Remembering Yellow Dog

Today marks exactly 5 years since we had to say goodbye to our beloved Murph dog.

I didn’t have my blog back then, so in a belated tribute to my old friend, I thought maybe I’d repurpose the write-up that I had prepared for Teresa to post on Facebook at the time - not the abbreviated version that she ended up sharing with everyone, but the full, unabridged stream of consciousness that had come pouring out of me that night, when all of my memories and emotions were as raw as the stinging loss that I had just suffered.

And while it’s impossible to sum up a special friendship, an entire life, in just a few sentences, or even a long, rambling journal entry out on a web site somewhere, Murphy had occupied such a big part of our lives, overflowing our hearts with love and joy the entire 13 ½ years he was with us, that I felt his story deserved a permanent spot on my blog.

So, to that end, here you go buddy. We love and miss you!

What follows is the write-up that I had prepared about Murphy back in 2017…

Gone But Never Forgotten

On Tuesday afternoon we said goodbye to yellow dog. From the moment we first saw him as a 5-week-old pup, we instantly knew that this AKC certified ball of yellow fur would live up to all of the stereotypical, loveable qualities of his Labrador Retriever breed. Murphy was an extremely loving and loyal companion, and an idiot through and through, and we loved him to death. Over the 13 and a half years that he was part of our lives he supplied us with so many great memories, that it’s impossible to recount them all here.

As I sit here and try to put into words what I am feeling, many of these memories come flooding back to me. Images of him bounding around the backyard at Riley Street as an energetic adolescent, not quite understanding that the point of playing fetch is actually to return the Frisbee to the person who threw it. Thinking back on our proud moments as the owners of a dog who defied all odds to successfully fail out of the Capital Area Humane Society beginner obedience class, not once, but twice. I will never forget how he escaped from the cargo area of our Chevy Trailblazer and consumed an entire 6-pound raw pork loin while we were in Pet Supply Plus (ironically, buying him a 40-pound bag of his Eucanube dog food) or the liquid aftermath we had to deal with that following week from the special cleansing food that our vet had prescribed for him. And there was the time that we decided it would be a good idea to give him a mini plush stuffed “Thing 2” (from Dr. Seuss’ Cat in the Hat) that was the toy prize in our box of Rice Krispie’s cereal, only to have him swallow it whole and find “Thing 2” in a pile of his #2 a few days later. And then of course there was the infamous “cone of shame” that he had to wear while healing his lacerated arm. I remember as if it was only yesterday telling him to “stay” as I struggled to unlatch the gate while balancing a full bundle of asphalt shingles in my other arm, only to have him bolt through a small opening between my legs and tear out toward the street and the boundless wonders of the neighborhood that lay beyond. By the time I got to the end of the driveway he was nowhere to be seen, and as I called out to him in the distance, I heard the screeching noise of car tires on wet pavement, and a horrible yelping sound that I knew had to have come from him. I started to run toward the sound thinking the worst, just as he came jogging back up to me as if nothing had happened. I recall wanting to simultaneously hug and strangle him, and after a quick inspection for any obvious injuries, sneaking upstairs where Teresa was nursing Carson and whispering in her ear “Murphy got out and I think he got hit by a car” Well, a trip to the after hours emergency pet clinic and a few hundred dollars later, Murph suffered only minor abrasions to his arm, a bruised lung, and the shame of having to don a flimsy plastic cone that we took great pleasure in using a Sharpee marker to doctor up with well wishes from some of his fictitious canine acquaintances, you know, the way a kid would have their friends sign their cast after breaking their arm.

I remember how small he was when we first brought him home from the breeder. He would squeeze under our platform deck and I was convinced that he would get stuck and that I would have to cut away a bunch of deck boards to rescue him, but sooner or later he would triumphantly emerge proudly displaying some piece of trash in his mouth. I remember him hanging out with us as we worked on the upstairs at Riley Street, and how he would sit in the corner and gnaw on 2x4 scraps that we would toss to him, and how we had to stop ourselves from getting too mad at him when we had discovered that he had chewed one of the rockers off of the chair that Jeff and Jenny had gotten for us as a baby shower gift for Carson. I remember the shear panic I felt as he somehow managed to wiggle through the half-way rolled down back window of our vehicle which was parked on the side of US2, and Dave and I jumping out of the car to try and intercept him before he ran out into traffic. But being his usual unpredictable self, he instead sprinted ten feet in the opposite direction to lift his leg and take a leak on the “smoked fish” sign outside of Mike’s gas station/convenience store. Or the time we had returned home to find that Felicia’s chocolate lab Maggie and him had managed to pry the lid off his plastic food container to gorge themselves on a good portion of the 40 pounds of dog food that was stored inside, and then going upstairs to find where the two of them subsequently had explosive diarrhea all over our brand-new carpet.

Murphy loved trips to the Ponderosa and chasing chipmunks through the woods, He loved the water, whether it was plunging into the surf of Lake Michigan, splashing around in a kiddie pool, or flopping down into a mud puddle in front of our cabin. He loved ice cream, doing tricks for biscuits, and eating corn off the cob. He loved our boys, always willing to shower them with kisses, or let them climb all over him, and was the best big brother we could have ever asked for. Murphy loved life, and for that we loved him.

As the years went by and life continued on, we would add other memories, some not so great, and many bittersweet. When Murph, who loved nothing more than going bye-bye, literally had to take a backseat to our new infant son because we couldn’t trust him to sit next to the car seat in the back of our Chevy Avalanche, fearing that he would accidently trample Carson trying to get to the window to bark at some random cow or deer standing on the side of the road. Or the time about five years ago when he tore his ACL, essentially putting an end to the long walks that he had loved so much. Or the day a couple of years back when his hips finally got so bad that he could no longer climb up into our bed, and this stubborn dog, who ever since he was a puppy had insisted on burrowing his way under the covers to curl up into a ball to sleep between my legs, would instead have to settle for a spot on the floor, faithfully taking his place every evening since on the patch of carpet in front of the night stand on my side of the bed.

Over time fluffy yellow fur and puppy breath gave way to coarse white hair, lumps and bumps and smelly ear gunk, but beneath it all remained that same dog that we had first fallen in love with so many years ago. As his health declined in later years, and his physical ailments really started to pile up, I would often remind Teresa that he was the same pup that she used to share a spoon with while eating butter pecan ice cream, and I couldn’t help thinking back to all of the times that he had accosted me in response to the command of “give daddy kisses”. Truth is that time had taken its toll on Murph, and even our best efforts to cling to those pleasant memories couldn’t roll back the years or prolong the inevitable.

As painful as this process is, I am so grateful that our last weeks with Murph were full of countless, memorable moments that we will forever be able to look back on. This past month Murph was able to spend two great weekends up north at our cabin, despite the pain and discomfort I am sure he was having to endure. I will never forget how excited Ryan was when Murphy caught the piece of JB’s pizza crust on the fly as our family sat together at the table enjoying Teresa’s birthday dinner (even though it took six attempts!) And in retrospect how beautiful and fitting it was that a simple “bye Murphy” would end up being Carson’s last words to Murphy before leaving to head back to school on that morning that we ended up taking him into the vet. I will never regret the extra-long car ride through the countryside that we took on our way out to Mason, or stopping at McDonald’s to buy an ice cream cone (which by the way, Teresa gladly shared with him for that one last time), or stroking the hair on his forehead and whispering that I loved him and that he was a good dog as he lay on the examination table and peacefully drifted off to sleep.

As pet owners we know the deal. We go in knowing full well that we will outlive our pets. As much as we hope and pray for them to peacefully pass on their own, very seldom do they die of natural causes, which makes our decision to intervene that much more difficult. Selfishly I wondered if Murphy had any more good days left in him, but deep inside I knew he was suffering and it was his time. That being said, it was still hard to let him go.

I am trying to keep things in perspective. We have friends who have lost parents, and other friends who have lost a spouse, and I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it would be to deal with the loss of a child. But nonetheless, losing Murphy does hurt. It actually hurts a lot right now, and that is okay.

It’s the series of painful first, the subtle reminders that make each step of this healing process that much more difficult. It’s the first time coming home not to find him waiting at the door for us. It was having to tell the boys about our difficult decision to let him go and consoling them as they struggle to deal with the gravity of the situation. It was lying in bed that first night and not hearing his familiar noises beside the bed or down the hall. It was the pain of going downstairs the next morning to move his food dishes out of the kitchen before the kids came down for breakfast to find his bowl still half full of food. And I am certain that as time goes on, there will be more painful reminders to come, more painful firsts to have to endure. going up north to the cabin for the first time without Murphy, or that first Christmas that he won’t be there in the middle of the chaos as the kids rip open their presents.

But as bad as it hurts right now there are some things that are helping to cope with the pain. Watching old family movies of Murphy and listening to my kids giggle at something funny he did in the video. Being reminded of the uncanny likeness of Murphy the pup in the little yellow lab stuffed animals that the boys have discovered new found attachment to. Sharing stories and celebrating his life. Even loving on Stormy the cat has helped. And of course, a lot of talking and crying.

As I sit here reflecting back on the last couple of days I think of something that I said to my 8-year old Ryan that kind of sums it up for me. As I laid there with him in our bed trying to console him that first night, I told him, “I am glad that Murphy was part of your life. I am glad that Murphy was part of my life. He made both of our lives better”.

Thank you Murph dog, we will forever love and miss you.

Post-Script: 2017 to Present

In the years since we said goodbye to Murphy, hardly a day goes by without me thinking about him.

Even now he finds subtle ways to be there for me.

Murphy’s ashes laying beside Chris’s bedside stand

The close-up of his adorable furry mug is framed and prominently hangs on the wall in our home office right next to my desk, symbolically looking down on me day after day as I type away on my computer.

I still keep the box containing his ashes on the floor next to the nightstand on my side of the bed, near the spot on the floor where he used to sleep when he got older and could no longer climb up to army-crawl under the covers, which comforts me to no end, knowing that even in death, my faithful companion is still there by my side.

Murphy regularly comes up in conversation with my wife and kids, usually after one of us brings up some funny thing that he had done, or we come across some old photo or video clip he was in that sparks some memory, and for those fleeting moments, it’s as if we can still reach back in time an stroke his fluffy fur.

Of course, the one thing that probably reminds us of Murphy the most, is our current dog Zanna

Zanna is a 3-year-old Neapolitan mastiff that we got from some friends of ours nearly two years ago.

Ironically, we had put off getting another dog because I was having a particularly hard time getting over the loss of Murphy. But looking back now, I’m so glad that I finally relented and got on-board with taking Zanna into our home, because she ended up being the exact remedy I needed to fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Murph.

Getting Zanna was therapeutic for Teresa and the boys as well. From the moment that we were first introduced to her in our friend’s driveway, I could tell that this goofy, slobbery beast had instantly imprinted on my wife and kids, like something out of a young adult vampire romance novel.

Unlike with Murphy, who was definitely my dog, when it comes to vying for Zanna’s love and affection, I know that I am a distant fourth in the pecking order, and that’s okay.

Zanna is particularly fond of her boys Carson and Ryan, and rightfully so, since they lovingly dote on her like the little sister that they never had, and inn typical big brother fashion, they also pick on her like they would any other sibling, but Zanna doesn’t seem to mind, and enjoys giving it right back to them.

But Teresa is without a doubt Zanna’s BFF. Zanna will spend the entire day sound asleep on the couch, but as soon as she hears the garage door open, she will spring to life, and go running into the laundry room barker just a barkering, tail-a-thumpin’ to excitedly welcome her bestest buddy home from work. Teresa loves to spoil Zanna with belly rubs, shower her with praises of how pretty she is, or even paint her toe nails during one of their impromptu girls’ spa days, when they’ve been known to lock themselves in our upstairs master bathroom on the rare occasion we have to let a contractor into the house to do some work. The two of them are practically inseparable, whether it’s their daily pre-dawn eye cleaning/treat getting ritual, going for long walks through the trails, or their lazy afternoon snuggle sessions, there Zanna will be, at Teresa’s feet, on her heals, or curled up in her lap.

I know that Murphy can never be replaced, but Zanna is a great dog in her own right. That being said, Murphy and Zanna couldn’t be more of the complete polar opposite dogs.

For starters, there are the obvious distinctions, like the fact that Murphy was a boy, and Zanna is a girl, “yellow dog” vs. “grey dog,” one was an unlimited ball of spastic energy while the other is the world’s biggest couch potato.

You couldn’t keep Murphy away from water, lakes, kiddie pools, mud puddles, it didn’t matter, while Zanna will stand at the door, whining incessantly to be let back in if she gets caught outdoors in the lightest of rain showers. Murphy would literally drag you around the block, pull you right off your feet if you weren’t expecting it, while Zanna has been known to plop down and refuse to move if she decides she’s “not in the mood” for a walk.

But despite these differences, I can’t help but see a lot of Murph in Zanna, and she is constantly doing Murph-worthy things to remind me that it’s okay to move on, that loving her doesn’t mean that I am somehow betraying his memory.

I get comfort in coming downstairs each morning and pressing my muzzle to hers and petting her head while she is still half asleep, sprawled out on a nest of piled-up blankets and pillows.

I love hearing my boys snicker when she steals my spot on the couch if I get up to go into the other room for a minute, and how unapologetic and annoyed she seems when I return and try to squeeze onto the sliver of cushion she left for me.

I find it amusing when she tries to will Teresa into giving her a treat, by hypnotically staring up at the container of peanut butter pretzels sitting on the counter, or sticking her wrinkly snout up toward our fridge’s ice dispenser like it’s her own personal vending machine.

I wonder how many other dogs are able to sit on the floor and easily stare at the food on the table, at eye level, when begging during dinner, or whether other breeds possess Zanna’s uncanny ability to act dainty and simultaneously be disgusting, like how she can keep the same unabashed expression on her face, without breaking eye contact with her giant, droopy, sad puppy dog eyes, as a long, involuntary fart escapes from her butt.

Mostly I love that she has reminded me what it meant to love Murph, which helps to make even the hard times tolerable, days like this, or on his birthday in October, when I am looking back and tend to be missing my buddy the most.

At the same time, I’m not naïve, I get that someday, I’ll probably be writing a post like this about Zanna.

But hopefully that is still years and years off, and I don’t want to think about that right now.

No, today is about celebrating Murphy.

It’s about sharing all of the stories, and smiles, and laughs, and yes, even some tears.

It’s about the special place he occupies in each of our hearts, then, now, and forever.

It’s about looking back and moving forward, contrasting the pain of his loss with all the joy we gained from having had him in our lives.

It’s about a one-of-a-kind dog, the most special of companions, and the very best of friends.

Today is about remembering yellow dog.