Our beloved dog, Pippin, died last week after a short, unexpected illness. We’ll probably never know exactly what caused it, but he came down with pneumonia, and we suspect it progressed quickly to sepsis, which can level anyone in the blink of an eye.
I’m heartbroken but am also grateful for the time I had with him. He was my constant companion and sat with me as I wrote most of my articles for this paper, except for when he was perched by the front window waiting for our wonderful mail carrier to bring him treats and incidentally deliver the mail.
Born eleven years ago, Pippin was a feisty, fiercely independent cairn terrier. Originally from the islands of Scotland, cairns were bred to be farm dogs, but Pippin’s heart belonged to the sea. He was never happier than when he was in a boat, usually helping me fish. Although the “help” was often shrill and piercing — no one ever got a terrier for the pleasing bark — his passion was infectious
He had other interests as well. He loved to play, chewing really spoke to him and he was an extravagantly loud, boundlessly enthusiastic social host. Deeply concerned about homeland security, our neighbors all understood they were under Pippin’s protection; he radiated purpose. At home, he raised the alarm any time he spotted an unauthorized dog walking by like it was on a public sidewalk. Never once did we wake up to find a German Shepherd had slipped into the house overnight.
But more than that, Pippin was my beloved friend. Our intention was to get him “for” our son — a boy should have a dog — but the moment he spotted me it was all over. While I’ve generally been fortunate with my human relationships, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this, the uncritical joy and radiant affection dogs share with the people they’ve identified as “theirs.” I was captivated, humbled, and defenseless all at once, this bewildering love that danced around me each day and warmed my feet at night. For eleven years, I never felt alone in our house.
I’m gutted, but I’m also grateful for his life, and I’m thinking about meaning. You, my neighbors, are a part of that. We’re a neighborhood that loves its dogs (not to sleight our also-beloved cats), and my wife and I have often joked that the sole criteria for “joining” the neighborhood is a dog.
We all have busy lives, and it’s easy to get consumed by family pressures, work pressures, all the distractions of daily living. Our animals force us to take a step back and focus on the basics. Pippin knew when we were upset, but he also knew when he needed to go outside, and he brought his expansive personality with him. Anyone we saw was enthusiastically greeted, and that frequently sparked a conversation. Over the years, those contacts created lasting bonds. Our counter is now covered with sympathy cards, mostly from neighbors and I credit Pippin with nudging many of those friendships into maturity.
Which brings me to love.
As I’m struggling to make sense of this loss, I’m asking all the usual existential questions, thinking about my faith, the immutability of death and our place in the world. I won’t inflict most of those thoughts on you, but I will say this: I believe now, more than ever, that love is the most powerful force on Earth that impacts our daily lives, and it’s also the force we can exert the most control over. Love can be kindled, nurtured, and shared.
I’ve always believed that it’s the small things in life that have the greatest power to sustain. Large gatherings, big trips, public acknowledgments — they’re all fine, but it’s the small, daily expressions of love that keep us going day in and day out. For me, one of those “small things” greeted me each day with a wagging tail and a bark and regularly crawled up onto my chest at six in the morning to lick my face. Pippin may be gone, but I’ll never forget how much we mattered to each other, and it’s the certain knowledge of that love that’s helping me cope with his loss.
Many thanks to you, my neighbors, for all your support and for being the loving, caring community you are. And for all you animal lovers out there, give your pet an extra hug tonight. They’re precious, and we don’t have them forever.
