Our interactions with our pets often teach us more than we expect to learn from "dumb animals". When I was a kid I had a big dog, a German Shepherd/Collie mix that came to us almost full-sized when I was a little boy.

On the night that she arrived, my dad woke me up so I could see her. As I said, even though she was young, she wasn't a puppy, so she stood almost as tall as me on all fours. My father was quick to tell me that Trixie was HIS dog. he did, however, assign me the responsibility for her care.

But Trixie and I grew up together and like most females, she reached maturity before me.

There were plenty of days when I neglected to feed her and plenty of hot Memphis summers where whatever I was doing seemed far more important than making sure she had fresh water. My father refused to fence the back yard, so she lived in a far corner chained to a dead tree in a half constructed dog house that was too hot in the summer and not nearly warm enough in the winter. She would break her chain several times a year and run away, but each time she returned to our front porch to terrorize the postman while our family was away at work and school. And a few months later she would deliver a new litter of mixed breed puppies.

By the time I was in high school she started showing signs of a congenital hip problem that's common in Shepherds. My dad didn't believe in spending money on a veterinarian so she continued to deal with it until wagging her tail meant that the whole back half of her body wagged to compensate for the loss of mobility. I imagine that offering such a vigorous greeting was painful for her but she never stopped.

A few weeks before I was going to leave for college Trixie disappeared again. She was too old to be off "courting" so my dad and I were a little curious about what she was up to. After a week my dad had me help him move the concrete steps that led to our back porch. Tucked underneath we found Trixie, curled up in an eternal nap. My father dug a hole and buried her unceremoniously in the same area of our Memphis back yard where she had spent her captive life.

Perhaps she had sensed that I was leaving and thought I wouldn't need her anymore. Perhaps she didn't have the strength to say goodbye. Either way, my graduation from high school became a bitter sweet passage.

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I refused to get another pet after that. And then I got divorced and realized that I was working an insane number of hours in order to avoid going home to an empty house. So I got a puppy. Getting my Sharpei was like marrying a woman whose genetics make her look more and more like her hard-worn mother as she ages, but by that time you are already so in love it doesn't matter. Jabba-the-Hut was a beautiful little homely puppy and his looks grew even more distinctive as he aged. But he was proud and stubborn and l loved with abandon, just like Trixie before him.



I tried to do all the right things with him. He saw the vet. Was placed in a reputable kennel when I traveled and lived in the house just like the rest of us. When I was teaching high school, he guarded me on the deck while I graded papers. He watched over the children adopted into my second marriage as if they were his own. He was my best companion.

As my second and most ill-advised marriage was waning Jabba also succumbed to a congenital problem for his breed. It seemed like overnight he'd lost weight, like he had starved to death. I was on my way to church that final Sunday, when his suffering became undeniably apparent to me. he had been hiding his sickness, just as Trixie hid the moment of her death. I took off my tie and jacket and tried to relieve my companion's discomfort. I believe he tried to stay with me, but in the end, the task required more effort than he could muster. I held him as his last breath abandoned him and he, like Trixie, entered the permanence of sleep without dreams.

I carried him like a fragile child to my Philly back yard and dug his grave there. I stood there for nearly a half hour after I was done just remembering -- and bracing myself for life without him. I don't think I uttered more than 15 words the rest of the day.

What did I learn?

I'm sure that all the lessons taught by my canine lovers have yet to take seed but I do understand the value of companionship -- the need of every person to have someone to care for and be loved by unconditionally in return. Waiting for the appearance of such a companion is the difficult part. Not settling for the willing victim that appears with aggravating regularity is the hard part and I'm not sure I have the energy to keep doing difficult things.

Class is still in session.