Hello friends. I know many of you are worried about my dog. And while there might be cause for minor worry, I don’t feel that there is cause for immediate worry. Mojo is twelve, he has a bum leg, and he’s sleeping about 22 out of 24 hours a day. He barely barks anymore. But don’t despair. He still has good days. His appetite is hearty, and he can still relieve himself with efficiency in the yard. Thank you to everyone for your concern and well-wishes. When you see him lying in the front of the house, basking in the fall warmth, feel free to stop by and wish him well. If he hauls his tired achy body off the grass to greet you, feel very special. He doesn’t do it much anymore.
Everyone knows Mojo. If he were a person, he would be George Clooney. I’ve been asked more than once to start an Instagram account for him. In the twelve years of his life, I can’t count how many times I have come home to find goody bags or treats laid out for him on my step. Summer dogs often knock on our door and ask if he can come out to play. Children love him. Dogs love him. Our yard squirrels love him, although I believe it’s because they have figured out he is too old to bolt after them, and now they believe they hold some kind of advantage over him.
You should see him shoot eye daggers at them. If looks could kill.
The biggest change in Mojo is that while he has always come to us, now we are going to him. He can’t get up on the couch anymore, and no longer attempts the stairs. So our big, black, fluffy snuggle-bear, who would join us for movies on the couch, who would sleep in our bedrooms, who would come over for a scratch, a cuddle, or a nuzzle, now is physically isolated by his aged body.
And that will not do.
So now, we go to him. We bring him his food and water wherever he is in the house, we curl up on the floor with him when he is resting, we cross the room to give him a quick pet (on the rare occasions that he is awake). We try not to make him tax himself more physically than necessary. Sometimes we look over at him and he is just staring at us. It is at that time we go to him to bring him a treat or give him a kiss. We believe he is staring at us because while it pains him to get up, he is lonely and wants to be with us.
The following was written back in in May, in honor of Mojo’s twelfth birthday. We love you, boy.
We just celebrated your twelfth birthday. Just a small celebration, with a birthday muffin, a bag of biscuits and a squeaky toy. You’ve already destroyed the toy and removed the squeaker, but I think it was a whale. It lasted two days. The muffin lasted two seconds.
You were born on April 1st, 2008, and you lived on a farm not too far from my school where I taught high school English. You frolicked on this farm with your parents and your blonde puppy siblings. You were the only black puppy in the litter, and I remember the day I went for the interview. The blonde puppies jumped on me upon my arrival, but you hung back, eventually sauntering towards me as our eyes locked. “Clear the way, peasants,” your attitude seemed to be. “I’m the shit, and I’m coming through.” Your big brown eyes melted me to the floor, and I took you in my arms.
I was done for. Done in. Crushed.
You didn’t like the ride home too much. It was scary and loud, and you cried a lot. When we pulled up in the driveway, the boys and dad were waiting for you in the yard. I walked around to the side of the car, pulled you out of your box, and set you down on the grass. You sat there calmly, looked around, and seemed to agree that we were your people. We joke that you were so handsome, so calm, so regal, that it looked like you were thinking, “This is what I get? You people?”
Dad loved you instantly. The boys fell head-over-heels, and from the first day that you sauntered casually into the house and plopped down on the cool fireplace hearth, you were never their dog. You were their fourth brother from another mother. You fit right in and acclimated immediately.
When you were six months old, we had gone out to dinner only to return to find that you ate the couch. Big chunks of the couch were missing and were now in your stomach. The vet examined you and said your stomach looked fine, but that we might as well spay you while you were there. You eventually forgave Dr. Matt for keeping you overnight, but you never fully trusted him again.
Oh, the things you ate. The couch. A dozen donuts. A chocolate cake. Hundreds of squeaky toys, tennis balls, rawhide chewies, socks, underwear, shoes, baskets, phone cases, water bottles, medicine bottles. “If you like it, put it away,” I would tell the boys. But they would get lazy and then pretend to be enraged at the destruction of a flip-flop. You would sit there knowingly, daring them to get you in trouble. “Mom told you to put it away,” your eyes said. “Not my problem.”
Oh, the places we went. Kayaking, canoeing, mountaineering, boating. Always trips in the car, walks around the block, fall foliage jaunts to the park, visits to college campuses. Everywhere we could bring you, we did. You would stay at Grandmom’s when we went on vacation, and she would call us to talk to you, telling us you were fine, but seemed depressed. No matter what time we arrived home after a trip, even it was in the middle of the night, there was always a fight to see who got to go with dad to pick you up. John eventually insisted it was his job, and his job alone. When you got home, you would race through the house until you said hi to everyone, then you would flop down in your spot, dizzy with happiness and relief at our arrival.
Oh, your funny personality. The way you stalked us on the beach. The way you flopped down into the ocean, letting a wave completely cover you (this always made observers laugh, and people would take your picture, or clap for you. Big ham). The way you loved huskies, but not German shepherds (we could never understand it- you loved all dogs, except for German shepherds). The manic way you dug holes, and the way the digging made your ears flop around. The way dad called you “The Diggingest Dog.” The way you loved to lay in cool mulch.
When you got loose at your brother’s Little League game, and ran all over the field, overjoyed that everyone was chasing you. When a cricket got in the house, and you were afraid of it, and you hid behind the dining room table. When you would roll in dead fish or dead birds. When you would hide in every corner of the house when Heidi the groomer showed up. When the boys were young and a (harmless) drunken intruder came in the house in the middle of the night, and in the morning, I found you curled up next to him as he slept it off on the couch (great guard dog, right?) When you were very young and would chase foxes on the beach or escape during snow storms, and you wouldn’t come back for hours. When you would be brought home by police cruiser more than once, “arrested” for being found wandering too far from home. When you found a sliver of Dad’s pills on the ground, and spent the day stoned. When people would show up to the door to ask for you, “Is Mojo home?” When you would get flop ear. When you would get nervous every spring, knowing that is when we would leave you for vacation. When you wouldn’t leave my side when I was sick with the flu. When you would walk through the backyard to our neighbors’ house, and bark at their door until they would give you a cookie. When the boys would go outside to play with friends, and you would race to the door, begging not to be separated from them.
“Want to go play with the kids?” I would ask. “Yes, please,” your eyes would say. And the jubilant shouts of “Mojo!” when you joined the party.
Your favorite foods were Pop-tarts, pizza, steak, and Twizzlers. You didn’t like bologna, or waffles, or popcorn. On the rare occasions you got diarrhea, you would be polite enough to go on the small area rugs in the bathroom, because you seemed to know that they could just be thrown out. You were always so smart, so considerate, and so affectionate.
You never smelled like a dog- we have always liked to say you smell like Christmas stockings and Easter baskets. Right now you smell like vanilla cookies. You also never shed. People didn’t believe us, but all that beautiful black floof, and you only shed a little bit in the fall. Your name was almost Hamlet, but Dad said you would never live up to the name as Hamlets are big tough dogs, and you were a gentle giant. We put you on every single Christmas card we ever sent. When the twins left for college, you began sleeping in Tommy’s room. You were the first thing they would run for when they would come home on break.
And now you are twelve, and we are watching you carefully. Even Tommy has noticed. “He doesn’t get up to see me when I walk in the door anymore,” he said. You are limping on your front right paw and taking medicine for it. You lay outside sometimes all day. You seem to be receding from us, laying away from us, not facing us, as if you are trying to get us ready for your absence. You don’t have your usual pep, and you can no longer get in the car to go to the beach.
We have taken to crawling on the ground to hug you, talk to you, whisper to you. You still seek our attention, our hugs and our scratches, but not as much. You seem very content to be alone, comfortable under your tree or behind the couch. You are very still, and very calm. Content. Happy.
We like the quote that dogs don’t need to live as long as humans because they enter the world already knowing how to love. Dogs don’t have to make mistakes or figure things out. They already know everything.
You have always known everything.
You have been the best dog, the best brother, the best companion. There is no way to put into words the joy and laughter you have given us, the depth of love and acceptance that flows from your doggy heart. We are who we are as a family, as people, because of you.
Love you forever.