Words + Images

Because of the eight year age difference between my mother and father, and because of the host of medical ailments he had later in his life, my father worried that he would pass away first.  Most of us  kids were grown and living elsewhere and so he worried that his wife, the love of his life, would be alone in their small house. And so one day he drove off without a word and then returned with a puppy. It was a rambunctious little creature, a ball of white, brown and black fur. Part Collie and part St. Bernard, he grew fast, he grew wide and he grew beautifully. My father called him Fuzzy after a previous dog. My mother raised her eyebrows, skeptical of one more thing to take care — “I mean really, the children are finally grown up. Now a new baby?”

Fuzzy was meant for my mother, but he was truly my father’s dog. When my father was away, Fuzzy stayed close to my mother’s feet, and barked if anyone stepped onto the porch. But when my father was home, it was against my father’s legs that he leaned. And when Fuzzy was scared (usually by balloons!), it was to my father he ran. My father, chuckling, would pat him. My mother would just shake her head at the sight.

My mother babied the dog. She was adamant that people were not to treat Fuzzy like a garbage can, giving him every table scrap. She made sure there was enough money in summer to have Fuzzy taken to the groomer’s for a good hot weather shave so he wouldn’t suffer in the hot Virginia sun. When my father was in the hospital, and my brothers away at work, Fuzzy was a boon, a solid warm bright golden eyed blessing snoring against the front door.

Unexpectedly, it was my mother who passed away first. After the funeral, when the house was full of strangers, we had to put Fuzzy outside. He was scared and wanted to lean against my father. But there were too many other people needing to lean against him that day. Eventually the people left and we could open the door for Fuzzy to come inside. To be with my dad. That was 1998. My father would die less than two years later.

After our parents died, my brother took care of Fuzzy.  Last week,  he found Fuzzy lying in the grass, in pain and unable to get up. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, but looking into Fuzzy’s eyes it seemed wrong to let it keep happening. And so he picked him up, placed him in the backseat of his car and took him to the Humane Society.  I think of Fuzzy today, on Mother’s Day for several reasons. I think of my parents and the gifts they gave to one another. My brother sent me some pictures of his new son, and new puppy (a Blue Tick Hound), and included were images of Fuzzy on his last day. I spoke with a friend yesterday and she remembered dropping Fuzzy as a puppy … and somehow he had remained stuck at the age in her mind. She couldn’t believe that he was fifteen or so when he died. As I told my brother, I told her, “That was a dog that lived a long well-fed, well-loved life.” And what more can you ask for?