One Thing I Learned This Week

Jasper. ❤️

We got Jasper because he didn’t bite my hair. At the animal shelter, there were several puppies, and I spotted him first. Small, black, and soft, he snuggled in my arms as I carried him. Other puppies wriggled uncontrollably, but Jasper had a quiet, calm even at 11 weeks old. He’d been found in a parking lot in a brown cardboard box with his siblings in Tennessee and brought to the shelter in New York. They told us he would be 60 pounds max. He grew up to be almost 90 pounds with giant webbed feet and a coat that shed water like glass. His smile made you laugh, and he was a champion snuggler. 

I grew up with Labradors. But he was my first pet in New York City. I learned how much he could make the world feel so much friendlier. If they weren’t scared by his size, people seemed compelled to touch him. Children especially. He loved children. Parents often had to be warned because a big kiss — if he was allowed — almost always came within seconds.

I didn’t think I wanted a dog. Our daughter made a dossier to explain why we did. I learned quickly she was right. Even after the 2 am walks and rugs that had to be thrown out, and the destroyed shoes. Even after he ate part of the wall and two chairs. Even after he went on food strikes, making us try a new line of kibble every six months, until he finally trained us to cook chicken and eggs for him, with a splash of pumpkin on top. 

He was the ultimate protector: from the vacuum, the robot vacuum, the oven alarm, the doorbell, door knocks, really anything happening at or even near the door.  I learned to keep a barricade of chairs so that he wouldn’t scare off delivery people. I could hold him back — but not at the same time as handing a terrified pizza guy money. 

I learned how much black fur can absorb heat. In the summer, in the worst of New York humidity, if he’d had enough of his walks, he would just lie down. On the sidewalk, in a flower bed, in the crosswalk in the middle of the street. You could see it coming; he would sit and then tip over. You could not move him, nor lift him. The entire temper tantrum had to be borne, until he would finally allow himself to be coaxed to standing by a cookie, a treat. 

I learned how much he hated fetching. Unless he was in water, where he would swim like an otter to retrieve any toy or stick you threw and bring it right to your hand. Wriggling until you would throw again. On land, he would look at you with pity as you tossed a toy. He would dutifully jog over to the thrown ball and sniff it. Then look right at you, sadly, like you would never learn, and walk off.

He loved to roll in the dirt, snow, clover, grass, mud, really anywhere that smelled of dead things. His fur was a collector's dream of New York City detritus. He loved chasing skateboards, and was the world’s worst running companion. He would run for about two blocks, zigzagging with abandoned glee, leaping into the air like he was in the Nutcracker, making it impossible to keep any pace, and then stop pointedly, what a fun experience, now we will be done. He loved riding in the car, and would inch himself closer every few miles until his head would rest between the two front car seats.

I learned quickly how much he loved baths. If you asked him if he wanted a bath, he would walk calmly to the bathroom, step carefully into the tub, and sit and wait. Washing him required a bathing suit and the removal of towels, rug, even toilet paper, anything that could absorb water, plus everything that could fall: toothbrushes, bottles of conditioner, face wash, the trash can. Once the water started running, he would angle his head over the tub first, then a paw. Then half his body. Rinsing him required a bucket. When he was finally done (really his call, not ours), he would run to the other end of the apartment, wiping his wet body across all the walls and the floor, then wolf about 20 cookies before passing out while we mopped out the bathroom. We would find dog hair on the walls for days. 

I learned how much he loved the holidays. He had a stocking like the rest of us, and wrapped presents, and he could rip open his gifts surgically: paw on one end, teeth on the other, spitting the paper out of his mouth delicately. After opening his presents, he would try to open yours, only finally playing with his new toys when he realized the opening part was over. 

I learned that the loss of him is everywhere, from the toys left half chewed on the floor, his bed, the tufts of dog fur in the corners, the parks I can’t imagine walking to right now without him by my side. The phantom sounds, the terrible quiet. 

I learned that dumb stupid cliche is real: it is better to have loved him than not ever to have had him. I’ll always be grateful for his choosing me, for tricking me into thinking he was a calm, docile creature that frigid January weekend. He was a hellfire of love in a black bear of a monster. And I could not have loved any puppy more.