By Parker A. Lee
The hours of 6:45 to 8:15 a.m. and 6 to 7:30 p.m. in our household could easily be confused with an elementary school gym class.
Our three young boys are running around the house and yard like wild men, Mom and Dad are trying to get dressed for, or undressed from, work. And our dog, Enzo, is darting around seeking pats, belly rubs, and morsels of food off the ground. It’s nothing short of chaos, and there are many times when I find myself struggling through those periods and wishing for peace and calm.
One day last month was the last time Enzo will contribute to that chaos. He sprinted out our front door to greet me as I came home from work, hopped up on my leg asking for some love, then sprinted back inside and expired on our hardwood floor from a heart attack. No pain, no suffering, but he was gone just like that.
We got Enzo nine and half years ago, before we had kids, so he was the first being of any kind that we became wholly responsible for. Nothing could have better prepared us for having kids, and nothing could have helped us more in getting through some of the tough times.
Enzo loved unconditionally — well, unless you had done something really bad, and then even he wouldn’t pay attention to you (which is the kind of tough love you need sometimes). He knew when one of us was hurting and would track us down and jump into bed to comfort us. He spoke to us with his eyes and his gestures, but as clear as day. He developed his unique, loving relationships with each one of our three young boys and taught them lessons in earning trust. And best of all, he loved to roll over onto his back and ask for a belly rub.
Each night before going to sleep, we would put him on our bed, remove his collar and give him some Enzo time. Whether 30 seconds or five minutes (driven always by what we needed and not what he needed), those were special moments together and we could tell how much it meant to him.
If you’ll indulge my spirituality, I believe that dogs are angels here on earth. They are watching us, encouraging (or questioning) us, and connecting with us on levels that are completely different from how we connect with one another. Their spirits live on past their bodies, and one day, if we are lucky and good, we will see them again.
As I went to bed that night looking at the empty doggie bed in the corner of our room, I realized I would sign up for 100 years of this chaotic period of our lives for just one more day of Enzo time, one more belly rub.
Perhaps that is another lesson that Enzo taught me, and hopefully one that I’ll remember next time I start wishing away the best period of my life.
