Eulogy for a Departed Furry Friend

Joshua Levenberg

27 February 2022

Eulogy for a Departed Furry Friend

Jake died today.

At 10:45 A.M., my parents and I drove to the hospital in order to finally put him down. It took an hour of waiting, contemplation, and tears before the doctor arrived to take Jake away so that his suffering would cease. His mobility, eyesight, hearing, bowels, and dignity had all been stripped away from him over the last few weeks. For most of his life, Jake remained energetic and excitable, as though he had never aged in his life. I could only give him one last goodbye, a hug, and a tear-jerking speech about how much he meant to me before I had to run out to my mother's car and weep into a tissue for a few minutes. It was the first time I ever visibly cried since childhood.

Nothing in my life broke me so much as the death of my friend, the best friend any family could ever ask for. I may have been distraught by the fact that my paternal grandfather shifted from the mortal coil before my Bar Mitzvah, but he wasn't close to me. In fact, Zayde resided in another state, and my interactions with him were infrequent before he collapsed from a stroke and was pulled from life support by my maternal grandmother. Jake, on the other hand, lived with us for almost fifteen years, and we had the choice about his quality of life.

At first, only my father wanted to euthanize him, stating, through broken tears, that he just couldn't stand to see Jake constantly slip on the floor over a sprained leg or excrete wastes inside the house. Eventually, though, my mother took his side. In contrast, I didn't want his life to be artificially stopped. I expected him to live out the rest of his days happy, dying in his sleep on a comfortable bed instead of on a medical table with chemicals injected into his skin and pills in his gullet. Besides, I said, so what if he soils his bed upon death? That's a minor inconvenience, a mere embarrassment compared to terminating a wonderful family member whose ailments weren't torturous nor was his mind completely awash in confusion. Alas, I was the minority vote and, since Jake couldn't speak for himself, my parents had to decide in his stead. Yes, my single greatest loss is a dog, a dog who possessed a strong bond with me for over half of my life. He was much more than a pet, though; Jake was a friend and a brother.

Through my elementary school years, I owned three pairs of goldfish, and, while my heart did crack with each one reaching its expiration date, the fact that my relationship with them was limited to staring, feeding and provoking fear with the tap of a glass meant that my grief lasted about as briefly as their memory of me. Jake was different.

When we adopted him two months after his birth and brought him from his native California to neighboring Nevada, I knew he was going to be a special member of this family. His vibrant energy, cuddly appearance, child-like temperament, and youthful resolve always delighted me even when, in his early years, he expressed displeasure over my impulsive teasing and prodding.

Sure, even before age caught up to him, Jake spawned some problems for the family. When we vacationed in California and hired my maternal grandparents to act as babysitters, he ended up soiling every floor, stuffed toy, and piece of furniture out of boredom and naivete by the time we returned. And on another trip, that poor labradoodle emerged from daycare with bleeding ears, shivering legs, and a pained expression thanks to a confrontation with an aggressive "playmate".

Nevertheless, Jake contributed to many more positive memories. Whenever I was drowning in a sea of melancholy or a storm of boredom, he was always there to comfort me. When I needed a spark of inspiration, Jake was by my side as a source of creativity. And whenever I simply wanted a laugh, I could always look in the backyard where he performed the most amusing antics I've ever seen in a dog.

But now?

No longer can I scratch him behind the ears, under his chin, or on his belly, triggering warm purrs. No longer can I stroke his lamb-like back or fluffy tail as he walked by me or stood still. No longer can I droop my hand like a caught fish, resulting in delightful strokes of a tongue or the incessant sniffing of a nose. No longer can I roll up cheese or other treats and house medication inside them while he unsuspectedly scarfs them up. No longer can I amuse myself watching him bark at seemingly nothing from the backyard gate. No longer can I hear the sound of panting, barking, or whimpering or notice the sight of a wagging tail, smiling jaws, and the silvery gleam of his eyes. Most importantly, no longer can I delightful take spry and joyful walks around the neighborhood with him; Alone, they will be solemn, akin to Hamilton's grief-filled stroll after the accidental murder of his son. In fact, my life will never have as much light as it did before Jake's death.

From every waking moment, I will remember him, from the living room and kitchen to the streets and even my father's bedroom. With how much light he brought to my life, my mourning will be long and painful, no better than when other relatives, such as my paternal grandmother and my uncle Michael, lost their dogs. And if anyone has the gallstones to claim that Jake is replaceable, that he could be easily substituted with another pet in a few years, I will verbally lash out.

The only thing left to do before I have to live with my grief is visit the crematorium so my beloved friend's ashes can be returned to the family. My parents made that decision due to costs, as well as the belief that holding a funeral urn would mean that Jake will never truly leave us. I, on the other hand, prefer burial. With an intact body laid to rest in a pet cemetery with a decorated gravestone, it's, to me, the more respectful option, even if it might be a hundred miles away. However, once again, my parents' choices dwarfed mine, and Jake's body will be put through the same fate as millions of other pets.

There are many who think post-death options don't matter or state that pet owners should get over themselves since, to them, animals are just simple automatons meant to serve humanity. They would be wrong, however, to deny that Jake's life had as much value as any other being, and no amount of canine characteristics will contradict my intense emotions or humanity towards him.

When I see an empty sofa seat-shaped bed on the living room rug, I'll remember how a dog once rested on it several hours a day like a kitten. When I see empty platters of silver, I'll remember when a dog once nibbled and slurped on its contents. When I see a leg-sized gate sitting against a wall, I'll remember how it was once used to keep a dog downstairs at the end of the night. When I see a collar and a leash beside each other on a wooden desk, I'll remember how they were once attached to a dog who enjoyed the cool air and the smell of dew. When I see a brown tarp covering the couch, I'll remember how it was once a literal welcome mat for a dog who wanted to spend time with his human master. When I see a black, opaque flap attached to a hole connecting the kitchen to the backyard, I'll remember how a dog once used it as convenient transportation between the inside world of playtime and the outside world of business. And when my parents leave for work every week, I will remember how I used to be not entirely alone.

If only I could reverse time and put last month on a loop just so I wouldn't have to deal with such a loving spirit exiting from my life. Alas, I know that's not possible, and some things are set in stone. Still, Jake was gone from the world too soon and too abruptly, and his end should have been far different.

Today was the worst day of my life, and the ugliness of the world will be even uglier without a precious cream-colored ball of fluff living in it.