GOOD BOY..

When I was younger my bedroom faced out over a park. I used to look out of my window for a while each day, watching the world pass by. I used to see families with picnics, runners setting their new personal bests, and walkers taking their dogs out for their daily exercise. And there was one particular man who I watched with interest. He showed up every day, at 4.30pm. He was a haggard man who looked like well-lived, like his life had been eventful, though he had a serenity to him, which was what initially caught my eye.

The man always had a dog with him. A dark, short-haired terrier who looked like his energetic puppy days were behind him. Over the course of the next couple of years, the man’s walk with the dog started getting shorter in time, and as the weather dropped colder in the winter he missed a few days here and there. Then one spring he was back, but the dog was different. The dog’s fur had greyed substantially, and was clumped in places. The dog’s ribs were visible, and he visibly shook as he hobbled along.

The next time I saw them, the dog was missing a hind leg, and his hobble became even slower. Another few weeks after that the other hind leg was also gone. It was clear that this poor animal was fighting an illness, and that he was not doing too well against it. The next week I noticed that the man brought the dog to the park with some kind of wheel contraption attached to it’s back. He was trying to give it a normal life, but all he had done was make life harder. The pressure on the dogs remaining two legs was clearly taking its toll, and the dog was slowly and wobblier than ever.

The dog was past his prime and no longer able to live life the way he should. It was not longer kind to force him out in front of an audience and expect him to act how he once did. The dog was ready to be put down. Having been through various surgeries and succumbing to the natural aging process, the dog himself knew he was unable to give as much as he used to, but out of loyalty, he kept working away, not wanting to let anyone down.

I met the man in the park with the dog a couple of weeks later, and asked him how the dog was. Oh, he said, he’s doing well. He’s a fighter. Never say die attitude.

I thought about that. Never say die is extolled as a virtue, but sometimes not knowing when to quit is more of a weakness than anything else. Fighting against the impossible and the inevitable, ignoring age and disability, are signs of stubbornness, not bravery.

I stroked the dog one last time. The last time I would ever see him, though I saw the sad man sometimes after that.

Come on boy, he said, as the dog limped after him. Good boy, Cody.