I lost Bark Lee after having spent the last eleven years together, the entirety of his sweet life. For me, he was as close to perfection in all things dog and friend as a living being could achieve. I teach school, and I got Bark Lee at the beginning of my summer vacation those many years ago so that I could spend a lot of time with him and help him learn the ropes of being a big dog. I read in a training book that dogs respond to the phrase, "What a good boy" and that you should say it often. I bet you I said that phrase a million times over the last decade. Eventually, I chanted it like a mantra without thinking. I can't recall a minute of separation as we spent the summer playing and playing. That winter while watching an NFL playoff game in bed, Bark Lee laid on his back in the crook of my arm for the entire second half, his big nose and floppy feet hanging in the air. I wanted to tutor him, but he taught me the zen of being a big dog. He earned the nickname Mr. Big Nose because his big black nose seemed to swell to the size of a large, wet plum when he was happy or excited. When he looked up at you, his big nose was about the only feature you could see. For years, the tip of it was skinned and pink because he liked to use his big nose as a digging tool. Even when he wasn't digging, he would wiggle that big nose beneath your arm and lift it to start your arm in the motion needed to pet him. He liked to dig so much I had to lay chicken wire in the dirt behind the house so it wouldn't cave in where he had dug his trenches. Even though he was a Golden Retriever, his coat was so red that countless people mistakenly assumed he was an Irish Setter. He was big but he was fit because we played stick, swam, and ran summer after summer, spring after spring, year after year. "Stick" was such a great game, particularly in Bark Lee's prime years when stick grew to branch or limb. I beamed with pride the time my vet pulled the stethoscope from Bark Lee's chest and said, "Heart like a greyhound."
Bark Lee never wore a collar and for most of his life he did not require a leash. He always came, he always stayed. I would hop on my bike and Bark Lee would run free along with me for miles, sniffing with the big nose, leaping hedges, gliding over the green grass, clicking his nails on the concrete. Wherever we went, bike, foot, or car, folks would comment about Bark Lee's topnotch conduct. "I wish our Precious would mind like that," became the lament I heard oft repeated. People asked me time and again, "How do you get your dog to do that?" I told them I loved him, never hit him, and spent a lot of time with him. I always hoped they would go home and follow my recipe for success.
Mr. Big Nose was also the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever met of any living form. He radiated a sweet demeanor and tolerated things like having to wear sunglasses and an ugly Hawaiian shirt. More than one kitten pranced in front of him, curling their tails around his snout as he rested on his forepaws, doe eyes gazing up. He was so cool, I could leave presents, even his, under the tree unattended and undisturbed. His only vice, or perhaps it was just his passion, was bread. He loved to eat bread more than any other food, so much that I used to call his stomach "The Oven." Once, I invited a date to dinner at my home. When she asked if she could bring anything, I said, "bread." She showed up with one of those expensive loafs from a French bakery. Not even thinking about what I was doing, while standing in the kitchen engaged in conversation, I tore about half the loaf off and handed it to Bark Lee, who gobbled it up completely in two or three bites (he always chewed his hunks of bread so enthusiastically his eyes would bug out like fish eyes as his jaws clamped). My date looked at me in disbelief. I could only grin and shrug my shoulders at my faux paw.
I left home this summer to camp and see the country, but before departing, I arranged excellent accommodations for Bark Lee. (I am proud that he never stayed in a kennel his entire life.) When I returned, I was shocked to see how much weight he had lost, but not that shocked because he has been known not to eat when I was absent. I figured that I would get some weight back on him and he would be okay, but he did not get better. He got so sick I had to take him to the emergency clinic late last Saturday night. My friends watching him had taken good care, but Bark Lee just had gotten old, and he wore out. When the sad time came to say goodbye, he drifted away quickly. It all happened so fast. Even though I had faced the inevitability a while ago, I still was not prepared when it happened. My friend Bobbie said Bark Lee waited for me to come home to say good-bye. I'm glad he did. These last days have been tough. Going home is the worst. The house is so empty. I dread opening the door to that palatable empty space where he used to stand, tail wagging in its shaggy, wide sweep, a shoe or a toy in his mouth, big nose raised like a moist offering. I miss the pleasure, the joy, in our reunions (even if I had just been gone five minutes). We were so close, I always said that Bark Lee was my tattoo. If I cooked, he was in the kitchen, if I worked at my desk, he was in his "cave," if I laid on the couch or the bed, he was either on it or on the floor beside it. If I left the house, he wanted to "go for a ride." If restaurants and movie theaters allowed dogs, Bark Lee would have accompanied me to them as well. Sometimes he even went to school with me. Now, he's gone. Although life goes on, many days will pass before this hole in the middle of me will close, and even when it does, for the rest of my days I will always cherish my buddy and the wonderful life we had together. I shared everything I had with Bark Lee, and he gave me all he had in return.
What a good boy.
from Jon Scott