dog days of heaven

I made it into the Top 13 of Blogger Idol, the premier blogging contest for bloggers, and my first assignment was to write a eulogy for myself. Yuck. As someone who is relentlessly optimistic, this is not a topic I want to think about. And, honestly, I don’t need people gushing on about me; I’d rather they just adopt whatever positive qualities they think I had and find a way to use them for good.

I know a eulogy is totally dependent on who’s giving it, so I thought long and hard about whose voice I should use. My husband’s? No. He’d be very funny but he’s always threatened to memorialize my tendency to procrastinate by etching “I’m gonna …” on my tombstone. My kids’? No. Death is probably a good time for me to finally stop trying to control their lives.

So, in order to present myself in the best light, I decided my eulogy should be written by Jessie, my beloved Newfoundland, who passed away last year at almost 12 years old. Ultimately, I hope I really am the person my dog thought I was.

My tail is wagging like crazy and I can’t stop pacing and panting.

I’m going to see Lois!

I remember we once watched a movie together called What Dreams May Come, and there’s a scene where Katie welcomes her human dad to Heaven. Lois cried hysterically and held me tight. I tried to wiggle out of her arms because she was making me a little claustrophobic but now I can’t wait for her to do that again. I’ve missed her so much.

Lois took me to the dog park every single morning for years and years, even though she hated getting up that early, because she knew how much I loved it. She was excited to share her lunch with me – “Oh, Jess, look what I have” were some of my favorite words – and if I brought a toy over to her while she was sitting and working, she always stopped to play tug of war.

Lois laughed a lot. I didn’t usually understand why, but it made me feel warm and happy. She used to say I sometimes smelled like a baked good (knowing how much she loved baked goods, that’s a huge compliment), and I want her to realize those are the times I felt so content, I must literally have been exuding sweetness. By the way, my sensitive nose picked up that same scent from everyone Lois came in contact with. She pretty much made us all feel like this:

Sometimes, when Lois was hugging her other kids or snuggling with Michael, I’d feel a little jealous and would have to nudge my way in between them. She’d scratch my head on that spot I like, give me a kiss and make room for me. I noticed she always made room for those who needed her.

Lois had so many amazing people in her life, and I got to meet many of them. Anyone who gave me the cold shoulder eventually got the cold shoulder back from her. She was fiercely protective of the ones she loved, like a Mama Newf with her pups.

When I got sick, Lois explained why she had to give me shots. Each one was followed up by an enthusiastic “Good girl!” and a soft, soothing rub on the sore spot. When I couldn’t climb steps any more, she would sleep downstairs with me if I barked because I wanted company. She even sang to me, which I know came from a good place although it sometimes made me want to put her Bose noise-cancelling headphones on my sensitive ears.

I still think of all the times Lois told her friends about the beautiful sense of peace I brought to the house. I want to show her she always did the same for me.

So I will greet her with the same unbridled exuberance I felt every time she came home. I will lick every inch of her face, jump on her to get as close as I can and make little – maybe big – sounds of joy. I will probably smell like a baked good.

And I will celebrate the fact that it’s now her turn to “sit” and “stay.”