Jake

At age 52, I finally had my first dog. Thank God I didn't know you weren't supposed to adopt a big, black, bully breed so I immediately decided Jake would be my companion – and he was for nine years. I cannot say, however, that he was an Ambassador for his Breed, but he didn't have to be. Jake loved me and I loved Jake and that was enough for the both of us. He became my friend, walking partner, clown and guardian. Jake hated going to the veterinarian so it was always a battle. I felt horrible about it until a K-9 officer told me he had the same problem with his four-legged partner. "When I make a vet appointment for Borah, I always get sick to my stomach," the police officer told me. After that, I didn't feel so bad. Jake died because he, like so many pitties, was too stoic. I didn't realize he was critically ill until it was too late. I always regret that I wasn't present when my dear friend passed. Jake was being cared for at an emergency animal hospital an hour away. Just a few minutes before I drove to visit him, his critical care vet called to tell me Jake didn't make it. The message was stunningly anticlimactic. Instead of the epitaph "He tried to be a Good Boy," Jake's became, "At the end, he was a Gentlemen." After all these years, I still miss you snoring on the couch, Jake. I'll see you later, Good Boy.