Jake

A heartfelt story for an old pal.

Jake

by: moonlit cove

I thought I saw Jake the other day.  It was just a shadow from the corner of my eye, but I could’ve sworn it was him.  I’ve been doing this a lot lately - seeing Jake when he’s not there.  Like the other day, for example, when I was outside at my mailbox.  I had just pulled the lid open and as I was sifting through, examining the bills and credit card offers, I heard him come running up beside me.  I looked up from the mail in my hand, but all I saw were dead leaves swirling around on the sidewalk.  In the kitchen the other night I know, just know, I heard his tail thumping against the counter as I stood in front of the oven waiting for it to preheat.  But when I accidentally dropped a slice of bread on the floor it wasn’t immediately snatched away.  I stared at it lying untouched on the linoleum, confirming that I was hallucinating again.

* * * * *

     I was iffy about taking Jake in at first.  He was big and boisterous, and I had always been the lap dog type.  But there was something in me that could not allow him to continue on in his previous living conditions.  I don’t know the full history, other than what the shelter employee told me.  That he had been abandoned at a rest area, probably by a traveling family that no longer had the means to, or no longer wanted to, care for him.  God, I hope it was the former and not the latter.  He had no ID tags, but his leash was tied around the leg of a park bench when they found him.  After the sun had gone down that night, a janitor arrived for night shift cleaning and Jake was the only other living creature at that rest area.  The janitor fed Jake a small bag of potato chips and a Rice Krispie treat from the vending machine, then promptly notified the animal shelter.

 

     The first time I saw Jake there were at least a half dozen other dogs that appealed to me more.  There were several families in the shelter with little kids that were excited about the smaller, more agile puppies.  They reached their arms through the cage bars and were greeted by wet tongues and wagging tails.  Jake looked on from his corner cage with his head resting on his front paws, occasionally lifting his eyebrows at the children’s giggles.  Apparently, he was no stranger to being overlooked during his time in the shelter.  This immediately made me interested in him.  I approached his cage and his head slowly rose off of his paws as he cautiously regarded me.  As I knelt down at the door, he rose and walked slowly toward me.  I carefully put my hand through the bars to test how friendly he was.  He sniffed me and then nudged my hand with his cold, wet nose.  A shelter employee approached and it was then that I learned of his back story.  And I was sold.

 

     It took him a little while to be able to fully trust me.  I wondered what kind of things he’d experienced in his past that had made him so timid, but there was no way for me to ever know.  I tried talking to him about it, but he would just look at me with his forgiving, black eyes as if to say, I’m giving you a chance because you’re not the one that did those things to me, whatever “those things” were.  I don’t know what his name was in his previous life, but he really seemed to perk up when I called him Jake, and I can’t even recall why I started calling him that.  But whenever I would say the name “Jake” he would tilt his head to the side and his ears would rise in interest at the sound I was making.  And so it was.  Over time he really warmed up to me and I could tell he was very happy that I chose him.  In essence, we became best friends.

 

     I remember an incident about six years ago where Jake confronted a skunk that had roamed onto my property.  I was in the backyard repairing a lawn mower and he was running around in the field behind the house.  I could tell that something had his attention, but didn’t know what it was until he approached me once the animal had scurried off.

 

     “Oh no, you are not coming in the house smelling like that!”  I yelled to him when he’d gotten within thirty feet of me.  I spent the next three hours shampooing him and rinsing him with the garden hose over and over again.  The smell only lightened.  It did not go away, I assure you.  Even a week later I would wake up in the middle of the night and know that he was on the floor at the foot of my bed.  And even though it was not a pleasant smell, it was comforting knowing that he was there.  Comforting because I knew he was a protector and would defend his home.

 

     Just like the time when I awoke to his vicious barking.  I heard a crash and then Jake yelping.  I ran into the living room just in time to see someone’s feet diving out the front room window and Jake standing there on three legs, whimpering and holding one front paw up off the ground.  Apparently he’d been struck with a lamp that was lying on the floor next to him.  The vet said his leg wasn’t broken, so they just bandaged it up.  From then on he walked with an ever-so-slight limp.  You could tell that it bothered him more on rainy days since he wasn’t nearly as rambunctious on those days and he was more cautious about how he stepped.  Sometimes when he would lie on the couch next to me I would rub that leg and his appreciation would show in his half-closed eyes.  It was the least I could do as I’d always felt that he’d sacrificed that limb for my safety.

 

     Every day when I would come home from work and relax on the couch, Jake would always bring me his favorite toy.  It was quite disgusting actually.  It was this little squishy rubber ball that always seemed to be coated with his saliva, but he loved the high-pitch sound it made when squeezed, and he loved chasing it around the room.  Usually, I would half-heartedly toss it while I was watching TV, but on occasion I would get down on the floor with him and really put some effort into it.  And I could tell that he appreciated those times.  This was pretty much our daily ritual when I would get home from work, with the exception of one particular day.  The day in question had not been a good one for me.  I left work right after lunch in order to attend the funeral visitation of a pretty close friend that I’d grown up with.  When I finally made it home that afternoon I was an emotional wreck.  I came into the house and collapsed onto the couch.  Jake picked up his slobber-ball and came over to stand at my feet - tail wagging.  I tilted my head over to look at him and somehow he just knew.  He dropped the ball on the floor and jumped up onto the couch.  He walked slowly over, laid down next to me and placed his head in my lap, his sad eyes looking up to mine every so often.  Though he was not able to speak words, it remains the most comforting gesture I received from anyone during that difficult time.  Jake, I will never forget that.

 

     We took a road trip once - Jake and I.  We didn’t really have any agenda, just got in the car one Friday afternoon and began heading west.  He spent most of the time with his head hanging out the passenger window - tongue and ears flapping in the wind - drool streaking across the rear passenger side window behind him.

 

     It’s a pretty well-kept secret that if you have a pet with you in the car you can get a lot of free items in drive-throughs.  Jake was a master at this.  He would always sit in the seat attentively and look the restaurant workers right in the eyes when we pulled around to the window.  He would score anything from cookies, to small fries, all the way up to his mother-load score that took place at a Wendy’s in St. Louis - a Jr. bacon cheeseburger.  Even I was jealous of that haul - not only because he’d received an entire burger for free - but because the girl working the window was really cute, too!

 

     “You’ve still got it, buddy,” I said to him while patting him on the back after he’d finished his trophy burger.

 

     I made a really stupid mistake in Springfield, Missouri.  I wasn’t thinking and I didn’t even realize how harsh it was until I exited the men’s room at the rest area and saw him anxiously pacing at the end of his leash where I’d left it tied to the lamp post.

 

     “Oh no.  Oh God, no,” I muttered under my breath just before running over to him.  I knelt down next to him, untied the leash and immediately began stroking his head and back.  ”I’m so sorry, buddy.  I forgot.  I’m so, so sorry.”  I put my head against his and held him close.  Into his ear I whispered, “I’m not going to leave you.  I promise.”

 

     He was a little more subdued for the rest of that road trip, and was glad when we returned home Sunday afternoon.  It didn’t take long with slobber-ball for him to return to his normal, happy self again.

 

     There was this one song that Jake really loved.  I never figured out why, but every time we would hear The Air That I Breathe by The Hollies he would just perk right up and make these great sounds as if he was trying to sing along.  I mean, I can’t blame him, it’s a great song.  It’s embarrassing to admit, but we even slow-danced to it once in the living room.  As the song played he spontaneously stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on my shoulders.  I took the paws in my hands (being careful of his limp leg, mind you) and we swayed back and forth - me singing loudly with a smile on my face, and him belting out his own translation in dog-language, until the song ended.

 

     It will be a long, long time before I can listen to that song again.  Last week I had to let Jake go.  He’d been getting weaker and more feeble over the years until it was no longer possible for him to enjoy his time on this earth in any way, shape or form.  It hurt so much to see him like that near the end, and making the decision to let him go wasn’t any easier, I assure you.  In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.  I was with him the whole time though - just like I’d promised him at that rest area in Springfield all those years ago.  I didn’t leave his side.  Even as he was on the table at the animal hospital drawing his last breaths, I was there.  I hoped he was aware that I was there with him, but it was hard to know for sure with the blindness and apparent dementia that had overtaken him.  I like to think he knew though.  I told him I loved him and that I would miss him terribly.  I gently stroked the hair on the back of his head and did the only thing I could think to do.  I Softly sang a verse from The Air That I Breathe into his ear:

 

Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak.  So sleep, silent angel.  Go to sleep.

 

And sleep he did.

 

* * * * *

 

     I thought I saw Jake the other day.  I still see him a lot actually.  He was walking behind me on the sidewalk and I turned to look, but he was gone.  The other night while I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink, I looked out the window and saw him running through the field at dusk.  Or maybe it was just the wind whipping through the tall grass.  He’s in my room at night.  He’s on the couch next to me watching TV.  He’s running down the hall with slobber-ball in his mouth.  Well, at least I still picture him in those places.  If there are animals in Heaven, there is no doubt in my mind that he is enjoying his retirement there, perfectly healthy - not even a limp paw.

 

     Jake is buried in the field behind my house.  A simple circle of stones with a rosebush in the center marks the site.  Sometimes when I’m out there putting new mulch around the bush I’ll talk to him.  And sometimes I’ll go sit out there just to watch the sun set with him.  How do you say goodbye to a companion like that?  I long for his presence all too often.  I miss you, Jake.

Reviews

[Shy Joe]

I thoroughly enjoyed your story. I have a soft spot for dogs. Thanks for sharing your experience about your friend.

[moonlit_cove]

Thank you, Shy Joe - I appreciate it!