THURSDAY FEBRUARY 25, 2010, 12:32 AM
A decade ago, Zoe had been spry and wild-eyed, wonderfully goofy in the way that only a yellow Labrador puppy can be with gigantic paws that flailed awkwardly as she made her first attempts at running.
The people at the pet store had given us a warning when we first bought her, saying with sly smiles, "Well, she really likes to eat…"
I held her in my lap on the way home from the store, and it was one of the last times I was able to—her genuine love for food of any and all kinds eventually led her to "fill out" and become broad-shouldered, 115 pound behemoth; I have no doubt that many a fearless animal was surely struck with terror as she lumbered near over the years.
She made it clear to us from the start that she was going to live on her own terms. She slept on our all-glass kitchen table like it was a waterbed, and when we broke her of that, she took to the couch, lying lazily on her back with all four paws in the air.
In order to tame her never-ending lust for life, we brought her to an obedience school where the owner, an older man named Bob, did his best to train her to "heel," "sit," and do those other things that dogs are supposed to do.
Unfortunately old Bob didn't realize that we'd bought the William Wallace of the dog world; on Zoe's last day of training, she went after his two big German Shepherds, and sent both running after a brisk fight.
Even then he was impressed, though, and said that if we had decided not to keep her for some reason, she would have been excellent to train for search and rescue. Why?
"Because she's so stubborn," he said.
Over the years, her daily swims in our backyard pond, her ceaseless endeavor of trying to exterminate all squirrels that crossed her path, and the constant intimidation of any dog that had the gall to look her way all became things that defined who she was: she was big, she ran everything, and damned if you didn't know it.
But she was a wonderful dog. She had a genuine love for people, and would eagerly approach anyone who looked pleasant or smelled of food, her massive tongue hanging out and a broad dog's grin on her face. My father liked to say that she was the "Marilyn Monroe" of yellow labs.
She loved children as well, and the kids in our neighborhood would stop their skateboards and come over and pet her whenever she was being walked.
Her tail would wag furiously when she heard them yell, "Hey Zoe!" from down the street— her walks were the highlight of her life, and she is still the only dog who I have seen that learned to look both ways before crossing the road.
These days, things were different. She became stricken with Lyme Disease (and possibly some other unknown killer) which quickly sapped her strength and all but eliminated her once formidable appetite.
As I sat there on the floor with her in hours before sunrise that Friday, I knew that this warrior-dog was simply running out of fight.
I tried to make her bring her tongue back in, but even this proved too much. The next day, the life began to slide out of her.
Our young puppy tried to force her to play, and put her squeaking toys on Zoe's back, expecting her to react with her typical gusto. When she didn't, the pup looked at her warily, not understanding what happened to her big companion.
"It's OK old dog," I whispered to Zoe, running my hands through her soft fur. "Go to where you dogs go."
Less than an hour later she was dead, gone to whatever pleasant pastures that dogs roam when they die, where disease doesn't exist and the world is warm with life.
All that was left on the kitchen floor was a withered and meaningless husk, a silent reminder of the fearsome fire she once possessed.
Sometimes I wonder if a decade of "wonderful" makes up for the misery that is so hard to shake after they pass.
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
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