-AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPHER EDITOR JOURNALIST-
Michael Friis Johansen
Better to laugh than to cry
by MICHAEL FRIIS JOHANSEN
“He makes you laugh.”
That’s what my friend Mary said almost 13 years beforehand as she watched me get acquainted with my new puppy.
Mary was right. It had been love at first sight between me and that dog. I’d held Ben — as I came to call him — in the palm of my hand when he was only one day old. As he rested his tiny head on my outstretched fingers and fell quietly asleep I pointed at him and whispered: “ This one’s mine!”
I would have left him with his mother for several months, but she took ill and stopped producing milk. When I learned two of the eight puppies had starved to death I took Ben into my home. He was less than four weeks old. First I bathed him in the
Ben and I enjoying the sunlight on the beach in front of our house in North West River, Labrador, Canada. He's resting after digging a hole in the sand.
bathroom sink and then I warmed up a bowl of condensed milk ( hoping that it would satisfy his nutritional needs) and I tried to get him to drink it.
He was obviously hungry, but had not yet been weaned. He did not know how to lap from the dish, so I dipped my little finger into the white liquid. He eagerly sucked on the tip and took in the milk around it.
He ate and he grew and grew, as did the love I feel for him and his ability to make me laugh. I can never stay angry at him for long, no matter how wilful or destructive his occasional bad behaviour can be. All he has to do is look at me with his big brown eyes to make my anger evaporate, to make me smile and laugh.
But now my old friend is breaking my heart. My puppy has aged and although he’s been in excellent health all his life, the years are suddenly catching up to him. The change came quickly.
When once (as recently as this past spring) we spent hours together hiking and skiing through the woods behind North West River, we now only take short slow walks on the beach. He still wants to be with me every minute of the day and to follow me everywhere and to play with sticks and stuffed toys, but now every exertion seems to exact a permanent price in energy and will.
He’s been in good health, but when he was two an argument with a snow machine left him needing an operation to repair torn ligaments in one knee, which is now riddled with arthritis. One evening last week when it was time for Ben to come inside, he could barely stand on his own and I had to help him up the two steps to our door.
Once inside he drank water profusely, but seemed to have no desire to eat, only sniffing at his food before lying down on the living room rug. Thinking maybe he didn’t eat because of the painful effort of standing, I brought his bowl to him and set it down by his front paws. He still showed little interest until I stuck my hand into the wet, fragrant mess and scooped some of it up. Then he ate, licking the tips of my fingers clean.
The act transported us both back 13 years, drawing our time together into an almost perfect circle. I felt like crying, but I smiled and laughed instead because joyful laughter, not tears, has always been the best way to express what he means to me.
His condition has improved somewhat. He’s standing better and eating, although not a lot. He’s walking again, but not far. He plays with me still, but not for long. He’s having good days and he’s having bad days.
He’s a little better, but of course there is no cure for old age. After a lifetime of teaching me so many wonderful things — especially how it is to feel selfless devotion and unconditional love — Ben has one more lesson for me.
It is one that dogs, with their few short years on this earth, are tragically suited to teach. It is one that is hurting me beyond words to learn. Life is precious, but it must eventually end.
Who among us could bear immortality when it means having to lose old, beloved friends like this?
The Western Star, July 21, 2008
