I can say without hyperbole, and with all due respect to the humans in my life, he was my best friend. For almost fourteen years, he was a rock in our family. Always at my side. Always smiling. Always, many times on purpose, sometimes without knowing it, teaching me lessons.
He came to us as a promise fulfilled to our son Gage. When we moved to Granby from Las Vegas, we told Gage he could get a dog of his own. It was Gage who shaped his early life with us. Gage selected his breeder, met him at the airport when he arrived, and guided him through his initial training and socialization. And it was Gage who gave him his name: Apollo.
Of course, Gage had a special bond with Apollo. But boys grow into teenagers and then into young men. Things like girls, sports and college gradually replace time spent with your dog.
If you’re lucky, it can be the opposite when you get to be my age. If you’re lucky, other things in life slow down and you can find more time to appreciate the blessings you’ve been given.
Apollo was one of those blessings. The best way I can describe it is to share a conversation I had with my father-in-law, Jim, near the end of his fight with cancer. We were sitting on the back porch, with Apollo lying between us. Apollo wasn’t doing anything special: just being present. His presence was comforting, and he knew it.
“He’s a great dog, isn’t he, Jim?”
Jim, who had lots of experience with dogs, said, “Yes he is. And let me tell you something. You can have a lot of good dogs in your life, but you only get one great one. He’s yours.”
Jim was right. Apollo and I were kindred spirits. So much so that we had our own song, which I would periodically sing to him. When I did, he would look at me with a special twinkle in his eye. The one he seemed to reserve only for me. Through that look, that twinkle, he would say: “You know.”
The song is one you’ve probably never heard of, by an artist named Gilbert O’Sullivan. It’s called If You Love Me Like You Love Me.
I can no longer listen to or sing the song without getting tears in my eyes. But I will share portions of it with you to honor and remember my friend.
Here are a few of the opening verses:
Who can tell when I’m not well,
And have no place to go?
Who can see what I can see,
Before I even know?
Who can climb up any mountain,
For no other reason than the view?
If you love me like you love me,
Love me like you love me,
It’s you.
Who can wait when I am late,
And not go on alone?
Who can queue an hour or two,
Without a single moan?
Who can measure up to me,
In more ways than its’s necessary to?
If you love me like you love me,
Love me like you love me,
It’s you.
Apollo did all of these things for me, every day of his life.
He did it in the way he would lie next to me when I wasn’t feeling well, staying by my side even on Thanksgiving Day, when the house was full of the aroma of turkey, stuffing and pies. He did it in the way he would run with reckless abandon through the mud, for no other reason than to get muddy. He did it in the way he would greet me when I came through the door, curling his lips to literally give me a smile.
I knew his passing would be hard.
It was harder than I thought. Much, much harder.
Last spring, at his annual checkup, the vet gave him a clean bill of health. “He’s in good shape. Strong for a dog his age.”
But then, a few months later, without warning, he started to limp. He couldn’t put any weight on one of his back legs. We thought maybe he just pulled a muscle. When he didn’t get better after a few days of forced rest, we took him in again.
This time the diagnosis was stunningly, brutally different. “He has cancer in his leg. It has metastasized there, but we’re almost certain it originated somewhere else.”
My wife Kristal was at my side when they delivered the news. She understood what it meant before I did, squeezing me tight as I started asking about how to care for him, how to help him recover.
“Mark,” the vet said, “You need to focus on making him comfortable. He doesn’t have more than a few days to live.”
In those last days, we tried our best to repay him for all the gifts he had given us. Gage Facetimed him from Louisville. Our daughter Ellie came home from UConn. We made him his favorite meal: scrambled eggs. Hobbs, our other golden retriever, brought him toys.
I talked to him about what he wanted me to bring when, someday, I joined him on the other side. On the “Yes” list: his tug, a stew bone, lots of squeaky toys for him to eviscerate and cheese. The “No” list: his leash, his harness and the vet’s phone number. “Maybe”: his collar.
And, of course, I sang him our song. The last verse of which goes like this:
Who can smile when I get riled,
And make me do the same?
Who can sense when I am tense,
And gently ease the pain?
…
If you love me like you love me,
Love me like you love me,
It’s you.
The day Doctor Lisa was set to come to our house and help Apollo with his passing, he found a comfortable spot near the fireplace and stretched out. He could no longer stand. I alternated between lying beside him on the floor and on the couch a few feet away.
I tried to sleep when he slept, but it was hard to do on the floor. The couch wasn’t any easier. I tossed and turned, worried that he would wake up and wonder where I was. He deserved to have me by his side.
I did eventually fall asleep, only to wake up to find Apollo lying next to the couch. He had somehow crawled his way over to be closer to me. Panic stricken, I spoke to him: “I’m sorry, buddy. Are you okay?”
He raised his head and placed it on the cushion beside me. In his eyes, I expected to see fear and sadness. Instead, I saw that special twinkle. I saw his desire to comfort me and to gently ease my pain.
I saw what I have always known.
He loved me liked he loved me.
