The Good Dog

Maazy, Mandy, Horney - whatever name she went by, was by far the best dog I have ever known. She was simply the smartest, most intuitive, lovingest dog in the world. So when unexpectedly at the age of only 10 or 11 she died, it was a shock that shook my family to the core.

She was a park dog - a foundling who had survived for some weeks on her own in Riverside Park. Our babysitter cajoled her home and my family fell in love with her at first sight. She looked like a sawed-off German shepherd, with alert, expressive eyes, a brown coat, which contrasted beautifully with a golden brown chest. She was my idea of what a dog should be.

Once she moved in with us we became her sole responsibility. She seemed devoted to us. She welcomed our friends and growled instinctively at those we distrusted. She accompanied the children of our building into Riverside Park after school. She watched over them and gave warning to anyone she perceived unwelcome by the group.

At home she liked to herd us into the same room. She was most content at meal times or evenings spent in the living room in front of the TV.

She doled herself out to us. Each of us got equal attention. She would allow us to pet and admire her. It was her due. We understood. She obeyed my husband’s rules with a smile. When he played the piano she would be sure to hop on the bed and relax on the pillows knowing he wasn’t going to enforce that particular ban while he was playing. Any pauses in the music and her intelligent head would perk up to see if the piece continued or not. She was off that bed long before he made it  into the bedroom if the piece was over. I’ve frequently longed for her during concerts when I didn't have a proper notion of when a selection is actually going to be finally over.

She had a highly defined sense of taste as well. She would come into the kitchen to see what I was preparing. If I were baking she would sniff the air and if I were using butter she would settle down in front of the oven to await the first cookies. If I was using margarine she would sniff and go to another part of the apartment.

Our Maaz ran away frequently. She was a park dog after all. We stopped being distraught after a few years. We knew she would come home after a night in the park,  she would cross Riverside Drive safely, arriving at our building when Barney the doorman began his shift. She knew he would put her on the elevator to our floor where we would find her asleep in front of our door.

That’s what got her of course. Apparently the parks department had laid pellets of rat poisoning in the park and she ate them. She consumed so many the vet couldn’t save her. We awoke Christmas morning to find her curled up next to our daughter’s bed. Gone.

This loss seemed unbearable to all of us. We wept and cried each day vowing never to have another dog because none could replace her.

Her passing made a sort of philosopher of me. I always agreed with Shaw that if heaven didn’t allow dogs then I wanted no part of going there. But to feel her loss, how could I comprehend? 

It came to me one morning after her death that she had been the best darned dog I had ever known. She lived her doggie life to the fullest. She enjoyed each day of caring for us, of foraging in the park, of just being a dog. She lived the good life: she was kind and just in her dealings with us humans. She forgave our shortcomings and even our misdeeds. She ate with relish and she slept peacefully. She lived her life to the fullest and now she was gone. 

And what difference did it make where her doggie soul had gone? She was my dog and I loved her. I wouldn't mind being as good a person as she was a dog. She connected. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Either there is heaven or not, a god or not. It’s all about how you live your life.

Thank you, Mandy.