The light is different in October. It plays with the brilliant blue sky, pushing the clouds gently away knowing they will dominate the coming months. The warm sun now takes its time rising to lazily move across the sky, in no hurry to reach the heights it did a couple of months ago, instead choosing to set the autumn landscape on fire. By mid-afternoon, the smell of the cinnamon leaves mixed with pine rises with each step of a long walk. Walks used to bring me respite, because while I have had to leave my best friend home for quite some time, he was always waiting for me to return. I walk by myself still, and yet- not entirely; now I have a permanent, invisible companion: love transformed into grief. I know I am not alone in this unasked for partnership, many people have similar stories; all I know is my own and his, and so this is that story.
It has been 9 months since I let Rocket go. 288 days I have laid down and gotten back up without him. 6,912 hours since I have rested in the knowledge he was there. 414,720 minutes passed in a world left less bright, less safe, made that much less brilliant by his absence. I have read, reflected, absorbed the realities of loss; I know that grief came now because love came first.
Rocket came into my life because I sought him out. I knew I had a window at the time for this dog I’d dreamt of, who was named long before his fluffy little puppy self waddled over to me on the grass. He was a long-haired German Shepherd, a recessive gene that is not as common as the standard short coat. This was not something I had anticipated nor wanted. He was the only one in his litter to present with this gene, and yet there was something about his soul that reached out to mine even then. I reluctantly picked him up and held him close, and said “This the one”. This was the dog I’d imagined all my life, even while being 100% committed to the other dogs I’d had and raised, all of whom I loved dearly and grieved deeply. I didn’t know it then, but this was the one, the one who would be the partner I’d always wanted, the puzzle piece that matched perfectly in my heart, what I call my soulmate of dogs. I’d heard the term “heart dog” before, but always wondered how people could say that; to me, it would be like picking one child over another. How could I say that one dog was more loved than another? Now I know, I understand, that it’s not so simple as that. It’s an all-encompassing match in deep in our souls, our fibers, our very beings, yes- our hearts. The one who shows us what it’s like when two souls destined for each other meet.
He was tethered to me at almost all times for the first two weeks of his homecoming at 9.5 weeks. Fed only out of my hand. We had training times; exercise times; play times; rest times. He was hard and easy, joyful and frustrating, like every good GSD should be. Drove me to tears and made me laugh every day. We hiked together every day, as I was lucky to live on the edge of urban wilderness, where old trails wound for miles steadily up the small mountain to a saddle. It was right on the edge of houses with acreage, but moose, deer, cougar and even the odd bear roamed. This became essential to our early days, tiring him out both physically with the steep forest terrain but also mentally, with all the smells to be sniffed. Trained together (oh, the endless hours of training!), our days adhering to a mostly strict regimen of structured train/play/rest/play/train, rinse/repeat. He learned to run when he was old enough. Learned to live in a world made for humans. He accompanied me almost everywhere yet learned to behave when he was by himself too, each of us fully confident that we would always return to each other. I watched this highly spirited intelligent animal master his drive (mostly!) and mature into a thinking, solid, clear-headed dog with excellent nerve. While his bark was always strong and assertive, as he grew it became strikingly deep and loud. He would often startle even his humans used to that sound, causing more than one spilled cup of coffee. In rewatching old videos, I see this phenomenon did not exist in my mind; his voice in younger days was strong, but in his last half of life, was nothing short of damn impressive sounding, gaining strength even as his hips lost theirs. I attribute this to his confidence, because as years passed he continued to grow far beyond what I had previously experienced with other dogs and their emotional intelligence. Dogs possess excellent character judgment skills, but Rocket assessed not just humans but situations. When we had company, or packed holidays, he inspected each guest at the door, then would go take up a watchful position from his bed, and after eating would prefer to lie down smack in the center of everything, enjoying having “herding duties”. He knew he was talked about and basked in the attention, although he was not one for much petting. He was an aloof dog physically as many GSDs are, and would tolerate adults stroking him, but children were given extra leeway and special privileges. He was stunning in person, and out in public drew attention like no other. When I first mentioned to partner what it was like taking him out, he waved me off saying “yes, my dogs have been like that too. Everyone loves to comment on dogs”. But the first time he was with us in public, in Red Lodge Montana where we were walking up and down the main street, just checking out the scene, we couldn’t go 10 feet without being stopped. He finally turned to me and said “wow. I get it now, damn! He’s the celebrity, we’re just his entourage!” Indeed we were and like any good star, he behaved fabulously until he would give me a look that said “I’m done, let’s go home”. Always steady, always reliable, he became a companion akin to something out of a movie. He was like a real-life Aslan, and he filled me with not just a feeling of safety, but pride as well. This glorious creature was mine, he chose to bond with me, and there was nothing we couldn’t get through together; Me and Him, Him and Me.
He moved with me when I left my family home, the first time in 22 years I’d lived alone. A very small house, with only a club chair and ottoman, a kitchen table and chairs, and a sleeping pad and bag, alongside his dog bed in the bedroom for the first few months. During this time, he was my sole companion, the beacon that gave me hope, the being that was my lighthouse in the storm. He comforted me, protected me, and steadied me. We endured a child’s addiction, a spouse’s addiction, a separation and a divorce together. During those dark days, my little house became a refuge in no small part because of him. He was always there, waiting for me after work, soon claiming his new but much smaller space as “ours” – read, his- in his mind. He patrolled his property very carefully, learning the neighbors habits and making it clear he had opinions on their behaviors and believed he should be consulted about any and all goings on. He became well known on the street and through him, I made new friendships. To his everlasting dismay, he could not convince the neighborhood cats in new friendships, however. We celebrated a child’s recovery together, the birth of two grandchildren together, a horrible turn of politics in the U.S. together. Survived the pandemic together, because of which I will forever be grateful for in a weird way because it allowed me to spend almost 24/7 with him. We aged together, discovered hip dysplasia together, the end of remission in my disease for me, the beginning of his disease for him. We both were faced with reduction of our physical capabilities together; the loss of running and hiking for him was as significant as for me. Throughout the frustration, we had each other, always the rock, the center, the grounding. He trusted me eventually, knowing there was a reason I left him behind more and more. Casual people working in their yards on our walking routes would ask after him, neighbors at my old house would see me out in town and anxiously approach me inquiring about “us” but really Rocket, because they didn’t see us anymore (immediately following up a question about whether we moved with is the dog ok? We haven’t seen him in so long!)
Rocket learned to accept a new partner in my life, mimicking me in taking a long time to be “sure”; his genetic disposition was a perfect match for mine, the two of us simpatico. He seemed to realize that this person could be part of his protection services, and if he was displeased at a stand-down order from me, would often immediately try to convince his fellow “bodyguard” with his deeply expressive eyes. He was quite the hilarious companion, learning very quickly how much more easily Partner gave in to begging (did I mention those expressive eyes?), developing his own special bonding rituals with him, his favorite involving Sourdough Nibblers. Rocket loved to size people up, and therefore required careful supervision, surmising how “green” anyone was and immediately taking advantage like a precocious child. Eventually though, Partner became part of the family unit although Rocket reserved the final decisions and the deepest part of his affections for me. Partner knew this, accepted this, respected the special love that existed between us. During moments of joy, horribleness, adventure, boredom, sadness, optimism, laughter, tears, and gut-wrenching despair, the steadfast comfort of each other was the enduring beacon of light; of relief; of love. No matter where we were, we knew we had each other to return to, that we would come together again, the invisible string unbroken. Yet it remained ever so, Me and Him, Him and Me.
As Rocket’s body aged, his spirit remained invincible. His “retirement” from his former community activities and jobs were reduced finally into one, but always the one that had been most important to him: being my bodyguard and constant companion. The only thing he could not accompany me on were backpacking trips I was still able to do, or overseas travel. He accepted this forced position unwillingly at first and a cabinet door, a television remote and several window shades were sacrificed (from a dog that had never destroyed anything in his first 7 years of life) but he seemed to realize his body was limiting. I took him on his last backpacking trip, a very very short and easy one, only about a mile and a quarter and he stopped fussing, choosing instead to wring my heart with his eyes on future departures. Even his car camping trips sadly came to an end as riding too long became uncomfortable, as was walking too much during the day. Soon, he made peace with just being at home; if I was there, and he was with me, that was enough for him. I knew how frustrated he was at his situation and did my best to spend as much time as possible with him. We engineered special trips that he could handle and he and I went to our most favorite and special place together for one last time, the summer before he died. It was then and is now, the most special and perfect memory, and I will cherish it forever. I have not returned yet, and am not sure when I will. Me and Him, Him and Me.
His character remained solid yet strengthened and matured into the most extraordinary relationship I’ve ever had. 100% trustworthy, faithful, reliable, loving. A love that never once hurt me, although I am not sure I can say the same for him. A human does many things unknowable to a dog, yet our deep and intangible bond meant we could read each other’s emotions and needs. Most mistakes were made in his youth, although I do not profess to have been perfect ever, even to the end where despite repeated and deeply meant assurances, doubt will forever linger. Almost every relationship with a dog is like this, but a heart dog is different, and it is often tangible even to outsiders. Friends and strangers alike marveled at our relationship; Rocket was a rockstar among dogs, beloved and celebrated by his veterinarians (of which he had a few, due to his specialized issues) even more so among people, an immense presence that made my heart swell with pride and love to experience. Neighbors asked after him constantly, friends texted just to hear how he was. While he wasn’t the only thing in my life, he was the only thing I could rest in 100%. The only living thing I’ve ever trusted completely, who gave me unconditional love from the first moment to the last. My ride or die for real. The one who no matter what, with him by my side, I knew I could go anywhere, do anything, if he was there, I’d be ok. The one who was always there, until he wasn’t. Me and Him, Him and Me.
The daily connections, check-ins, eye contact, body contact, care giving, the connections that seem so inconsequential and small added up to an enormous roaring river that is now dry. An emptiness hangs over my days, a deafening silence I can’t seem to escape from, even when the house is filled with the appealing euphony of beloved friends and family. To care for his incredible spirit for its entire life, to be able to escort it on its way back to the stars should be a gift that fills me with thankfulness, yet grief floods every space left by his absence. The decision to let him go and its timing was entirely mine, dictated only by him, although unbeknownst to him. Because of that invincible spirit, he would have dragged himself until he couldn’t anymore for me. I could never let that happen to him, I could never see the anxiety and confusion in his eyes, the eyes that had always shown confidence, faith, and sureness if I waited for the moment to come when he couldn’t get up at all on his own; I couldn’t bear to let him think he’d failed me because he couldn’t rise. Because that’s what he would have thought – the dog and the love that existed for him, the only duty he’d ever felt he had, was to live for me. The only gift I could ever give him to repay him in the slightest for that once-in-a-lifetime love was to send him gently into the universe full of brightness and happiness, to be made at the end pain-free and awash in love. It was truly the best ending I could have hoped for for him, surrounded at home by the humans he loved, and him and I shared his final moments together; petting and scratching him in all his favorite ways, hoping that he felt the enormous love instead of the grief, watching his face relax and actually taking on a relieved, and even happy expression. He truly became at peace. It was then I realized how much he had been enduring for me, outwardly remaining strong and stoic, as animals do. He was carried out by all of his special people, a tribute to the greatest love one can share. I try to hold that in my heart, clutching it tightly as the tiniest bit of solace in the dark and cold space of this grief. But the enormity of life without him is real. My new companion has not taken the gentle form of Love yet, but instead hovers as a ever-present grey shadow at my elbow, unshakeable. The invisible string between Rocket and I now dangles broken and frayed, floating forever in an endless sea of emptiness, the light of the stars and other warm suns beyond reach.
24,883,200 seconds have passed since I have stroked his head, heard his breath next to me at night, felt his strength beside me, pressing on my leg in anticipation of my “Let’s go”, heard his deep and impressive bark, expressing his opinions on my actions (or the actions of others that frequently displeased him). His last pillow, that he held and mouthed when he needed stress relief sits forlornly in my living room, the only visible relic of our partnership. A box decorated with dragonflies holds his collar, leash, brush and his last two chewing balls along with a paw imprint and clipping of his gorgeous mane in my closet; a beautiful engraved wood box is tucked inside my nightstand, with the last of Rocket that I cling to. Someday I will take those remnants of the greatest friend I have ever had and spread them in our special places, but as of now, I cannot fathom letting go of those precious remains.
Almost a year without him, without Me and Him, Him and Me; where even the light of the October sun and the fire it lights can’t chase away the shadows.
