On Dogs

Since losing Chudley, I’ve taken comfort in reflecting on our relationship and his life. It’s something I wish I had done more frequently while he was still here, but alas. Such is life.

 

It’s made me appreciate him, of course, but it’s also sparked keen and newfound interest in the value that dogs play in all of our lives. Heck, just think about it: they are people with whom we never (completely) verbally communicate, but affect our lives in immeasurable ways. For some, they become part of a family. They offer companionship and company. They offer comfort to people who want unconditional love and interaction.

 

To me, Chudley was all of those things—and more. Yet reminiscing is quite the process. It’s both emotional and cathartic. And difficult, too. When someone is so embedded within your life for so long, perfectly articulating what those years (and moments) meant to you can be challenging. “Words fail,” as they say in Dear Evan Hansen.

 

But, at risk of not quite capturing the fullness of the relationship, I’d like to speak to a cherished moments. Some things that come to mind about my brother’s life. A life well-lived—full and complete with great loves and endeavors.

 

 

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On Routines

 

Chudley was a source of constancy, and provided a sense of routine and structure in my family’s life. If ever you were to doubt what the next day had in store, you knew you could rely on a few things. Wake up: let him outside to do his business. Fill his water and food bowls. Build-in time for stomach rubs and back scratches. Repeat a few times throughout the day. 

 

It appears self-evident. He’s your dog. You have to take care of him, after all.

 

Yes, that’s true. Of course. It’s an inherent responsibility in any close relationship, especially one with a pet. I think, though, that it’s worth reflection—and appreciation.

 

I was blessed to have him at such a young age, and in many ways we grew up together. When I was five, he was one. When he was fifteen, I was twenty. It was like having a little brother alongside me. Unfortunately he aged a bit faster than I, but you get the point. As I learned to take care of Chudley, I learned to take care of myself. Watching him enrich my parents’ life, too, made it all the more sweet. 

 

I have fond memories of spending weekends at our cottage at a nearby lake in Rochester, NY. Time there was far more relaxed—a weekend get-away typically spent around the fire, watching movies and shows. The ideal set-up for Chudley: unlimited cuddles and company. 

 

What I’ll remember the most, though, is the morning routine. Whenever the clock struck 7AM at our lake house, Chudley would climb onto my parents’ bed, shimmy his way on to my Dad’s chest, and delicately “paw” at my Dad’s face. He’d do this until he got his attention.

 

It signaled: “I’m ready (1) to get up and (2) for my morning walk.”

 

This would happen every morning, without fail. And what made it even more surprising—and more special—was that it didn’t happen elsewhere. Sure, we’d take Chudley on walks at our home in Rochester. But never religiously, nor on such a strict schedule. At the lake, he knew his surroundings like the back of his paw. He understood that a night spent at the lake meant an early-morning wake-up and walk. My Dad always complied, sometimes with a visit from my Mom or me.

 

It was a routine. Taking in the morning air, getting much-needed exercise while the rest of the town had not yet risen. It was something that we wouldn’t have come to appreciate without Chudley. Something so simple, yet so necessary and proper. Something to look forward to—and something I’ll forever associate with him.

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