I’m spending tonight reading through old entries I’ve written, and stumbled onto the obituary I wrote for Jack. It brought back so many emotions, and made me realize that in neglecting this blog I’ve also failed to write down some major events.
Mario passed away at home in Niantic on October 17th. The weekend before he had come up to Northfield along with my parents, sister, and her boyfriend. He had a great time, and though he had a little trouble on the slick wood floors, he continued to refuse to act his age.
The story of Mario getting older is really just the story of his body forcing him to slow down, because he wasn’t about to otherwise. He sprained a leg chasing a ball down the hill in Niantic, and was mostly just angry about not being able to run after the ball for several days.
When we first got Mario, I wasn’t ready for another dog. Oreo was still on my mind, and I missed him. I resented this replacement dog that my mom had gotten because the house was so quiet. The irony was the Mario was an exceptionally quiet dog. My dad wanted to call him Harpo because he was blonde and mute. I remember being very upset when Mario would mess the house while I was away at school. I didn’t like having to take responsibility for a puppy I hadn’t wanted.
He grew up and learned his manners, and became quite a good friend of mine. It just so happened that my bed at Miner St had a great view of the backyard, and it was his favourite perch. On weekends I would wake up to him laying on the bed (or me) looking out the window. Mario was friendly and adorable, and loved by everyone who met him.
He and I had more of a roommate relationship than owner/pet. He was always my parents’ dog, and they were usually responsible for feeding, walking, and taking care of him. He and I would hang out and play on occasion. Every now and then I’d watch him for a weekend, and the shift in relationship was uncomfortable for both of us.
When I arrived in Niantic that Monday, Mario was laying on the couch. It was the first and only time he didn’t get up to greet me. Mario took his role as The Welcomer very seriously, and the only time he would ever bark was at the new person coming in the door. My dad sat beside him on the couch, and I could see Mario breathing heavily. He was happy enough to see me, but he was a little distracted by everything going on with his body.
He had cancer, and it had grown quite large in his abdomen making breathing a chore. He was happy to receive pets, and lay his head on my leg, but that was about all he was capable of. My mom was overcome with emotion, and after some time my dad suggested we both take a walk. We walked around the block for about twenty minutes, and when we returned Mario was dead. I remember him looking up at us, surprised to see us leaving. I’m probably projecting, but I felt like his look said “Where are you going?!” My dad was with him at the end. They had a fantastic connection, the two of them. Really subtle, but so strong.
More than anything, I think I’ll remember hanging around in the grass at Miner St with Mario. He loved to lay in a firm patch of grass, and take in the day. In the summertime, he often had more hair than was appropriate, so he would wear a panting smile.
Ever since I moved away from home, Mario refused to say goodbye to me. I would come home, and he was overjoyed to see me. We would play, and cuddle, and go about our business. When time came to go, I would squat down and call him over to me. He usually would show how unhappy he was to see me leave, and mostly kept his distance. I always thought of that as a compliment, but I still always wished for a goodbye.
Goodbye Mario.
