “I think removing the arm made him faster!”

That night, I slept on the couch in the living room with him. We didn’t want to carry him up the stairs while his incision was healing, and I could watch him more closely. I was awoken at 2AM to scratching and whining at our front door. On our porch sat a cold, wet, and shaking little dog. Our neighbor’s corgi had gotten out a few days before, and he had come home — almost. “Hey, little guy, we’ve been looking for you,” I said as I brought him inside, dried him off, and put him to bed until the following day when we returned him home. Looking back now, I would never have slept on the couch that night if it wasn’t for Theo, and the corgi may never have been found.

Lesson 5 — Naps are key

See lesson title above.

Lesson 6 — Seek forgiveness

Theo always loved dryer sheets. When I would throw one out after the wash, it was only a matter of time before he would fish it out of the garbage and shred it to pieces. But, whenever he did, he would always bring the final scarp to me, drop it at my feet, and hang his head in shame. He knew he had done wrong and knew he would be in trouble. Even knowing that, he would still swallow his pride, admit what he did, and then present his belly as an apology. So much time is wasted because we can never accept when we’re wrong.

Lesson 7 — Pursue joy

After his leg surgery, we wanted to get him back in the pool. He always loved swimming, and now without his useless leg, we reintroduced him to his long-lost love. Without missing a beat, he jumped into the water in a way you would expect from two people after a long separation. However, swimming was more dunking himself now with one leg as he would stroke forward with his left but could not balance it with his right. Today, he visits the pools and aquatic centers with just as much excitement as previously. Especially now that he has a swimming vest to take the place of his missing arm.

Hoping for 7 more dog years

As of 2022, he is still alive and well. We hope to get a few more years of his floppy, loving face but have decided to leave that decision up to him. Every day we ask if this is the last or if he thinks he can sneeze out one more. And when that day comes, I’m sure it will be more than these seven lessons that he will leave behind for us.