Mason

I feel compelled to write of Mason’s passing, though I already feel defeated by the paucity of my words in eulogy of so magnanimous a spirit. Still, I recall the words of Kafka, my favorite realist: “All language is but a poor translation,” and thus I press on.

Early in Mason’s life I became aware that I had been blessed with a sacred creature. At eight months of age (an age at which he, as a male Rottweiler, weighed 80 pounds), he was smacked on the face by a toddler in the neighborhood while calmly holding a sit-stay. Not only did Mason not react, he held the sit-stay and turned the other cheek. I had Gandhi there, in a black and tan fur coat, shattering expectations. On the end of my leash was a Great Teacher, in whose presence I was blessed to live for nearly a decade.

I was so proud to be his dog mom. Walking with him was like being in our own private parade. He inherited the best of his parents; his father, a champion show-dog, was a stunning specimen of an animal. His mother was a goofy, exuberantly friendly creature who jumped on my lap when I met her and immediately began licking my face. Indeed, Mason was so beautiful that people would pull over in their cars to compliment me on what I gorgeous dog I had. Those who met Mason quickly became familiar with the famous Mason “love attack,” which required a bracing of oneself, lest one be tackled and licked from head to toe. He loved with vigor. He loved publicly. He loved without inhibition.

And he was so smart. We attended class for likely eight of his nearly ten years of life, simply because I thought he was too smart to not be in school, and because I loved working with him. Later in his life, the drills we worked at so hard in class and on walks became automatic. On walks, he was required to hold a down-stay if a stroller came by. He’d sit at street crossings. At home, once he saw me put on lipstick, he’d run to his kennel without being asked, as he knew I was getting ready to leave and that’s where he needed to be. And amid all this good behavior he was still naughty now and then, “fun naughty” I called it, just naughty enough to be cute and remind us that he was a smarty pants. He’d run to the dirty laundry bin, find a sock or pair of undies, and play with it right in front of my face. He’d try to peek around the corner when playing “find it.” What a ham.

I loved him with every cell of my being. I was all in, and I didn’t take him for granted. If he was sick, I canceled plans and would watch his belly rise and fall until he got better. I scheduled time with him every day. I never detested his poop or his farts because they meant he was healthy. I’d get excited to come home and find his kennel free of vomit because it meant his belly didn’t hurt. I had no idea of how much love I had to give until this creature offered me the opportunity. We had a connection that extended beyond this earth, and people were attracted to it. Our love was triumphant.

Mason’s mortality began to seriously confront me around his eighth year, and I began to think about what else I wanted to do with him. Selfishly, I wanted him to live forever. Since I knew that couldn’t physically happen, I decided that I could share him more, thinking if he lived on in others’ memories, he would stay alive forever. We became a reading dog team at my niece’s school, and he was instantly famous. Kids loved him, and he loved kids. Being with him was considered a privilege. The kids would save their stories about dogs for their time with Mason and read with care and content. I know that 20 years from now, when these kids are reading to their own children, they’ll remember Mason. They’ll remember how he helped them to read with confidence as they learned, as he never interrupted or corrected them as they spoke. He never grew impatient over a struggle with a challenging word. He simply listened.

When we’d introduce ourselves to a new class, I’d tell the kids that Mason had two hearts. They knew where the first one was, but never guessed the second. When I showed them the perfect heart formed by the tan spot on his rear end, a wave of giggles would sweep the room. “Why do you think he has two hearts?” I’d ask, then explain that Mason was so kind and had so much love that he needed two hearts to hold all of it. It was never questioned. Those who knew him would never question it either.

Though the autopsy has yet to confirm this, it seems that the cause of Mason’s death may have been that with all the love he had two hearts weren’t enough, and that he was trying to grow a third. The problem with this one, however, was that it was near his brain. It grew quickly, first paralyzing one leg, then another, then another, and it finally told his own heart to stop beating, until all that was left alive of him was the love. His love was cosmic, and he imploded.

Someday I will get through a day without tears. Someday I will stop scouring the house for tufts of his hair to put in a Ziploc bag. Until then, I comfort myself with words I had written of him many years ago:

And each time I have slept next to him after an illness, at one moment, in the early morning, he will wake, look at me, and place his head on my chest. He will stare at me with eyes that say thank you. It is then that I know that he and I are on the same road, and that we walk side by side, hand in hand, and that, in doing so, we fulfill the universe’s intention for us, and it is good.

Mason’s head is heavy and warm on my chest; his eyes bore into my heart. I am in love with this creature; he is in love with me. He is well, and I finally understand a line I repeated mindlessly for years at my family’s Lutheran church. I have a peace that passes all understanding.

I do not have this peace today. One day, I shall.