Thus & So: August 2020

Mason adopting a regal pose - 2016

Mason, our dog, has passed away. A chapter closes on the best pet I ever had or could hope to have.

Born in September of 2008, Mason was a happy accident, one of a litter of seven - the result of a dog getting away from her owner while she was in heat. We never tested his DNA, but by physical features and temperament, he appeared to be a Retriever/Collie mix. We adopted him in November of that year, and Daniel held him as Mason whined all the way to his, and our, new home. We put the tiny puppy on a pet bed we had just purchased, and he was quickly napping – exhausted from the trip. The day after we adopted him, I playfully rested my head on Mason’s bed, and he used his tiny paw to push my head off – this was now his bed.

Yes, Mason was assertive at times, and not always calmly submissive. But his assertiveness always had a purpose: whether reminding me it was time to wake up, time for his walk, or reminding others that when I had the floor, they should not interrupt (he would silence them by mounting the offender’s leg). Mason was very strong: when he was about a year old, he spotted a rabbit in the yard and took off after it, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket as his running snapped his leash in half. But with time Mason became highly disciplined: accidents were exceedingly rare – he had an iron bladder and was housetrained within a few weeks. And he was always on the alert to warn us of nearby deer or the postal carrier. Mason learned the standard repertoire of tricks: sitting on command, laying down, grabbing treats from my mouth, staying in place until he was released by a snap of my fingers, and shaking my hand. He never mastered rolling over, but made up for it by being able to chase his tail on command. Mason was sharper than any dog I’ve ever known: He assimilated to the rhythms of our day within a few weeks and knew how to read my every mood. Every morning, he would race down the stairs to the kitchen and would happily sniff the aroma of brewing coffee. After his morning walk, he would go to his downstairs “spot” and await his breakfast treat. As time for work approached, he would bark to remind us not to be late. When I got home, he would stand in the kitchen while I was three steps below in the back hallway, he would then jump up, place his paws on my shoulders, and greet me with a hug. I would offer him a dog biscuit, which he would take out of my mouth. Then he would patiently await dinner. He would not touch his dinner until we had eaten, not even when it was waiting in his bowl – and he never begged us for food but willingly took any morsels we offered. He figured out when TV programs and films were finished, and would get up and remind us that it was time for his evening walk. Just before bedtime, I would give him a final treat. Then he would walk the perimeter of the first floor, checking the windows for intruders, bound upstairs, and hop into bed.

Mason also knew when things were off kilter. In 2009, I had a bad flu and spent several days in bed. Mason stayed in bed with me, often sitting up and watching me carefully. Around that time, I cut my finger and, seeing it, Mason held it in place with one paw while applying healing saliva. Eight years later, as I recovered from hernia surgery, Mason was careful not to pull on the leash when I took him outside.

As recently as early Spring of this year, Mason was consistently rambunctious and engaged. Even a few months ago, people would see him while on his twice daily constitutional and ask “Is he a puppy?” They would be amazed when I told them Mason was a senior dog. Then I began to notice changes. He seemed uninterested in the deer or rabbits that occasionally grace our yard, and even ignored them during his walks, but would still pull on the leash and bark when encountering an unauthorized dog or his worst enemy: skateboarders. Then, about a month before he passed, he would no longer jump up to grab a waiting treat from my mouth, began to have trouble with the stairs, and I noticed his gait became awkward. I chalked these things up to age. But when he forgot his repertoire of tricks, didn’t respond to ordinary commands like “come”, and seemed to not recognize me, I knew the end was near. In the last week he lost his appetite and began to have accidents – which had never been a problem before. Soon he had to be helped outside. When he stopped accepting water, we used a dropper to keep him hydrated. On Mason’s last day and night, we lay on the floor with him, comforting him as best we could as his breathing grew shallow and his eyes glassy. We did not want to prolong his suffering, so we contacted an at-home euthanasia service. I mention these facts not in grief, but with gratitude that Mason’s decline was so quick. Would that we were all so lucky.

In our mourning, Dan and I remember that Mason had a fuller life than most canines. He travelled extensively: from Vermont in the northeast all the way down to the Gulf Coast of Florida; he partook of dog friendly towns like Savannah, Georgia; visited several outdoor memorials in Washington, DC; Mason walked the sand dunes of Indiana, rode through Chicago, and went as far west as Waukesha, Wisconsin. He made many friends along the way, canine and human. My one regret is that he never met my father, a fellow dog lover. But they conferenced on Skype several times before my dad died in 2016.

For all but the first two weeks after we moved into our home, we shared it with Mason. The house seems awfully empty without him. No doubt, we will eventually adopt a new puppy – and if he’s half as wonderful as Mason was, we will be doubly blessed. But Mason will always hold a special place in our hearts.