This man's best friend gone

In the winter, when the snow falls and he's not there to chase the flakes or stick his head in the banks beside the trail, that's when I'll miss him the most.

In the summer when the grass grows tall and he's not there to roll around in it and dance on his back with that great big grin, I'll miss him then too.

In the meantime I'll be seeing him in all the old familiar places – the trail through the bush, his pillow by the fire, the beach, the bed, the empty backseat.

Monday, December 21st, 2009 will always be one of the worst days of my life. Seven months on and the memory still haunts me, the guilt still hurts me. The look of fear and confusion on his face will be with me forever.

"I have to put you down!" I cried. I had been putting this horrible deed off for days and weeks and here we were in the back of my Subaru in the parking lot behind the clinic waiting for the vet to come out.

Unable to walk I was now carrying him in and out of the house. He panted constantly, even while lying on his blanket in the snow. He howled when he lost sight of me. The arthritis finally won.

"I have to put you down!" I yelled again, trying to make him understand what was happening but the raw agony in my voice frightened him. He just stared at me. His distress and concern were focused on me, not on the clippers that shaved his leg or the rubber tourniquet or the needle that found a vein first time – he cared only for me because he'd never heard that sound come out of my mouth before.

Head to head I held him tightly so he couldn't thrash. I could feel my heart beating loudly and quickly as I waited for his to stop.

He flinched, he shrieked, I did the same and two lives entwined and inseparable parted in a death that lasted longer than any three minutes we'd ever spent together.

Four days before Christmas and just eleven days short of his eighteenth birthday, Jake passed away in my arms, almost peacefully.

The drive to the crematorium in Port Dover was a blurr, the walk around town waiting to pick up his ashes, a mindless distraction. I brought him home in a wooden box embossed with his name. It sits in the corner, still gift-wrapped in front of his portrait.

As dogs go, Jake was the real deal. Big, handsome, fast, smart, he had it all. And he gave it all back – love, comfort, protection and friendship flowed effortlessly from a bottomless well of devotion and trust. A leader of the four-hour hike, the hit of the party, a gem to his sitters, and a pleasure to the neighbours – Jake was a sixty pound cuddle. He was the best beer-drinking buddy I ever had and yes, I've had a few.

Jake was graceful, his tail went wild when he greeted you but it never knocked a knickknack off a shelf. His eyes – big, brown and expressive missed nothing. He had a long, loving snout always wet at the end and those big pointed ears were as soft as satin.

Jake took to women more than men, he ignored female dogs that wanted to play, he let big dogs know he wasn't to be messed with and he played with the kids he liked.

Dutchy and Edith's grandkids were playing fetch with Jake on the beach one day when the wind came up and the waves got higher. Nobody could spot the stick that had been tossed far from shore. Dutchy said they all stood looking at nothing until Jake bounded up the beach steps to the break wall, spotted the stick from the higher vantage point and then dove into the lake to retrieve it. I played hockey with guys who would never have thought of that.

I'd get him swimming in the nearby quarry in the spring when the water was warm there and I would provide the commentary: "Now it's the Canadian Jake Thomas in lane three and... oh what a great turn... he's left the American behind with only the Australian to beat... here he comes, charging to the finish line!" When he dropped the stick at my feet he'd give me the look like he knew he really wasn't the Olympic champion who just broke the world's record but it was fun just the same. And then he'd shake, and shake and his bum would still be wiggling long after the rest of him stopped.

The "Best In Show" banner is still taped to the wall over his bowls even though the closest he'd ever come to a dog show was watching one with me on TV. On the fridge are photos. Jake and John Grant sitting on his front porch, their heads thrown back in laughter. Jake and my brother-in-law Danny in which Danny's looking at the camera but Jake is entirely captivated by the beer he's pouring. Jake with Buddy and Maggie, Tim and Lee Laing's dogs, the Erin Mills Trio. Jake and Monica, oh how he loved Monica who looked after Jake when I travelled, scheduling walkers and visitors and trips to a groomer for a trim and shampoo.

And when I arrived home I'd get the demonic smile, paws on my shoulders and then a plaintive whine that said, "Please, Bill, don't ever leave me like that again!"

So special was this dog, Dr. David Throne, his vet for life was still looking in on Jake long after he retired and sold the clinic.

No day with Jake was so hectic it couldn't stand a walk, no night complete until he bounded up his ramp into bed. His routines shaped my day, his smile made my day. He made me laugh like few people can.

I remember cuddling up on the floor in the living room to comfort him through a night after surgery and after a back-breaking hour in which I apparently began to snore, he got up and went to bed.

I used to drive this little beater and Jake would sit panting in the backseat staring at a window that wouldn't roll down. Then I wrote a book about him The Dog Rules which went off the chart for Canadian book sales and I bought a Subaru Forester with his own apartment in the back. All he had to do was look at the back window and I'd hit the automatic button giving him an opening to the outside world. And he' give me a look like "You're a freakin' genius Bill. Seriously."

At Monica's in the middle of the night she heard the rustling of paper and a minute later Jake jumped into her bed with a French baguette in his mouth willing to share it as long as she promised not to tell me.

Monica thought it was hilarious when Jake came into the living room with his empty bowl in his mouth, nudging her glass of beer. I thought it was a bit pathetic. I told her I wouldn't tolerate his begging in my presence. Then I'd leave the room.

So there are great memories and fine photographs and I know in my heart I gave that dog the best possible life he could ever have had and I made sure he never got into harm's way or a fight and... and none of that is enough. He's gone.

In my little world where I get ambushed by deadlines and I'm never sure when a cheque will arrive or where the words come from or when they might stop – Jake was my constant. He was big and strong and I leaned on him and now, no more.

December was hell for both of us – damp, snowy, slippery. I was carrying him in and out of the house, night and day. But that last November was a blessing – an unusually warm month of brilliant sunsets and harvest moons. At dusk I'd haul him out to the break wall and we'd split a beer by the fire pit, savoring quiet time by the lake where we swam and chased each other along the shore for oh so many years.

In those last months, I often caught him lost in contemplation, looking off in the distance like something or somebody might be calling him. Once while sleeping in my bed he became completely animated in a dream. He whined in glee and his paws were flailing and his tail was wagging and I hoped with all my heart, it was me he was running toward.

If I could be even half as great a person as Jake thought I was, I will die a happy man. And on the day, when I pass... I will remember Jake.

So long Smoochie Face, see you on the other side. Yeah, yeah, yeah – I'll remember to bring the treats. And the cooler.

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