Why do we do this to ourselves? There is so much sadness in the world; people starving, warring, hating. Why add more sadness when it could have been avoided?
Because of dogs. That’s why. At least to the millions of people just like me who love them. They come into our lives and too soon leave. Our hearts are broken.
Monkey left us today. She was 18. I spent 16 years with that dog sleeping under my covers or scrunched up against my side. I spent 16 years wondering why she couldn’t bother to be obedient. She spent the first years of her life, well until she was really old, running off whenever she had the chance. During the first four years of her running, I’d go after her and convince her with treats to return home with me. It was sometime during the fifth year, when she was 7 years old, that I stopped chasing her. She’d take off, run down the street and then stop, look back. She’d wait for me to chase. No! I’d yell. She’d run a little more, stop, look back. I’d hide. She’d come back to the gate and wait for me to open it.
“I don’t need to be here, you know,” she’d say.
“Thank you,” I’d reply.
She was fearless. One afternoon, a coyote jumped over the fence to dine on our chickens. Monkey and Mimi spotted them, chased them out of the yard while the Newfies sat back watching. Monkey treed the raccoons that visited at night. And while Boomer got skunked, Monkey took that opportunity to learn not to approach.
She was like a cat. Inscrutable. Aloof. She needed no one, except, of course, Mimi. She never came when called. She didn’t sit for a treat. Down was not a command she accepted. Nor heel. But she did snuggle. She loved my mother and spent a few years of Sundays in her lap.
She tolerated the comings and goings of the house; the dog parties; the chickens; the turkey; Paulina the adorable conure. She took it all in with an acceptance. Sometimes, though, I thought she looked at me and asked what in God’s name is that woman doing now? Who are these creatures invading my space?
Well, during her 14th through 18th years, I discovered another Monkey beneath that hard cover she wore. She was the little dog who greeted me with such passion when I’d return home. She’d be waiting with Boomer and as I came through the gate, she cried, nipped at my legs, ran off barking. Boomer, of course being his Newfie self, rarely stood up for the greeting. He thought the wave of the tail was a sufficient hello for a hard-working woman. After Mimi died, Monkey transferred her devotion to me. A bonded surviving dog must bond elsewhere. She came to me.
And finally, there was only Monkey and us. We sold our home and moved to the apartment. She loved it. She was the only pet. No birds, chickens, turkeys, dogs, coyotes, raccoons or skunks. Just us.
She had trouble walking so I bought her a carriage. She loved it. We’d walk her to the market or around the neighborhood and she’d sit and watch. After a while, people would yell out her name. By then she was deaf so she ignored them, but I suspect she secretly knew they were adoring her stoicism as she was wheeled around.
She hated the dog park. I found that strange because we used to take Nisha, Boomer and the Grifters to the Cherry Creek Dog Park, an area of about 100 acres with a stream running through it. The four of them used to charge towards the creek, Newfies jumping in and Mimi right at their heels. Monkey, not. She wouldn’t get her feet wet, but she’d pick a path among the rocks and follow us as we waded downstream.
She had a very good dog life. She was the dog who when I met her told me to “fuck off”. Yes. I heard her say it. She was the dog I never wanted.
She is the dog whose memory I will treasure.
Air. 
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