A little shy of seven years ago I hopped
into my dented, sometimes smoking Ford Focus hatchback and set off to liberate
an animal from the hellhole of Oklahoma.
My bride and I, in our newlywed wisdom, decided to get a dog,
specifically a boxer. This was despite
the fact that she already had a dog and a cat and she was out of the
state. Also, our house was about the
size of an apartment with a backyard you could traverse in three giant
steps. We found a family who bred boxers
and decided ours didn’t need to be as flashy.
(And also the flashy ones were more expensive—flashy is boxer lingo for
white on a boxer’s chest)
It went down a bit like a drug
deal. I called on my cell phone as I
neared the agreed upon meeting place, a Wal-Mart parking lot. I exchanged cash for dog and within five
minutes I had a bag of food and an eight-week old male boxer, nameless at that
time in the seat next to me.
We spent the night together on my
inflatable mattress. I remember he
howled the first couple of days, missing his siblings most likely. For the first few weeks it was just the two
of us. I remember walking into the house
on a lunch break and smelling something unmistakable. I found the shit but did not find its
creator. After a couple of minutes of
searching (a very small house mind you) I found him cowering in the
closet. Poor little guy.
Miranda arrived in June with her
elderly English springer spaniel and tiny orange cat in tow. By then our little boy had a name, Vince, it
was the first we both liked, an ode to Texas Longhorns great Vince Young. Vince was enthralled with Lacey the spaniel,
and Lacey was annoyed an equal amount. I
can’t blame her. By then she was nearly
ten years old and here was this energetic brown thing constantly trying to take
her food. She put him in his place a
time or two.
Vince is so special to us because he
started as a divisive force, Miranda wishing we would love her as much as Vince
and I loved each other. As our early
marriage struggled he became the glue that held us together. During times of sadness and loss, when we
argued seemingly just to see who could yell the loudest, Vince was there to
stand before us and place a single paw on our laps. I would look into the chocolate pools of his
eyes and feel a sort of calm come over me.
He would insert himself, physically between us when we fought.
We climbed mountains, literally and
metaphorically. We ran out to the flight
line and back, unclipping Vince’s collar so he could sprint as fast as he
needed. To those who knew Vince later in
life it might seem a shock that he was a runner. Having never seen a greyhound at work I can
say Vince was the fastest dog I’ve ever seen.
We went to the dog park, played in the snow, and eventually got fat
together.
I don’t know why I thought it was a
good idea at the time, but I do not regret it now. I bought Miranda a boxer girl she named
Ivy. Vince and Ivy were like peas and
carrots. As soon as she was able to
traverse the folds and flaps of his body she set up residence on his head, a
habit that would continue for the next five years. As a family we had grown to three dogs and
two cats. That’s a lot of fur for a tiny
house.
The Air Force sent me to Guam and
through the chaos of moving across the ocean our biggest concern was how our
puppies would adjust. Visiting Vince and
Ivy in quarantine, or prison as we
called it, became a daily event. Then
for a few months Vince and Ivy became jungle dogs, disappearing into the
thicket surrounding our house for hours at a time. Right about the time our worry turned to
panic we would hear their less-than-delicate footsteps crashing through the
branches and brambles and Miranda and I would promise to never ever let them go
out alone again, until the next time we did.
Vince made our time in Guam
tolerable. He made Miranda feel safe
when I was not around, which was doubly important when a little firework named
Magnolia Jean exploded into our lives.
Any loving, doting owner develops a
private language with his pets and I mourn the fact that I will not get to use
those words with Vince.
Who
wants a butt scratch, a butt scratch?
Oh
Mr. Viiiiinnnceee!
What
is it boy? You my special boy?
And our favorite thing to do was to
squeal or yodel to which Vince would respond by howling mournfully. I will miss the weight of my best furry
friend, when he bulldozed his way through all obstacles to mount the couch and
hover over me. I will miss his wide,
slow tongue, his butt flap, his ears that never folded the right way. I will miss the comfort of his presence, the
stability and peace he brought to the house.
I cherish our memories together, and I will never stop missing you.
