Yesterday Page and I lost someone we loved very much. We loved him so much, in fact, that at this moment it’s hard to put it into words. Buster was our seven-year-old Cavalier. “Oh,” someone thinks, “it was just a dog.” If you’ve ever owned and loved and been loved by one, you realize there is no such thing as “just a dog.”
We had a Cavalier some years ago who lived to be fourteen. So, until recently we assumed this little boy was only at his halfway mark. He would be here a long time. Then those assumptions were shattered when a rare form of cancer was diagnosed, and two months later he was gone.
Only a week ago he still stretched out on my lap for a nap. Only three days ago he still followed my wife everywhere, even though his pace was slow and his legs were weak, and he still cuddled beside her happily. He spoke with his face, his expressions, his eyes. He could communicate what he wanted and what he felt. Even yesterday as he died his eyes focused on us and said “Love.” When he could not stand, he would rest his head on my hand and speak to me with those eyes. When he closed them for the last time, they were looking at Page, still to the end saying “Love.”
Dogs are, I think, living examples of the word Agape (love that is unconditional). They are thankful for whatever food you give them, however far you walk them, however long you play chase with them. Buster would push his toys at us with his paws, asking us to throw them until we were worn out by the game. It was a game that never wore him out. But when we stopped, he would lie down near us and look at us with those big eyes, and they always communicated the love he felt. We had played together, and he was saying “Thanks.” He went on his final leashed walk last week at a place called Miller Park. He couldn’t walk nearly as far as he once did, but he walked a bit, and he sniffed, and his tail wagged, and you could sense his joy. Then he came home, tired but happy, and snuggled and napped beside my wife, which made him even happier.
Yesterday when he couldn’t walk and simply lay in his regular spot wrapped in a blanket, we kept talking to him. All day long one or the other or both of us sat with him and talked to him. Mostly we told him what a good boy he was and how much we loved him. And those beautiful eyes kept answering, “I love you, too.” I told him that when he crossed the rainbow bridge, I wanted him to get to know Hope and Charlie and Bear and Bishop. They will have adventures to enjoy and stories to share. I apologized for times when I was too tired to play as much as he wanted or when I hurried him on our walks. I told him things he probably didn’t understand verbally, but I think he knew emotionally. And till the very last breath, he answered with his love. As I look back, the one thing I’m not sure I said was “Thanks.” Thanks for being with us. Thanks for putting up with me. Thanks for the laughter. Thanks for sharing with us your treasures of stuffed bears and toy burritos and lambs and tennis balls and that funny wheel you used to chase down the stairs and bring back up again to chase some more. Thanks for running out the back door several times a day after a squirrel you never caught and chose not to, even when you could have. Thanks for digging in the garden beside Page when she was planting flowers. Thanks for lying on your back on the bed in the morning and showing us what peace looks like. Thanks for waiting patiently till we finished our eggs so that you could have yours. Thanks for stretching out on top of me while I watched football on the couch. Thanks for allowing us to dress you in those silly Halloween costumes. Thanks for barking at people not when they arrived at our house, but when they left (your way of saying you didn’t want them to go). Thanks for dropping in on our lives, not for as long as we wanted, but for long enough to show us what faithfulness and sweetness look like. Thanks for seven years of love, pure unconditional love. Thanks that “Love” was the final word you spoke with your beautiful eyes before you closed them yesterday. May you see Love all around you now, little one, and happiness and peace. I hope you have new toys there. I hope you and the friends we lost before will have nothing but bliss. And I hope you know how much you were and are loved. Thank you, Buster.