Good Dog.

Lots of times I've seen people with their dogs, and they'll take the dog in their hands, and get a goofy look on their face, and say, "You're the best dog in the whole world!  Yes you are!"

I don't doubt their sincerity.  And I'm sure it makes the dog feel better, somehow.  But I just have to shake my head and feel sad for them, because they're wrong.  I had the best dog in the whole world.

I got Paddy around April or May of 1990. Or 1991. Details are hazy. In any case, I was working at the University of Georgia vet school, and someone had brought in two golden retriever/chow mix puppies that needed a new home. One of them was jumping up and down, yapping, and trying to get attention. The other was lying quietly in a corner and glancing around at all the activity, barely interested. I wanted to take both of them, but couldn't. I chose the quiet one.

Paddy's quiet phase lasted for about two hours.  It was followed by his exciteable puppy phase, which lasted for the next ten years, more or less.  I guess he figured that after The Operation, there wasn't much left to do except for meet everyone he could and do all he could to make them happy.

Maybe I'm projecting, but that seemed to be his personal drive -- to make people happy.  Not other dogs; he didn't fight with other animals, but he didn't seem to care much for them either.  Instead, he always seemed to bee-line for people and give them the old "hey, pardner, turn that frown upside down!" which would be annoying from a human being, but being a cute dog and all he managed to pull it off.

He loved swimming.  I would take him to the lake near the UGA campus and he'd go crazy, running straight into the water and swimming out as far as he could.  He'd hardly ever catch a frisbee on land, but throw one in the water and he'd do everything he could to bring it back.  He loved people, too, and his two loves would sometimes be at odds.  After swimming around in the lake and getting all muddy and happy, he'd run for the first open car door he saw, usually the most expensive one, and try to jump in.  I'd walk up to the owners, ready for a beating, but he'd be there all smiling and so happy you couldn't be mad at him.  (Or at least, they never seemed all that angry.)

Paddy had plenty of reasons to be upset with me.  First was the whole name thing.  He was constantly being called a "she", when I just thought I was being clever and getting back in touch with my Irish roots.  But he took it in stride.

A while ago I read a news story saying some scientists had completed a study that proved dogs have a personality.  Anyone who's ever had a dog knows that they needn't have bothered; of course they do.  Paddy was quiet, and generally happy, and loved people.

He was really smart, sometimes I thought he was smarter than he let on.  He didn't really pick up tricks (although my brother taught him to sit on command), but he always gave me the impression it wasn't because he couldn't learn them, just that he had more interesting and fun things to do.

He never really had a favorite toy.  Some dogs when you give them a toy will take it off and play with it on their own, growling at you if you try to take it.  Paddy didn't care so much about the toy as the idea of having a new game to play with you.  You'd give him a bone and he'd trot around with it until he could take it out back and try to bury it somewhere. But after he'd done that, he'd look up a little confused as to why he'd done it, like a human who just woke up after spending the night as a werewolf.  Come to think of it, his dogness didn't come through all that much -- some mornings I'd wake up and he'd be howling at a fire truck.  When I'd wake up and call his name, he'd stop immediately and just give me a look like, "what?"

Our joke was that he was too nice to be a good watchdog, but I like to think he just knew the difference between a real danger and a potential friend. He'd scare off possums and stray cats that were invading the property; I think he would've done as well against strange people.  Being tough really wasn't what he was all about.  One of my roommates at my first house, who didn't cotton to the idea of an "inside dog" in the first place, would spend nights rough-housing with him, wrestling, getting him to bark.  He loved it.  At the time I was afraid it would turn him mean, but I didn't have anything to worry about.  It just wasn't in his nature to be mean.

In 1996, I got a job in California and had to move away to the other side of the country, away from my home, my family, my friends, and Paddy.

I don't remember what it was like at the time; I was too excited about the job to think much about it.  I'd gotten used to not living with him, but I would still see him every other weekend or so.

It didn't really hit home what I'd given up until the first time I went back home for vacation.  Paddy was in the middle of his routine, then seemed to do his usual "hey, a new person!" routine.  That involved running up with his tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole back end off, then jumping up on the new person hard enough to knock them down.

The first time I came back, he went through all that and then seemed to realize that there was something familiar about me.  He jumped down and started with this whimpering as if he didn't know what else to do.  He put so much energy into meeting every new person, he didn't know what more he could add for a long-time reunion.  The first night I was back, he slept at the foot of my bed, just like old times.

Every time I went home after that, no matter how long I'd been away, he'd do the same thing.  Get excited when I came in the door, follow me around the house, and sleep in my room when I went to bed.  (Sometimes, he'd wait until he though I was asleep, and then sneak outside or into my parents' room, where he could get some sleep.)

Paddy died on Wednesday, January 28, 2004.  My brother took him to the vet, where he had a heart attack.  He'd been feeling bad for a while, and it got worse all through January.  My past few visits home, he'd been spending more and more time outside, sometimes spending all night outside, which was unusual for him.  Some nights I'd go out to check on him and find him lying stock still.  I'd panic that I'd lost him, until he just looked up as if to ask, "is it time to go in already?"  Then he'd follow me upstairs to sleep in my room, even though he was having more and more trouble getting up the stairs.

Even at thirteen years old, he still seemed like a puppy in an old dog's body.  When it was time to play, he'd get all excited and it wasn't until he tried to stand up that he remembered he'd gotten old.  Every time I took him out back, he'd want to play fetch.  I'd throw out a stick, he'd trot up to it, and then realize he was just too tired to play anymore.

Of course I wish that I'd spent more time with him and played with him more often.  Even though he was much better off, I wish I hadn't left him.  And I regret all the times I scolded him for just being a dog.  But mostly I'm just happy that I knew him.  Thirteen years ago, when they told me that a pair of puppies had come in and were available to adopt, I wasn't sure I wanted one.  I was a poor college student with little time, and I knew it was a big responsibility and a fair amount of money.  Now I can't imagine my life if I hadn't taken him.  It's going to be weird going home and not hearing his nails clacking on the kitchen floor as he comes up from downstairs.  But he's always going to be there, and he's always going to be with me.  He can't stand to be away from people for too long.

February 1st, 2004