Farewell, Jax

We lost Jax yesterday. He fell asleep in my lap down at the veterinary clinic. I'm so relieved for him, that he's no longer in pain: trying to keep up and stay with us, but unable to. I'm so sad for me, because I'm going to miss him. He was always the calm, gentle one. He was always close at my heels, wanting to be petted and have his ears scratched. He was so good-mannered: never jumping up on people unless they invited him to, always letting Daisy and then Zoe go fetch the ball first. What a gentleman! He would always wait patiently for his treat, or his turn for attention, or whatever; while his female companions hogged the spotlight and snatched the goodies right out of your hand. He often offered his paw to shake hands, or nudged his head under your arm or hand when he wanted to snuggle. In his younger years, he'd even dance with me! I'd pat my hips and he'd rise up and put his front paws around my waist and we'd sway to the music.

He'd been slowing down over the last few months, and we attributed it to old age, but we figured he still had a few good years in him. When he started to wince jumping in and out of the suburban, and while playing with Zoe, we were sure it was arthritis. When he'd lose his appetite every once in a while, we scratched our heads and fed him chicken and broth until he would eat again. When his stomach started to slowly swell, we wondered if we were feeding him too much and allowing him to gain weight. When he stopped eating at all, and lost all desire to play or even follow us around, we took him to the vet again. Turns out he had a tumor the size of a small soccer ball in his stomach, about to burst, and we needed to put him down. I cried when Eric told me this was a possibility; then bawled shamelessly when he told me it was reality.

We buried Jax right next to Daisy, in the southeast corner of our property. They had always seemed like a pair that went together like peanut butter and jelly; each bringing out the best in the other. Their very distinct personalities complimented each other, and made life interesting. As we shared our favorite memories of Jax, Eric loved that whenever we'd be out walking the dogs in public and strange children would want to pet them, we would always have them pet him rather than Daisy or Zoe, because he was so gentle with children.

Tiana's favorite thing about Jax was that he would actually let her snuggle with him . I loved that he was so gentle with everyone, and tolerant of the kids exploring his face, climbing all over him, pulling his tail, and whatever else kids do to dogs that let them. He would sometimes look up at me during these exploratory-play sessions with an expression like, "Are you kidding me? Are you really letting this child climb on top of me and squeeze and pull like I'm some stuffed animal toy? Do I really have to put up with this?" But he always did.

We adopted Jax just 9 months after bringing Daisy home as a pup: she needed companionship, and they were best friends from the start -- inseparable. He suffered so much last summer when she died. Our visions of them romping and frolicking together and generally causing a ruckus somewhere in heaven have been comforting to us. Those two belong together. They were a critical part of Eric's and my lives during all those years of infertility: they filled a void in our hearts and home until the children came. They really did. I have to admit, it occurred to me last night, as I was mulling over the grand spectrum of my emotions of the day (we finalized Jake's adoption in court yesterday morning) that maybe Jax just sensed that his role in our lives was done: He had carried us through our greatest heartache until our family was complete. Our focus over the last few years has moved from our beloved dogs to our cherished children. It's as it should be, I suppose. . . it can't be any other way. . .the children come first. I'm just so very, very thankful for Jax and the great joy and companionship he brought into our lives. We really miss him, but know that his time had come. We must be content with his happy memory. Good-bye, ol' boy. We love you.