Safe Travels, Manny

Before I left Manny at the veterinary hospital a little before midnight, I asked if I could go give him a hug. This was the same hospital where I had sat on a blanket four years earlier, in the area not intended for visitors, trying to feed peanut butter on a spoon to Manny's best buddy, Leo, after his surgery. The doctors and nurses and technicians all went about their business around me, as if it were perfectly routine for a patient and his owner to be having an indoor picnic in their midst. I knew they would not deny me a simple hug.

The young smiling woman who had just painstakingly gone over the non-medical details with me -- phone numbers, visiting hours, procedures, the estimated cost (which, at this point in my dog mothering life does not even make me flinch) -- led me back. Manny was sleeping peacefully in his "private room" on the lower level of the neat stack of cages. I hated to disturb him; after what had been a rough day, I was happy to see him comfortable. I'd be back in the morning anyway to discuss treatment options with a doctor in the internal medicine department.

I went home, exhausted and relieved that he was in good hands. My phone vibrated only two hours later. I missed the first one and was staring, paralyzed, at the caller ID when it vibrated again. His heart had stopped. Manny was gone.

Just like that, this creature who had charmed me senseless the moment I saw him, the guy who has weathered more than his share of bad luck for the past four years but, in spite of it all, has stood by my side and been one of the few constants in my ever changing landscape, was gone. When I finally announced his passing to my Facebook world yesterday evening, I mentioned the hole in my heart. A friend commented that losing a beloved pet feels like losing a limb. Yes, I think that might be right.

Manny attached himself to the ones he loved, a furry little appendage. It took some getting used to, particularly for his buddy, Leo, who was far more aloof. From the beginning, Manny would join Leo on his favorite chair, pressing his rump against his buddy, relaxing until he had to leap off behind his mentor and join him in barking at some unknown something out the window. Manny never appeared to know what they were barking; he would turn to watch Leo for cues, and he would keep barking as long as Leo did. Leo learned early to pick his battles with Manny; as much as he resented sharing his chair, he always left a little room.

I have peppered these pages, over the years, with stories of Manny and Leo, partners in crime, an obnoxious little brother and an extraordinarily kind and tolerant big brother who would emit a low but firm growl when Manny crossed the line. Leo was elegant, tall, and lean. Manny, well, not so much. Manny, the criminal mastermind, would sniff out mischief -- gourmet human treats on a counter out of his reach, a heavy sofa cushion that needed to be unstuffed --  and never seemed to have a problem convincing Leo to help him out. He'd cock his head in Leo's direction when I arrived home, his way of pointing a finger. Wasn't me. Leo never bothered to protest. After all, he wasn't the one with cannoli cream in his whiskers, peanut butter in the corner of his mouth, a dusting of upholstery stuffing on top of his head.

Four years ago, within the span of two weeks, Manny lost his best buddy and his eyesight. For a long time, he waited for Leo to return home, but finally gave up. He never wasted much time waiting for his sight to return. He just took it in stride. He walked into walls, fell off our stoop into the bushes, forgot, sometimes, where the staircase was. He didn't even seem angry when I moved him out of the house he knew into an unfamiliar townhouse with a lot of stairs. I wondered, at the beginning, how on earth I was going to deal with a blind dog for so many years. He was only five. Now, I wonder how I wondered that.

As it turns out, illness took him way too early. He knew better than anybody how to make me crazy (I'll spare everyone the story of what happens when a dog eats a jar of Vaseline), but he also knew better than anybody how to make the best of a bad situation. When I heaved him into a sink full of V-8 juice after a skunking (Walgreens was out of plain old tomato juice), he just enjoyed the unexpected cocktail hour. It's five o'clock somewhere was what he must have been thinking as he lapped up a good part of his bath. He never gave up on the pantry door, always hoping that one day, instead of smashing into it with his face, it would be open and he could help himself to a snack. He loved a good car ride, staring out the window as if he could see. He loved a good walk, no matter what the weather, and learned quickly to start lifting his forepaws in anticipation of a curb when I said "up." It was like a dance, graceful, slow, poised. He never whimpered if he miscalculated. And he loved a good nap, particularly if it meant snuggling on the couch with someone you love.

When one of his human siblings would visit after a long absence, he would howl with delight at the mere smell of them. Add a belly rub, and the howling would reach a fever pitch. Pure, unadulterated joy. I've never seen or heard anything quite like it. Manny's tail, even on his worst days in recent months, always managed to stand up and wag about something. He appreciated the little things. If he could talk, he would never have asked "why me?"

I go forward, now, with a heavy heart and a lot of wonderful memories. And life lessons that we humans tend to forget, lessons I will try to hold on to when the going gets tough. Like today.