We had Seth for nine years. He once pulled all the muscles in his neck playing tug-of-war. He skidded on ice and impaled himself on a tree, needing stitches. He ate a bag of weed (we never were sure where he found it) and his high was misdiagnosed as anti-freeze poisoning, leading my mother on a night of hellish misinformation, driving, and money. He had a severe anxiety disorder requiring Prozac. He once ate a fabric kennel in one sitting. He let himself out of dogg-day-care via the front door and escaped out into Gardner for a few hours of fun. He had the nastiest smelling farts, and loved to burrow under the covers and let one go. At two AM he went to the top of the stairs, dropped a ball down them, and chased it; repeatedly, until stopped. I miss him.
Seth was a therapy dog. My mother used him primarily with her child clients. He did so much good for them. He was someone to hold, to play with, to cry on. He could keep all their secrets. He was good at his job, keeping his crazy antics for his off-duty hours, mostly. So many people benefited from his big floppy ears and stubby wagging tail.
Seth was my shadow whenever I was visiting. Shadow is the wrong word though, because he wasn't just behind me, but underfoot and on top. Despite being about 90 lbs, he decided he was a lap dog. He would crawl up on top of me, jabbing his bony elbows into tender places, and flop down in odd positions for the duration of a movie. While normally he slept with my mother, whenever I visited, he would sleep with me. And I indulged him. I'd let him crawl under the covers and he would lay along my side, sometimes sharing my pillow. He'd wake me up first thing, wanting to play and go for a walk. He's lick my face and paw at me until I got up and tackled him. We'd wrestle on the bed until he beat me, and we'd go get breakfast and go for a walk. Visiting my mother is going to be strange for a while. I'll have the whole bed to myself. I don't want that much space.
Whenever I first arrived at the house, Seth would run circles, literally bouncing off of furniture. He would eventually settled with me, and begin to talk. He would make a variety of sounds, whines, barks, whimpers, chirps, grunts, everything, and tell me what I'd missed since the last time I saw him. He only did that with me. Sometimes he would talk for five minutes or so until he was content that I understood him.
There are a million things in my mother's house that will make me cry now. The orange plastic balls that he adored with frightening intensity. The blanket he would chew on when he was stressed. His kennel. The hollow bones filled with peanut butter. The big yellow plastic egg shaped ball that made him lose his mind. His dog bowl. The weimeraner calendar on the wall.
He won't be waiting for me at the door when I visit. He won't greet me with five minutes of stories told in dog sound. He won't be there to fart under the covers and try and blame me. His big nose won't wake me up again. I won't get to run my fingers over his velvet soft ears. But I can see him whenever I want. I just have to close my eyes and think about how lucky I was to know him, and he's there. The goofy dog who never realized how big he was. The biggest drama queen I've ever known. There is no greater gift than the unconditional love of an animal. His love will stay with me, and everyone who knew him.
