Colossus

On a blustery summer day, as I stood somewhere between the bouncy house and the block party’s food table, a group of three young girls sheepishly approached me… but were clearly more focused on my dog Chauncey.  They stood a few careful feet away, staring only slightly above eye-level at my dog, who obediently if impatiently stood by my side. After a brief conference, one emboldened girl stepped forward, a cautious advance to establish her leadership credentials.  She gazed at Chauncey, her eyes a bit widened, before looking up at me.

 “Excuse me sir,” she queried.  “Can we pet your pony?”

 ——-

Chauncey was big. 

He was officially a Goldendoodle by breed, a hypoallergenic cross between a Golden Retriever and a Standard Poodle that had quickly become cliched by its status as a suburban designer dog breed.  Chauncey was a bit different, bred from a Standard Poodle mother and a Goldendoodle dad, which seemed to elongate his legs. The breeder online listed him as “slightly above average” in size, which would only be true if the average height of a Goldendoodle was similar to a supermodel.  Before long, we began to realize that our kitchen table would peak well below our dog’s eye-line, leaving most of our meals extremely vulnerable to direct attack.

No matter.  Chauncey became an instant member of the family.  My kids, initially terrified of the excitable and nippy pup that we brought home one evening, soon learned to love the gentle giant that grew in its place.  My daughter in particular became inseparable from her new canine companion. She wrote elementary school fables about his evening adventures working the overnight shift at Taco Bell, and painted regal portraits of his face that admired his presence and stature.

Chauncey was big.

Oblivious to his size, he would squeeze himself into spaces better designed for air pockets than an enormous moving fur clump.  Friends sitting in our family room to watch a football game or discuss a book club selection would soon find this large creature firmly within their personal space, staring intently into their eyes, willing them to bestow their attention upon him. 

And his breath…oh my, his breath.  Years of eating hard pellets of dried salmon had left his mouth measuring high on the toxicity scale.  He could occasionally smell as if a hot bagel and lox were breathing on you (and not in a good way).

But no matter.  Despite his breath and predilection for cushion and stranger humping, he had an incredibly affable presence.  Those same friends began to comment on his human-like appearance and expressive face. He had light green eyes that seemed to give him a more inquisitive look, generating stares that lulled helpless human beings into acquiescence.

And his enormous hirsute torso moonlighted as  a weighted blanket. Whenever any of us in the family needed comfort or support beyond each other’s words, Chauncey offered a warm body to wrap around, his steady (if toxic) breath and audible purrs like a soothing balm to whatever ailed us.

Chauncey was big…but it was a bit of an illusion.

 

When soaking wet from a romp at the beach, his majestic frame would dilute to reveal a skinny, almost scrawny mutt.  He seemed to be aware of this contradiction, as the occasional bad haircut would force him to hide indoors in shame.

But no matter.  When at is his most radiant, Chauncey would elicit oohs and aahs from passerby.  Most people upon encountering our dog for the first time uttered a guttural noise that usually sounded something like “whaaaa” but with a blend of warmth and admiration in its tone.

He was a star on Main Street, his size and demeanor and wavy blonde locks attracting dog-lovers like a magnet.  He had a glow that’s hard to describe, but easy to understand when you saw him. And he loved the attention.

Chauncey was big…which sometimes was hard to ignore.  

After my kids left for college, he would follow me around constantly, and his occasional barks at a walking dog outside were loud enough to rattle cages and interrupt any measure of concentration or focus.  He had routines that he would force upon me every day, checking each off like a to-do list. The morning meeting on our landing steps. The incessant requests to be let outside, then inside, then outside, then inside, with little care for rationale, timing or my aching back.  The heavy paw, landing on my leg or shoulder just as I’ve dozed off or as the Yankees are batting in the bottom of the 9thinning.  The bedroom check-in before calling it a night.

But no matter.  I loved seeing him, but it was more than that.  At a time when my kids left the nest and my wife (the most capable and productive person on the planet) was off diligently working or helping others, Chauncey was always there for me, no matter the schedule or circumstances.  He helped me feel…seen. 

There’s a saying that I’ve noticed making the rounds on social media, a platitude that asks you to “be the person that your dog thinks you are”.  That’s a nice sentiment, but not entirely accurate. Chauncey didn’t care whether I was the publisher of a major magazine or a struggling father or a lazy blob.  He was just happy to have me around. Present. Sometimes that’s enough.  

Chauncey was big. 

It took three shots of sedative for the doctor to put him  to rest before stopping his heart. Cancer had looked directly into his light inquisitive eyes, but, for perhaps the first time in Chauncey’s nearly 12 years, refused to submit to his stare.

And that, it turns out, really mattered.  These weeks since his passing have been painful, more so than I ever expected.  I miss seeing him on the landing of the steps in the morning. I feel his phantom paw on my leg as I watch TV.  I keep looking for him as I enter our home each day, and as I roll to my side as I turn off my bedroom light each night.

Chauncey was big.  To those little girls so many years ago, he was as big as a pony.

But as I stare at the open spaces, at the landing of my stairs or the side of my bed or the stoop of my front porch or the surprisingly gaping hole in my heart, Chauncey was even bigger than that. 

 To me, he was a stallion.