I’ve had a uniquely special relationship with a certain coworker in my small office for the past eleven-and-a-half years. In addition to the “normal” Monday through Friday, 8-to-5 business hours, he and I have worked closely together late into the night on too many occasions to count. We’ve been a team through many working weekends and even on holidays when it was the only possible way to meet impossible deadlines. Though I would never bring it up, he more often than not has fallen sound asleep while I tap away at the keyboard or stare blankly at the ceiling fan overhead in search of a solution or idea – his barely audible snoring not helping in any way with the work at hand.
And yet, although I have logged many long, late night office hours over the years, my coworker has been here even longer, holding down the fort. I have often had the opportunity to leave for a meeting with clients, or to go out for dinner with my wife and kids, or leave the office to simply do something other than work. My coworker, however, almost always has stayed behind and waited patiently for my return – acting as the ever-vigilant office security guard or simply busying himself with all sorts of miscellaneous activities, one of which typically included napping. As I mentioned, I never spoke to him about his tendency to drift off to sleep during working hours, but he knew that I knew he took advantage of my permissiveness. There were no secrets between us.
You could say that my coworker was also the goodwill ambassador for my business, always greeting visitors or delivery people with his overly friendly manner and welcoming ways. Guests relaxed visibly in his presence and in subsequent conversations would often ask me to give him their kindest regards.
During any given week, I would all too often vent to him about particularly frustrating clients – or about not having enough work or having too much work or not enough time to do the work or having to once again go out and look for more work. No matter how much I ranted, however, I could always count on him to quickly calm me down and remind me in a way all his own that work is only work. It’s the relationships in life that are most important.
To say that this coworker was like one of my family would be misleading. He was family in almost every possible way except one – he wasn’t human. He was a goofy, tail-wagging, shoe-stealing, sleep-seeking, clothes-hamper-raiding, big, loving dope of a dog; my near constant companion, friend and coworker.
And now, he’s gone.
Last Saturday, after weeks of expensive treatments and loving care for his failing kidneys, oceans of shed tears and not nearly enough emotional preparation for the inevitable outcome, we said goodbye to “Darby,” our family’s beloved yellow lab and the last of our dogs. (You might remember that I wrote about losing our beautiful golden retriever girl, “Sierra,” fourteen months ago. Yes, it’s been a tough year-and-a-half.)
I simply cannot find the words to express how much I miss that dog every waking minute of every day – and so far – during already too many restless nights. I have no guilt in saying that he was my favorite dog. Ever. He was my constant companion. My work mate. My protector (in his own mind, at least). The greeter of the UPS man. The passionate, tireless tail wager. Chaser of tennis balls. Incorrigible thief of shoes – even right from your feet if you wore slip-ons.
He was our power-failure proof alarm clock. If we slept in even 15 minutes past our usual weekend routine, Darby would impatiently go to the hand towel hanging on a rack in our dressing room, take one end of it in his teeth, pull it off and bring it to my side of the bed. He’d continually nudge my arm with his nose until I woke up, then look at me with an expectant, “do you SEE what I have in my mouth and aren’t you going to do something about it?” expression.
As a younger dog, he and his golden retriever sister would have nothing of sleeping on our bedroom floor at night like mere dogs. Oh, contraire. The foot of our queen size bed was fine for Sierra, but not for Darby. He had to share our pillows and would position himself every night with his back to the headboard, and his face on one of our pillows. Yes, that meant one of us got to sleep with his other end pointed at us. And I loved it. Both dogs got too old eventually to make the jump to our bed – a fact my wife loved, but which I never really got used to.
I hope they have high alpine lakes in heaven, because this was a dog who would swim until near exhaustion whenever we’d take him to Mammoth. We would eventually have to hide whatever tennis ball or sticks we were throwing in order to keep him from going back out into the water yet again and exhausting himself in the high altitude.
Darby was proof that a dog can have gourmet tastes. His absolute love of pizza “bones” (crusts), slices of cheddar cheese and anything with chicken in it, would make him sit patiently and bore holes into you with big, round, black eyes as intense as any I’ve ever seen – until you’d break down and give him a piece of whatever it was you were eating. And then another. And another. He could hear a spoon on the bottom of a peanut butter jar or carton of cottage cheese from across the house and would suddenly appear at your side with his well-practiced “you’re gonna give me that, right?” look on his beautiful, goofy, always-loving face.
Darby was a male dog who never quite got the hang of lifting his leg. He’d kind of half squat, have lift one back leg and let fly – often on his own feet as he got older. Not exactly a proud moment for me, his owner. The few times in his nearly twelve years with us that he actually did lift his leg like a “normal” guy dog, we would whoop and holler and strut around so proud of his accomplishment – we probably frightened him from trying it again for years.
He was the first “self-walking” dog I’ve seen – always grabbing his own leash in his mouth and walking ahead of you as if you weren’t needed at all.
When we’d leave the house without him, he would go behind the couch in our living room to press his big, black nose against the window and watch us drive down the driveway with a “hurry back home!” look on his entire face. And hurry home, we would. Upon parking, he would be upstairs on the balcony overlooking our driveway, his nails click-clicking on the wood deck as he paced back and forth waiting for us to come back in the house – his nose poking through the balcony railing to better see us and his tail wagging furiously in joyous greeting of his family arriving home.
Darby was shrewd enough to stay off our family room couch in the evening as long as “mom” was awake, but he’d open one eye and carefully watch her walk upstairs to go to bed. As soon as he knew she was in bed, he would quietly get up from wherever he was, walk over to the couch and hop up on the cushions to settle in for a comfortable while. I’ve never seen a dog who loved comfort as much as he did. I hope he’s comfortable once more and no longer weary of the fight to stay with us another day, another hour.
They say that writing is the loneliest of professions, to which I agree. Working solo is a necessary part of the job. And yet, until now, I’ve never really been alone thanks to loving, faithful companions and ‘coworkers’ like Darby and Sierra.
This week, my office is lonelier than ever before. I find myself looking for the big, furry dope every time I get up from my desk. I’ll start to say something about this or that project before I remember that he isn’t there to hear me. He and Sierra are off in some heavenly meadow chasing after bright green tennis balls and snuggling together for well-deserved naps.
I know we’ll be reunited someday, but until then, it’s my turn to hold down the fort. Goodbye, dear friend.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Note: This is an extended version of my column first published yesterday, 6.21.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.
