The Mook
Sometimes I think if Joe Bolton had owned a dog, maybe he would have been ok in the end.
My dog Mookie is turning ten. It seemed fitting to post this with many of the Pearl Jam allusions syncing up nicely. Although in light of recent events we’ve taken to using the surname Betts instead of Blaylock.
I often (probably too often) joke with my wife that Mookie is my most successful long-term relationship. But he is! Ten years ago I went puppy shopping with the ex-fiance. We started at the Monadnock Humane Society visiting ten *mostly* German Shepherd puppies. I knew I wanted to bring home Mook immediately. He was definitely a shepherd, but appeared to have some husky or hound or both in him. His mom’s name was Journey. Too perfect. My ex wanted a smaller dog though, so we spent the day driving all over New Hampshire looking at various other mutts. Finally I convinced her that “maybe he wouldn’t get that big…his mom was only 60 pounds…” and we returned to the Humane Society and brought home Mookie.
I spent that first night, and quite a few after that, sleeping on the floor with my arms extended into his crate on either side of him, as that was the only way he’d stay settled. The crate was abandoned shortly thereafter, and his dog bed placed next to my side of the human bed. Later on, in the heyday of my bachelorhood, he had his own twin mattress next to my king, which only made sense to me since he weighed 90 pounds to my 180.
I read a book on training German Shepherds and followed it religiously. I subscribed to the Cesar Millan school of “exercise, training, affection…in that order” and worked with Mook daily. We took several obedience classes at the Humane Society. I used to take him hiking up by Otter Brook, and we played around on the K-9 agility course on summer evenings. I took him mountain biking with me, followed by swims at Goose Pond. I always thought he would have been a hell of a Dock Dog.
My wife calls me the dog whisperer, because I’ve never been bitten, and I have always seemed to have a way with dogs. I just feel very connected to them, and none more so than Mookie. Everyone thinks their dog is the best dog in the world, but I think Mookie may lay claim to that title. At doggy day care they used to call him “the universal play dog” because he could be placed with the 140+ pound bruisers and hold his own, but he was also gentle enough to be placed with the puppies or the little guys. Hell, his best friend is a 12 pound Lhasa Apso named Mr. Eko.
I survived some hard nights because of Mookie. My mid to late twenties (and to be honest some of my early thirties) contained some rough spells. I deal with a little PTSD that manifests itself like some weird depression and anxiety hybrid, and my favorite (bad idea!) treatment method was booze. And to be honest I’m a little on the melodramatic side to begin with, and my dating history is…significant. There were plenty of difficult times when Mook felt like the only good thing I had going. He’s intelligent and sensitive (I can understand now how some dogs are able to sense when humans are going to have seizures) and always seemed to know when I needed him most. He’s just a great goddamn dog.
That first year I got sober, walking Mookie took on a different feel. Especially at night, in the winter, in the cold and under the moon, the trees against the sky, I felt more in the moment than I had in years. It reminded me of college summers in the Adirondacks in some ways, or hiking out of the Grand Canyon on the Angel Fall Trail. I felt grateful for the moments, watching Mookie live his life, running through the dark, inhaling the cold scents and loving the visceral feel of the snow and ice and cold. I was actually in it, instead of sneaking a drink along or wanting to get home to one, but really just enjoying being outside and watching him live. Watching his joy, his life beside mine, his life within mine, and mine within his. The life all around me sometimes felt like I had willed it into existence.
I’m not sure what meaning there is, or isn’t, in this life. I vacillate between moments of immense gratitude and near spiritualism back to bouts of nihilistic pessimism and frustration. But I do think there has to be meaning in providing a life of joy for another, even if it is “just” a dog. I’m not a good enough writer to really articulate what Mookie means to me, but I think anyone who loves their dog will understand what I’m trying to get at. The bond between wolf and man is very real (thank you Metallica). I bring joy to Mookie’s life, and he brings joy to mine. You can’t gaze into the abyss for too long when the dog is in need of a walk around the block.
Happy Birthday, Mook. Thanks for everything.
Addendum: I lost Mookie to cancer five months after writing this. I was, and years later I still am, utterly devastated by it.
