Loss is, I believe, the saddest part of the human experience. Whether it's the loss of a family member, or a close friend, or anyone or anything that has enriched our lives, saying goodbye hurts at the deepest levels. It hurts so much because there's no turning back; these losses are forever and no matter how sweet the memories of that which we have lost, what is left is only emotional or cerebral. Among the losses that count so much, I feel we must include our four legged friends who have given us unconditional love over the years and a cascade of memories that bring a unique sense of joy.
Such is our experience right now as we have lost our beloved Mojo, a black lab whose life adventures could fill a movie screen. Mojo lived for almost fourteen glorious years. He came to us as a rescue when he was a very young puppy. We always liked the name Mojo, but had no idea how fitting it would be for this particular creature. Mojo was tossed from a truck when he was a very young puppy. The only reason we know this is because there was a hunter in the area who witnessed this horrid act and who got the puppy to a shelter. He was near death as it turns out, suffering from parvo, a disease that attacks a dog's intestinal system and is often fatal. He somehow survived that experience, but was skin and bones when we got him and could barely walk twenty-five yards without needing to rest. But, he got through this stage and blossomed in so many ways. As it turns out, what we had not known is that in the local Gullah culture the term mojo means "black magic" and given his miraculous survival and recovery and that he was a black lab how could there be a better name for him?
Mojo and I would have a daily routine of getting up each morning and heading to the beach. I would be armed with a chuckit and a couple of tennis balls for which Mojo had something akin to an OCD level of focus. Nothing, I mean nothing, could distract him from his passionate pursuit of the ball. Once he overcame his fear of the ocean's wave action, I would routinely use the chuckit to heave the ball way out into the ocean where Mojo would cut through the waves and then, once the ball was firmly in his mouth, ride the waves back in using his tail as a stabilizer that would liken him to any very accomplished surfer. As the other folks who brought their dogs to the beach would realize, Mojo had zero interest in playing with other dogs. Just keep throwing him the ball! And, in winter when temperatures would dip into the low 30's, I would find myself dressing in a way that looked alarmingly like the Pillsbury dough boy. At these times, I couldn't bring myself to throw the ball out into the ocean. It was just too damn cold! After a few minutes of this deprivation, however, Mojo would simply pick up the ball and take it into the ocean where, of course, he most wanted to be.
Mojo would become known as the goodwill ambassador of the beach. He earned this title by routinely taking his ball and dropping it at the feet of whoever might be walking on the beach or sitting in a chair. It didn't matter if they were oldsters or three year olds, Mojo loved sharing his passion with others. If it were a three year old, he or she might throw the ball about 18 inches. It didn't matter. Mojo would get the ball and drop it back at their feet over and over and over again. For the few who did not realize what their role was in all this, Mojo would bark once or twice. I would explain to these folks that if Mojo could speak english, he'd be saying, "throw me the damn ball!!" Many folks would return year after year and remember Mojo delighted to see him again, especially their kids.
For me, though, Mojo's social skills enabled me to enjoy something I never would have anticipated. Whenever Mojo would engage a beach walker and I would approach, it so often would lead to a conversation where I would learn so much from total strangers from all across the globe. They would share stories with me that would often overlap my own life experience and result in a very enriching encounter that, but for Mojo, I would never have experienced.
And, then, there is the litany of Mojo's adventures. Steven Spielberg would love this stuff! There was the time that Mojo interjected himself into a marriage ceremony on the beach. Right in the middle of the ceremony, Mojo walked in as the pastor was speaking and he dropped the ball at the bride's feet! When she continued to stay focused on the business at hand, Mojo barked a little, again, as a reminder to the young lady to throw him the ball. One of the groomsmen finally threw the ball and, as I finally caught up to the scene, the bride gave me a furtive smile to let me know she was fine with what had transpired. Not so much the maid of honor.
Then there was the time that a large shark appeared in the shallows. Naturally, everyone got out of the water including the dogs. But not Mojo. Oh no, he saw this as an opportunity. With all of us on the shore watching, Mojo leaped into the water and literally climbed on to the back of the shark! True story! I was in panic mode and, as they say, you never know how you're going to react in a crisis, I started walking into the water thinking my chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon. Mojo, however, was already riding the shark, literally astride the dorsal fin. You just know the shark was wanting to say, "you know who I am?" Or, you know what I could do to you??" Finally, as the shark started drifting into deeper waters, Mojo hopped off, swam ashore and looked at me wanting me to toss the next ball.
And, of course, there was the time that a deer was chased on to the beach by another dog and in a panic headed to the ocean. Mojo, forever fascinated by deer, took off after him and they just about disappeared over the horizon, they were that far out. I was sure I had lost him forever. About 45 minutes later, Mojo actually came ashore. When I got him home, he laid on the floor and remained motionless for hours. Because I feared for him, I took him to our vet who found his vitals to be good but concluded that Mojo was suffering from adrenalin depletion. He just needed to rest.
Speaking of deer, there was another time we were returning from the beach when Mojo took off like a rocket. I raced after him and soon found a crowd of people just off the main drag in our community. I launched myself into the crowd only to discover that there was a deer laying on the ground legs in the air with Mojo on top of him! Apparently, the deer's right rear leg had gotten caught in Mojo's collar and they were at a nerve raking stalemate. They couldn't escape each other. As the crowd looked on, I bent over and tried to unlock the deer's ankle from Mojo's collar. The moment I succeeded, the deer hopped up and dashed into the woods. Mojo was under house arrest.
And, these are just a smattering of the many cinematic experiences Mojo would treat me to over the years. As they say, you can't make this stuff up.
Over the past couple of years, Mojo's arthritis caught up to him, as is so often the case with larger dogs. His medicine intake became such that he had more meds on the kitchen counter than Lily and I had next to our bathroom sinks. About a year ago, he could no longer get up the steps by himself. I would try anything out there from acupuncture to injections to laser therapy to keep him moving. And, despite his slowing down, there was still nothing he enjoyed more than our morning trips to the beach where he would still chase a tennis ball, but at much slower speeds and with my throws no longer sending him out into the depths of the ocean.
In the past few weeks, my concern about Mojo's well being escalated from being cautiously optimistic to outright fear. Not only could he not get up the steps anymore, but now he couldn't get down them unassisted. On our daily walks his rear legs would go out from under him several times and I'd have to help him get up again. In the house he barely changed locations because it was too difficult for him to get up. His once totally exuberant greetings for us when we would return home largely ceased. His appetite deeply declined. Incontinence became a new reality. As his best friend and trusted caretaker, I struggled with the acutely increased awareness that my time with Mojo was about to be taken away from me. The theoretical was now becoming so close to reality that it raised within me an anxiety level that hopefully we don't experience too often in our lives.
When is the "right time" to put an end to a friend's life? When is his survival more about my needs than his? These are incredibly difficult questions and I don't pretend to know the proper answer or that there is always the "right" answer. But, I do remember this: years ago, my brother-in-law, Jim, an avid owner and lover of a string of golden retrievers, raised the same issue with me although then in the context of his own struggling four legged companion. He said, "you know, Jeff, when they can't do anymore what makes them happy, then the time is right." I'll never forget those words.
The day arrived. With Mojo now in diapers, I struggled to get him up off our bedroom floor still stuck in the muscle memory that it was time to go to the beach. But, he barely could make it to the door. He could no longer walk in a straight line, his disabling arthritis causing him to wobble and fall down. He looked at me clearly communicating that he had no interest going anywhere. I persisted, taking him out on to the deck. But, here he stopped and strongly resisted taking another step. As much of a passion it has always been to go to the beach his entire life, his staunch refusal spoke a thousand words. I knew he would be unable to do the thing he most loved in his life and that was the sign to me that his time had come. I laid down next to him on the living room floor and looked into those saddened eyes which I know were a mirror of my own. I talked to Mojo with a softened voice and recounted some of our life adventures. As I had often found myself saying, I wish dogs could speak english better because there was so much we could be saying to each other in these moments.
I found myself uncontrollably counting down the hours until I knew the moment would come when Dr. Steele, our vet, would arrive at our house. With each passing half hour, as my anxiety grew, I tried to connect with Mojo in as many ways as I could, talking to him ceaselessly, petting him, offering him treats. While Mojo was very calm, I know I can only hope I provided him with some comfort.
Dr. Steele arrived a little past 4 and Lily and I tried to stifle our tears, although not very successfully. Dr. Steele could not have been more compassionate or supportive, and while he had been through this many times, for us this was a moment that rarely happens in our lives. We knew this was the right decision. After all, this is about releasing our beloved pets from their misery. It is only secondarily about us.
Mojo, you have enriched our lives in ways I could never have anticipated. We are comforted knowing that we helped enrich your life as well. You will be in our thoughts forever. When we receive your ashes, we will not keep them in an urn. No, the only things we need in our home with respect to you, Mojo, lie in our hearts and our memories. Instead, we will take your ashes to the ocean and spread them in the shallows where you enjoyed life to the fullest.
Farewell, my friend. May you find the serenity you so richly deserve.
