First time I spied Jake was on a hot Saturday morning in June, out in the waiting room of a Long Island veterinarian. I'd contacted German Short-haired Pointer Rescue and they directed me to a woman who'd said, "Oh yes, we have a dog, a male who really needs to go home with someone." She spoke with a Russian accent, her voice soft and a little hesitant. I told her I knew a lot about the breed, having raised one from a little seven-week old puppy until she died a few months ago at the age of nineteen. "Nineteen?", she breathed, "well, my goodness, you must know what you're doing." I wasn't sure that was entirely accurate, but I laughed and told her I'd meet her and the prospective adoptee at 9 am the following Saturday. "His name is Jake," she said, "and he's had kind of a hard time, so far."
It seems that Jake had gone through three owners before the age of eleven months, and had been kenneled at the vet for 2 months. While that's a nightmare scenario for anyone who has and loves dogs of any stripe, you need to understand something about these guys. They live to run, and after that, they live to be next to someone who loves them. It's that simple. Run, love. And he now spent the major portion of every day in a cage. Of course he was fed and walked and probably got some pats on the head. Still, he was, for all practical purposes, imprisoned in a cage just big enough for him to lie down, turn around, and lie down again. I learned all this before seeing him for the first time, but I knew I was sunk in deep before I even walked in the door.
The waiting room was empty except for the woman, Nadya, and Jake, who were in the corner, sitting by a huge rubber plant. He was curled up on the chair next her, his head on her knee. He sported the standard color scheme for short-hairs, liver and white, and his front paws, hanging over the edge of the chair, were the size of small hams. "Jake?" I called out, and walked a couple of steps toward him. His head snapped up, he took one look at me, and sailed, literally flew across the room, landed at my feet, and stopped on a dime. I bent down and kissed the knob on his head and rubbed his long, warm, softer-than-silk ears. He gave a deep moan and carefully wedged his mizzle into my crotch. It was a match.
"Just some few things," she said. "His first owner, um, put him away from him because the girlfriend was afraid." Jake leaned against the outside of my leg, slid down to the floor, maintaining maximal contact, and began to furiously groom his right paw. "Then," she sighed deeply, "he went to another man who had to divorce and left the city, so he gave him up. So now, last owner used him to, um, guard a golf course. He chained him on the long chain and left him outside, all the time. Even in the storms. He is now very afraid of storms and thunder. Most afraid of the thunder." She looked down at Jake, who was now burrowing into his left paw, snorting and licking, with the occasional punctuation of a loud, wet sneeze. "He is a very sweet boy," she said. "Maybe a little crazy from all the moving around and things, but I feel he can be happy if he just knows he's, you know, safe and won't be let alone." Jake rolled over on his side, gave me the long, cinematic gaze, and with a deep sigh, lay his lead on the floor.
And so for twelve years, and until yesterday, he was my friend, my co-conspiritor, my muse and my love-hog. He put up with all sorts of difficult moves and living situations, but also got some terrfic vacations and met all sorts of dog and human friends. In the warm months, he spent hours leaping, gazelle-like, through the long tall grasses of the park in northern Manhattan where we lived. When the deep snows came, he trembled with ecstasy as he tore through the drifts, eating great mouthfulls on the run. He loved everybody he met, with a hopefulness and barely-disguised neediness that alarmed some people, but charmed even more.
A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with colon cancer, stage three. I woke up in a hospital in NJ with the surgeon, one Dr. Irving Grabsheit, hovering 3-4 inches above my face, saying, "Yes, we took out a tumah, size of a grapefruit. NOT benign." He then proceded to sick an ambulance-chaser oncologist on me, Dr. Kaddir, who, in a bored tone, basically pronounced me toast, even with chemo. Nice. Pissed to the tits, I fired Kaddir and found a somewhat positive, perky female oncologist who, while perhaps as bored as the rest of them, had the grace not to show it. Twelve rounds of chemo---and I can only tell you it's worse than they ever want you to know---and I said, that's it. Finito, Benito. I was and still am doing well, and chemo's not even in the picture. I do a daily dose of maple syrup and bicarbonate of soda. If you think I'm nuts, just google it. I'm on the leading edge, guys.
And all through my wade into the darkness, Jake led me like a little lion. Days when I said to myself, fuck it, I cannot get up, he stuck his nose under my arm, flipped it up, and stared into my eyes, insisting on the vagaries of daily life---walking, eating, peeing, pooping, playing. When I lay exhausted and cold, even under 3 blankets, he crawled in beside me and pressed his warm soft belly against me for hours at a time. Aside from the occasional major fart, he was the best sleeping partner I've ever had.
Yesterday, I took him on his final journey, to the vet. He'd been diagnosed with Cushings Disease a year ago, and aside from a type of chemo treatment which I could not afford, and of course wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, there was basically nothing to be done except a homeopathic treatment that didn't seem to have much of an effect. He'd done remarkably well for so long, that when he began to really fail, about three weeks ago, I was not about to admit he could be dying, and dying soon. But on Saturday, he just collapsed and could no longer go outside for his ever more prequent pee trips. His legs shook and his back toes were curled up. It was time.
The women at the vet were wonderful and respectful, and the cab driver who took me there, Ed, will always be a hero in my book, insisting on carrying Jake into a treatment room, and gently laying him down on the steel table. The pale mucous membranes had already covered his eyes. He'd moved on, and so I kissed the knob on his head, and thanked him for giving of himself to me for so long. I honestly don't know what to do with myself today, so I wrote this. Jake's obit.
Love is all we need, folks, and it's all we have, when the end of the day comes. Yes, be good to each other, love and serve and feed everyone. Because they are you.
Namaste'!