As Long As It Takes

We rescued Brody from a shelter in Mesa four years ago. He was the wrong color—he didn’t match our tile. Rob let me pick him out as my Christmas gift that year, but even though there were two chocolate lab puppies available with hair that would have been more inconspicuous on the floor, the yellow lab/shepherd mix had eyes that looked into my soul. My husband sighed as I made my decision. He knew what was about to happen. Looking into a dog’s eyes is always the way I pick them out.

Our Brody. He was lost once, too, but we found him and fought for him. Competed, actually. Six other families threw their numbers in a hat with ours at the dog pound and Rob won him for me.  He was my Christmas present, but the picture taken of our newest family member had Rob at his side. “Way to go, Rob!” somebody responded when he posted the photo on Facebook.

That’s the way it always was. They were buddies.

Rob didn’t really want another dog after we lost our last white pup a year earlier. Honestly, though, what he mostly didn’t want was more dog-hair carpet and dog-sitter expenses while we were out of town. Every dog we’ve ever had was my idea. And every dog we ever had became Rob’s dog.

This morning I sat at the table rubbing the velvety, white ears of the companion I inherited when I lost Rob and, right on cue, my eyes filled with tears at the memory of the two of them together. Walking across the pine filled acreage of our Heber house, Rob followed the fence line as Brody ran circles around his master. Brody posting himself beside Rob in Dan and Kate’s cabin last fall while he lit a fire in the fireplace. We finally figured out flames terrified Brody, but he wouldn’t leave Rob’s side while he stoked the blaze. The lock screen photo on my phone is of Rob and Brody posing for me in the snow near Woods Canyon Lake on the Rim two years ago. It’s my favorite photo of Rob.

Wherever Rob was, Brody went, and if he couldn’t go with him, he lingered, lying in dejection, on the floor outside whatever room Rob was in or whatever door he’d disappeared through, waiting for his favorite person to reappear. Always on duty. Waiting for Rob. For as long as it took.

Now he waits for me. Outside whatever door I’m standing behind. Because we both know Rob’s not coming back.

I don’t know where Rob got the idea he didn’t want any more dogs. Maybe it’s because many animals do exactly what Brody does—gaze into your heart and expose its tenderness. Rob kept his feelings hidden much of the time, unless he was watching a movie like Mighty Joe Young. I caught him crying at the end of it once and jabbed him in the arm.

“You big phony,” I accused. “You try to act so tough and here you are weeping over a giant fake gorilla falling off a building.”

He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Mighty Joe Young isn’t a fake,” he said, holding back his famous grin. He knew he’d been caught. Rob was a softy and every animal on the planet knew it. Especially our dogs. And our kids. One night while they still lived at home, Rob was reading to Katy and Lee from “All Things Great And Small,” the story of a country vet in England in the ‘40’s. When he reached a part where an elderly man had to allow his aging canine to be put down, Rob couldn’t read anymore. I’m not even sure they ever finished the book.

In the interim between our last dog, Sydney, and Brody, Rob went out of town a few times and I was alone with no pet to keep me company til he returned. Once, I borrowed our daughter’s protective yellow lab, Gunner, for a week. This guy was up in years but, when duty called, he never slept through it. If I was in the shower, Gunner was positioned on the mat outside the door. If I was sleeping, he was on the floor beside the bed. Rob and I both adored Katy’s dog, almost as much as she and her family did. And when Gunner passed away last December, Rob cried on the phone as Katy told him about it.

Of the three rescue dogs we’ve owned, Brody is the most sensitive, people loving pet we’ve ever had. He needs to be with people, even if I’m the only one available. He’d rather sit with his rear end pushed up against my knees so I’ll pet his ears and massage his bony hips than do just about anything else. And when I’m crying, it doesn’t matter where he is or where I am, he finds me.

Like he found me tonight. Sometimes the loss settles in on me and I stop running and just give in to the sorrow. This morning it hit me hard and made me grateful for the very secluded, nearly soundproof space of my little garage apartment. Hopefully the only one who hears my sobs when that happens is my dog. It’s barely a few seconds before he’s at my side, head on my lap, chocolate brown eyes looking up at me with concern. Tonight, in resignation, I sat on the sofa in my room and let the sobs run their course, like a faucet left on. And Brody was there, his head on my lap, waiting, for as long as it took.

And then he did something he rarely does. He carefully launched his front legs and then most of the rest of his seventy-pound frame up on my lap, and as my salty tears fell, he licked my face. He just stayed there, my arms around him, both of us silently grieving the loss of the most important person in our world, together. For the longest time.

The memories rush in sometimes, riding the crest of the grief waves below them, and with no warning at all I am suddenly upside down, drowning in the deep. I do what I can to hang on if that happens in public, or in the truck at seventy miles an hour, or on the produce aisle of a grocery store. But when it happens here, in my room, I’m learning to let those feelings have their day.

And to let Rob’s dog comfort me until it passes by. I know he’ll be at my side while I miss Rob and cry, offering his presence, never running after something more fun the way our other dogs did. It’s not the same as having Roby here, but having Brody at my side is a comfort nevertheless.

Rob’s dog will stay with me, just like the grief does. For as long as it takes.