Just a dog

Grief. It causes otherwise normal—well, normalish in my case—people to feel and act, well, not so normal. The other day, I actually thought to myself that I should have had you taxidermied. (Can "taxidermy" be a verb? I don't think so. I guess I could have said "stuffed," but that sounds weird, right?) I was thinking about how it felt to pet your head. Your bony little schnauzer head, with your sweet little asymmetrical ears that some asshole cropped—probably without using anesthesia—when you were only a few weeks old. I don't want to forget how that feels, Jack. I always want to remember how it felt to pet your head, your ears, your cute little schnauzer butt with the nubby tail. (Again, docked by some asshole before you came into my life.) I want to remember you...all of you. I don't want to forget.

Of course, I would never get you "taxidermied," but, the fact that the thought even crossed my mind proves to me that I'm no longer normalish. At least not right now. I don't know how long it'll take me to get back to my normalish state, but it's been six days since you died, and right now it feels as though I'll never be the same. Like I'm broken and can't be fixed. I've fallen and I can't get up. 

And the world keeps going on as if nothing happened. People are still emailing me. There are still appointments to keep and work calls to be made. And it pisses me off. It pisses me off that people won't just leave me alone. It pisses me off that people tell me they're sorry for my loss, and then they promptly move on to the business of the day. And when I lose my shit, I know they're thinking, Jesus. He was just a dog.

"Just a dog." What does that even mean? You were a member of my family. You were the purest, sweetest, most loyal and loving individual I could have ever known. You loved me unconditionally from the moment we met. You never got mad at me or said mean things to me or decided you'd rather be with someone else. When we were together, you were curled up next to me or walking under my feet or looking at me while I went to the bathroom. When we were apart, you were waiting for me to come home, and then you'd greet me with more enthusiasm than "just a human" would ever greet me with. 

Since the moment we met, you were always so much more than "just a dog" to me, Jack.

Your dad wanted to name you Capone. (Yes, like the gangster.)

"He is not a Capone," I told him, as I held your sweet little 9-week-old body with your salt-and-pepper fur and schnauzer haircut in my arms. "He's a Jack." 

It was June 2006, and your dad and I had just purchased our first house together. We were engaged, and would be married that September. After hosting our housewarming party on a Saturday night, your dad got up early on Sunday to play golf. 

There I was. Alone in our new house. Engaged to be married. Everything seemed to be going so well—all the pieces were coming together to make a wonderful life. But, there was one missing piece. We needed a dog. So, I did what any normalish 25-year-old woman who wanted a miniature schnauzer puppy would do—I went to the Denver Dumb Friends League to adopt one. Of course, there were no miniature schnauzer puppies available for adoption there that day. Of course, I wanted a miniature schnauzer puppy, like, right now. So, I headed down the street to a pet store. Of course, I now know better than to purchase a puppy from a pet store, because they all come from puppy mills, but I wasn't so enlightened back then. 

"Do you have any miniature schnauzers?" I asked the pet store clerk. 

"We have two—a brother and a sister."

I thought I wanted a girl puppy, so I held your sister first. She was cute. But, then I held you, and I knew. I instantly knew that you were the puppy for me. So, I handed the clerk my credit card, signed the receipt, and drove home with my new puppy asleep in my lap, all the supplies we'd need to care for you in the trunk, and a maxed-out credit card in my purse.

Your dad wasn't mad that I bought you. He was even cool with naming you Jack, rather than Capone. It was obvious that Jack was the perfect name for you, but you did have your nicknames. Sometimes we called you Jacko. Other times we called you "Schnauz." Grandpa called you "Yacko." When I joined Instagram six years later, my first post was a selfie of you and me, and you were #jackrumple.

Schnauz, in the nearly 14 years that you were by my side, you were never "just a dog" to me. 

Just a smartypants

I had heard that schnauzers were supposed to be smart, but your smarts never ceased to amaze me, Jack. We potty trained you quickly, but in a rather unconventional way. Remember how you loved to pee on pretty much everything when we walked? Well, you also wanted to mark your territory in our backyard, so your dad trained you to pee out there by peeing out there himself first, then you'd pee on top of his pee, and you soon learned that peeing should happen in the backyard, not in the house.

You loved your puppy training classes, where you learned commands like sit, stay, come, down, and high-five. Your high-five was a hit with everyone who met you, and sometimes, when you were really excited, you'd make it a double high-five. You were easy to train, not only because you were smart, but also because you were highly food motivated. You'd do just about anything for a treat. (And all you had to do was look up at me with those sweet schnauzer eyes, and the treats would come your way.)

Just my copilot

I took you everywhere with me. You were my sidekick. As a puppy, you liked to sit on my lap, even while I was driving. "Love your copilot," said a man in the car next to me at a stoplight one day. But, when you grew too big, you settled for riding shotgun with the window open. You liked the wind in your face. If I didn't open the window, your nose prints would remind me for next time.

Just my walking partner

In those early days, we'd put you on the leash and walk you through our Denver neighborhood. It wouldn't take long before you'd be jumping up on my leg, clearly asking me to pick you up. Your dad would get frustrated, but I was a sucker for that sweet schnauzer face, so I'd pick you up, and you'd ride contently in my arms all the way home. 

Soon, you no longer needed me to carry you. You loved walking. The two of us would go early in the morning, often before the sun was up. We'd watch as the sky turned from midnight blue to a glowing mix of pink, orange, and yellow with the purple mountains in the distance. I'd take so many pictures of you and those stunning skies. 

Sometimes we'd walk in the afternoon, and one of Colorado's notorious afternoon summer rainstorms would leave us searching for cover under the biggest tree we could find. If we were close enough to home, we'd make a run for it, arriving at our front door dripping and breathless. 

Just my hydrophobic boy

You hated getting wet. You'd go out of your way to avoid a sprinkler during walks, and, when we'd wake up to snow or rain, you'd look outside, look back up at me, look outside again, and promptly turn around, holding your pee until you couldn't hold it any longer, or the rain or snow stopped, whichever came first. 

In those early days, you'd follow your dad around the yard while he mowed the grass. When you came inside with green schnauzer paws, I'd give you a bath in the kitchen sink. You hated it. Years later, you'd roll in goose poop, and I'd give you another bath. You hated that, too. 

Just my sledding buddy

Even though you didn't want to do your business outside if it was raining or snowing, you didn't seem to mind the precipitation if we were going outside with you. You loved to join me as I shoveled after a big snow storm, and you'd happily chase us down the hill every time we went sledding. You loved it—even when I made you wear your winter coat.

Just a goose chaser

And, geese... Oh, how you loved to chase the geese. We'd see a big group of them at the park, and I'd kneel down to you and whisper, "Hey, Jack." You knew what was coming next. "You see those geese over there?" You'd look at them. You'd look back up at me. You'd wait for my cue as I removed your leash. "Go get them!" And, you were off. Running as fast as your schnauzer legs could carry you toward the flock of unsuspecting geese. As you approached, the geese would all take off at once. The sky full of geese. Our ears full of their communication. And then, once every last goose was in the air, you'd turn around and run back to me. You always came right back to me.

Just a squirrel chaser

You liked chasing squirrels, too. But squirrels often got the better of you. 

Just my hiking partner

Squirrels may have had you beat, but the Colorado highcountry didn't. You loved to hike. Passersby on the trails would always notice the little schnauzer. With their Labs and their golden retrievers, some would comment, "Oh, he likes to hike, too?" And, did you ever. You'd hike up rocky terrain, jump over streams, and always make it to the top with us. You never seemed to tire. But, when we got back to the car, you'd hop into the backseat and be ready for a nap. 

Just my little model 

"Jack... want a treat?" I'd ask, and you'd look perfectly at the camera with your head tilted to the side. You were always so photogenic and handsome.

You were the star of many veterinary industry advertisements and social media posts. Below are a couple shots from a photo shoot we did at Denver's City Park for the American Animal Hospital Association.

Just a great big brother

You were an "only child" for more than two years. When Henry came along, you might have wondered why I no longer brushed your teeth and beard every day. You might have wondered why I was tired and cranky. You might have wondered why our walks became shorter, and, some days, didn't happen at all. 

But, you were so good with Henry. You loved him. You'd sit next to him in the chair so I could take your photo. You'd tolerate him climbing up on you as he was learning to walk. You'd curl up on his bed with him when he graduated to a big-boy bed. You were always a mama's boy, but you and Henry had a special relationship.

Then, you became a big brother to some animal friends. We had to train you not to eat Leo when he was a kitten, and you had to learn to tolerate the puppy-like tendencies of Karl with a K.

Just a Halloween hater

For many years of your life, I insisted that you and Henry wear coordinating Halloween costumes. I'm sorry...

Just my popcorn eater

You loved popcorn. As soon as I'd get the popcorn pan out, you'd run to the kitchen, patiently waiting for the kernels to pop so I could toss you a few. Even in your last month, you'd still jump up to grab a piece out of mid-air.

Just my work partner

For nearly the last five years of your life, I worked from home, and you could always be found right next to me, whether I was at my desk, on the couch, in the kitchen, or on the patio. You'd even follow me when I took a bathroom break. 

Just my best friend

Jacko, for nearly 14 years you were my sidekick. You loved to be with me, and I sometimes took that for granted. I'll never forget the many adventures we had together, and the love we shared. You were the consistent presence through so many ups and downs of my life. Thank you for sharing your life with me, and for being the most loyal and loving friend I could have ever asked for.

I love you so much, Jack. No matter what, you'll always be my first-born boy—never "just a dog" to me. Below are a few pics we took in your last month, after you were diagnosed with terminal cancer. I'm so grateful that the medicine gave us almost four more weeks with you—still eating (a lot), wanting to go for walks, barking at everything, and tolerating me taking your picture.

One night, early in your life, your dad and I watched a movie that included the song, "Sweetheart," by Jont. It got into my head, and that night I sang the chorus to you before going to bed. It became our song, and most nights for the rest of your life I'd kneel down to your bed and softly sing the few lines into your ear as you'd close your eyes. On the day you passed, I sang it to you one last time. 

You're my sweetheart. 

You're my sweetheart. 

And if I never see you again, 

I just want you to know what I think.

I love you, Jack.