oliver

I just finished reading Marley & Me, a biographical account of the author, John Grogan's, thirteen-year relationship with his dog, for the second time. I read it the first time, fittingly, a month after we put our beloved family dog, Oliver, to sleep after fifteen wonderful years of life at our sides. As I read, laughing more and more with each page turn, I knew certainly that the wonderful tale would eventually end with Marley's demise. I was in Boston as I finished the book, visiting the city with a friend, and we stayed with her extended family for about five days. The night I finished, we had gone to Harvard Square for dinner and returned to relax the rest of the night away. I had to excuse myself from the group, explaining, "I have to find out what will happen to Marley." And so I read the final few chapters, tears welling in my eyes as I recalled my family's heartache a month earlier, eerily similar to Grogan's goodbye with Marley. My red-rimmed eyes gave away my emotional state, as I returned to my friend and her family, saying simply, "Marley died." Grogan's heartfelt account of the death of his family dog had moved me, somewhat surprisingly, to tears. I can completely level with John Grogan. Throughout the book he described Marley as a thundering lug of a canine, the "world's worst dog," with more transgressions than achievements in his thirteen years of life. 

I often thought this way of Oliver, the small little pooch who licked himself silly, his spitty little noises driving me bonkers enough to leave the room frequently. Oliver, who never wore a collar and instead, in his puppy years, used it as a chew toy. Oliver, who shuddered at the sound of our play tambourine and daily perched atop his "Oliver chair" to stare at the birds out the living room window. Oliver, who for most of his life I couldn't stand for more reasons than one. But once he was gone, for good, I missed him terribly. I still miss him, oddly enough. There are times I'll be in our house, and something still won't feel just right. The house won't feel right without an annoying eighteen-pound Lhasa Apso trying to find his way onto the couch. A part of me will still listen for his little nails clicking on the wooden kitchen floor. More than two years after we said goodbye, part of me still can't believe he's gone. 

John Grogan had his Marley; we had our Oliver. Funny how a four-legged beast can be the common denominator between so many strangers on this planet. And if only all things in the world were so simple as the friendship between man and dog.