I don’t remember when I first met Zack. It probably was last year, or maybe the year before. But I do remember where and how we met.
The handsome, muscular boxer was walking along a street here in Augusta, Maine, with his owner when we first crossed paths. As I usually do when I come upon a dog I don’t know, I asked the owner if his pooch was friendly, to find out if it was safe to pet him.
It turned out Zack was the very embodiment of canine civility. Calm. Gentlemanly. His owner and I didn’t get around to introducing ourselves by name. We just launched into a conversation about Zack in particular, and dogs in general.
Thus began a casual, sporadic relationship. Zack and I routinely bumped into one another on our respective jaunts. I even timed my walks, when possible, to coincide with Zack’s stroll, which always occurred about 9 a.m. or so. Sometimes, Zack seemed aloof as I approached him. At other times, he would run toward me, as if we were old friends.
Then, one day last summer, I heard a ruckus outside our house, and raced outside to see what was going on.
Zack and his “dad” had both been attacked by another dog. By the time I got outside, the two of them had wandered down the street, and were now on the sidewalk in front of our house. Zack had a red gash in his back. His owner’s arm was covered in blood. While a passing Good Samaritan called for an ambulance, I got a stool for the injured man. Then I ran over to the nearby restaurant where, he told me, his wife worked.
Despite his ordeal, Zack remained calm and quiet while a police officer, the animal control officer and ambulance attendants bustled about. In the weeks that followed, his wound (and that of his owner) healed nicely, so that eventually there wasn’t even a scar on Zack’s back. From that point onward, whenever I encountered Zack, his owner and I marveled at the dog’s complete recovery. It was quite obvious, as it had been all along, that this guy really loved his dog. For his part, Zack became more consistently friendly toward me.
Fast forward to this week. While walking our chocolate lab Aquinnah on Thursday, I spotted Zack’s owner off in the distance. Alone. I’d never seen him without Zack, but our paths diverged and we didn't come face-to-face, so I couldn't ask about Zack. Yesterday, I happened to be driving when I spotted Zack’s owner once again. Alone. I pulled over.
“Where’s Zack?”
“No more Zack,” he replied.
About two weeks ago, Zack began having severe seizures at home. Repeatedly. His "mom" and "dad" tried to hold him down as he convulsed. He walked in circles, and kept falling down. A vet diagnosed a brain tumor.
Zack, who was 11 years old, was euthanized.
Zack’s owner told me all of this with great composure, and I told him several times how sorry I was for his loss. Eventually, I could see that he was struggling to remain in control of himself. I knew it was time to leave him alone with his grief.
“Thanks for your concern,” he said, as he turned and walked away. His shoulders were hunched. He looked lost, diminished. As I headed home, a solitary figure receded in my rearview mirror.
The handsome, muscular boxer was walking along a street here in Augusta, Maine, with his owner when we first crossed paths. As I usually do when I come upon a dog I don’t know, I asked the owner if his pooch was friendly, to find out if it was safe to pet him.
It turned out Zack was the very embodiment of canine civility. Calm. Gentlemanly. His owner and I didn’t get around to introducing ourselves by name. We just launched into a conversation about Zack in particular, and dogs in general.
Thus began a casual, sporadic relationship. Zack and I routinely bumped into one another on our respective jaunts. I even timed my walks, when possible, to coincide with Zack’s stroll, which always occurred about 9 a.m. or so. Sometimes, Zack seemed aloof as I approached him. At other times, he would run toward me, as if we were old friends.
Then, one day last summer, I heard a ruckus outside our house, and raced outside to see what was going on.
Zack and his “dad” had both been attacked by another dog. By the time I got outside, the two of them had wandered down the street, and were now on the sidewalk in front of our house. Zack had a red gash in his back. His owner’s arm was covered in blood. While a passing Good Samaritan called for an ambulance, I got a stool for the injured man. Then I ran over to the nearby restaurant where, he told me, his wife worked.
Despite his ordeal, Zack remained calm and quiet while a police officer, the animal control officer and ambulance attendants bustled about. In the weeks that followed, his wound (and that of his owner) healed nicely, so that eventually there wasn’t even a scar on Zack’s back. From that point onward, whenever I encountered Zack, his owner and I marveled at the dog’s complete recovery. It was quite obvious, as it had been all along, that this guy really loved his dog. For his part, Zack became more consistently friendly toward me.
Fast forward to this week. While walking our chocolate lab Aquinnah on Thursday, I spotted Zack’s owner off in the distance. Alone. I’d never seen him without Zack, but our paths diverged and we didn't come face-to-face, so I couldn't ask about Zack. Yesterday, I happened to be driving when I spotted Zack’s owner once again. Alone. I pulled over.
“Where’s Zack?”
“No more Zack,” he replied.
About two weeks ago, Zack began having severe seizures at home. Repeatedly. His "mom" and "dad" tried to hold him down as he convulsed. He walked in circles, and kept falling down. A vet diagnosed a brain tumor.
Zack, who was 11 years old, was euthanized.
Zack’s owner told me all of this with great composure, and I told him several times how sorry I was for his loss. Eventually, I could see that he was struggling to remain in control of himself. I knew it was time to leave him alone with his grief.
“Thanks for your concern,” he said, as he turned and walked away. His shoulders were hunched. He looked lost, diminished. As I headed home, a solitary figure receded in my rearview mirror.
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