Pets Teach Us Well, Then They Let Us Go

Last Sunday if you'd come to my house you'd have found me under the bush in the back yard next to the fence where I was combing my dog, pulling out handfuls of old summer fur and stuffing it into a bag.

I've spent a lifetime combing his thick, half-chow hair. As he aged, he grew impatient with my rolling him onto his back or to this side, then this side, or yanking the tender hairs of his belly or tail. But on Sunday, he didn't try to hop up and chase a squirrel or push me away with his thick, wide feet. Something was wrong. Over the last two days, he'd steadily lost energy, and other than the small bowls of rice and beef broth I cooked for him, he wasn't eating. I could comb all I wanted, and he wouldn't run away.

As I combed, I talked. "I'll bet this feels a lot better," and "You're going to look so good when I'm finished." He rolled his big, milky brown eyes up at me as if to say, "Thanks," blew out a tired breath of air and lay his head back down.

My Langston. I believe the animals we need come to us when we need them most. Thirteen and a half years ago, the year we moved to Lexington, I was not yet sure I liked this place when the gangly untamed black puppy bounded down our driveway one evening when I pulled in after work. I took to him immediately, but he was wearing a collar and, I reasoned, was too pretty not to be owned by somebody.

But despite our efforts, no one stepped up to claim him. We named him Langston, after Langston Hughes, the poet. He was my "dream deferred" — he was the dog I always wanted, I told my husband. He was the little black dog my mother made us give away 30 years ago, and he'd found me at last.

But he was wild. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't walk on a leash. He jumped on children and adults. He could run as fast as a thoroughbred, his thick black hair breezing from his face. He ate the back porch. He ate the yucca plant by the gate. He ate the dryer vent — twice — and the doghouse I built for him.

Night after night, I sat with him on the back porch and pleaded, "If you don't calm down, I can't keep you." He'd lick my face, smile, and then bury his soft head in my lap.

But he was smart. He quickly learned to sit, lay and shake hands. "Kiss, Langston," I'd say, and he'd hop up and lick my face every time.

Every chance he could, he'd sneak out the gate and run around the neighborhood. The more we chased, the faster he ran. So we'd wait, and eventually he'd come back home. Meanwhile we'd listen to people in the park next door screaming as this big black animal came bounding toward them, his large incisors flashing and that bear-like fur on end. I'd have screamed, too.

Whatever critter crossed his back yard was dinner. Possum, squirrel, bird, snake. Even my kitten, Stuey, for which I finally forgave him.

On the occasions he came inside the house, chaos erupted. When he wagged his tail, he wagged his whole body, knocking over tables and toppling shelves. More than once, we chased him through the house as he chased a cat that was ricocheting off walls and couches to get away.

But I could sit on the back porch and wrap my arms around him when I especially needed him. He'd hug me back, tucking his big black head into my lap or shoulder, his warm body next to mine. He'd sit with me as long as I needed to sit. He'd let me talk about anything. He'd walk and walk and walk as far as I needed to walk.

When we brought him home from the vet's last Monday evening, we knew we were bringing him home for the last time. With very slow steps, he made his way to the back fence, curled himself underneath his favorite bush and lay down. All through the evening, every 30 minutes or so, I walked out and checked on him, rubbing his soft head, talking. He'd roll his brown eyes up, and then close them.

Around 11:30, when I opened the back door, there he stood. He'd mustered the energy to walk to the door one last time, where every night of his life I stepped out to tell him goodnight.

I know this is just another dog story, and my Langston was just another dog. But he was my dog, and it's my hand holding the leash that's now dangling.

Our animals come to us when we need them. They teach us unconditional love and selfless giving. They teach us joy, and laughter, patience and forgiveness.

They teach us all they can, and then, when we are ready, they let us go.

First published in
The Dispatch (Lexington, NC).
Distributed nationally by the
New York Times News Service.