Eulogy for a Friend
by Bill Shein

THE NIGHT before you died, I brought home Chinese food and we shared the fortune cookie as we had so many times before: Half for me, half for you, and one bit of Chinese-cookie wisdom for us both. By then you were fading away, your breathing labored, your body shutting down, but your eyes still glowing with life.

The vet would come by in the morning, armed with the poison that would end your life. But you died just moments before she arrived, suffering more than I wish you had, but sparing me the agony of taking your life, however mercifully intended. It was, I think, your final gift to me.

You were by my side since a year after college, rescued from a shelter, terribly thin and for a time painfully shy, a year-old stray dog with a mysterious life story known only to you. They called you a "shepherd mix," black with a tan belly and legs, your head black with some brown, your soon-to-be strong body rounded out with a long, furry tail. I called you Coltrane, after the jazzman.

You lived with me in New York and Washington and then the Berkshires, in houses large and small, urban and rural, shared with roommates and girlfriends and the other dogs and cats that would, over time, join our little menagerie.

You were the oldest of them all, and also the wisest, a teacher to me whether you meant to be or not. You taught simple truths worthy of a Buddhist master: That an old, dirty, well-worn toy is far better than something clean and new, because it represents life well lived and experiences worth remembering.

You taught me that finding contentment and peace of mind often requires little more than a simple hike along a leafy trail, our six feet strolling along together as if we didn't have a care in the world.

In our New York City dog park you showed me that a stranger, as explained by that old cliché, is just a friend we haven't met yet. And from you I learned that there's never a bad time to take a nap in the sun.

Perhaps most importantly, with you I discovered that laughter and play are the very purpose of life, not just a sideline activity to make the tedium of our working lives more bearable.

And boy did you made me laugh. Once you ate an entire cherry pie that had been left within reach. A few weeks later you quickly inhaled most of a stick of butter that fell on the kitchen floor. Before you were housebroken, your "accidents" always happened outside the bedroom door of the one roommate who hated dogs.

For 15 years you pulled me on Rollerblades and chased sticks that I threw. You swam after tennis balls tossed into ponds, and played tug-of-war with rawhide bones, pulling with the strength of a sumo wrestler. During thunderstorms you hid in the bathtub, perhaps a nervous habit but maybe just a sensible precaution.

In life's difficult times your fur dried my tears, and your head always seemed to find its way onto my lap when you sensed I was sad.

Some people say dogs are merely dogs, and that we're foolish to ascribe feelings and emotions to our pets. But I'd be a fool to deny that we were, you and I, quite clearly in love.

On your last night, I slept on the floor next to your bed, petting you when I was awake and resting my hand on your side when I dozed. And later, when you died, alone with me, my hand covered my open mouth in disbelief. For a long while, I was a 39-year-old man crying like a boy.

As you lay motionless, still warm, still soft, still the same but for an end to the rising and falling of your breath, I put my head down so your fur could dry my tears, and muffle my sobs, one last time. Next to us was the small paper strip from our shared fortune cookie. Yet this time the words had clearly been written for you alone. It said, "You have a stout heart, a clear mind, and a pure soul."

And that you did, old friend. That you did.

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(This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle newspaper on January 5, 2007. Read Bill's previous column, "Last-Minute Gift Ideas" ).