When I was running tonight my mind, as usual, was bouncing all around. Somewhere in the flotsam and jetsam of thoughts my dog Marley came to mind. He’s the exact opposite of my other black dog.

We named him Marley because he’s a Rasta dog. Cool and easy going. He’s a very old black dog. He will turn 17 this July. I’ve never had a dog this old. For the last three years it was in the back of my mind that this will be his last Thanksgiving, Christmas, Winter, Spring, etc. but it never was. We should have named him Timex.

My daughter found him as a puppy wondering around in an alley and didn’t have to do much begging for us to take him home. He was everything our other dog wasn’t, namely calm, gentle and very smart. He was so black that in early photos you can hardly make out his features but now there’s virtually no place on his body that doesn’t have some white hair.

My daughter has always loved animals and one of her favorite games when she was little was one she made up called “dog catcher”. She and her brothers would pretend to be dogs and they would hide while I was the mean dog catcher who would round them up & put them in the dog pen. They would of course escape as soon as my back was turned.

Marley loved this game and got so excited he would growl and bark and run along side of me to find them. He loved to play.

When we’d go to the school park Marley always came along. He’d climb the slide and go down with everyone. If we’d play baseball, Marley would play center field and bring a rather slobbery ball back to us.

If I pretended to be a bad guy and walked towards my son or daughter with my hands raised and fingers curled threateningly, Marley would quickly run to their defense and position himself in front of them, staring me down and growling. If I dared to reach in to grab them, he would grab my arm in his mouth with his eyes wide and growl even louder. His way of saying “Don’t even think about it.”

He could balance a Milkbone like no one’s business. Roll over on command, no problem. I could cock my finger and turn my hand into a gun and he would drop over at ‘Bang’. With a wave of your hand he would say his prayers. Wave the other way and he would back up.

Shedding aside, he’s the perfect dog.

Now he’s about 10 pounds lighter, full of white hair and various bumps and growths that I can only imagine are tumors. When he sleeps, he looks like a puddle of fur poured in his bed. His eyes are cloudy and he can’t hear so good. Slick wooden floors and steps are not his friend.

He loves to hang around me in the yard looking for rocks, bones or pieces of wood to bury. He’s happiest when there’s dirt on his nose. If his nose ever failed him I don’t know how he’d get around. He uses it to navigate his increasingly smaller world. Despite all this, his tail is ever wagging. He’s always happy.

He inspires me to accept whatever life brings me. To be myself. To be happy for another day even when I don’t feel so good & it’s hard to pull myself out of bed. To love and accept myself & others warts and all . . . and always be glad to see loved ones.

He’s my kind of black dog.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 27th, 2008 at 8:29 pm and is filed under family, hope, love, pets, positive attitude.