Fetch

Anyone who has ever owned a dog knows one thing about them: they love their stuff. There was one dog in my neighborhood named Byron. Byron was an English Bulldog; a lot of people don’t fancy the breed much, but I for one adore them. I especially adored Byron because I had known him from when I was in high school. I would always see him out for a walk by himself. His owners knew that he never got into trouble, so they just let him wander about as he pleased. The one way that everyone knew Byron was coming was the sound that he made. His favorite toy was a huge mahogany stick whose origins still elude me to this day. It was as long as he was, but that never stopped Byron from carrying it around with him, the one end dragging along behind that made a distinct scraping noise. It always made me laugh that I could hear Byron coming up the sidewalk before I ever saw him.

One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.

I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.