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Man’s best friend is gone

By RICK RYCKELEY
Contributing Writer

Once, I thought that a year was a long time. When I was a small child, it seemed like forever from one Christmas to another. Summers seemed to be never-ending filled with tire swings, water balloon fights, playing steamroller in new refrigerator boxes, doing cannon balls off the banks of Cripple Creek’s swimming hole, skipping rocks across the lake, fishing, and playing street football. It was a time in which summer seemed to stretch on forever; one birthday to the next was an eternity; and responsibility wasn’t even in a ten-year-old’s vocabulary. Sadly, those days are gone.

Once, I thought that dogs lived forever. Mickey came into our life on a cold, rainy spring afternoon. The long-haired, muddy puppy just walked up on the front porch and sat down. She stayed for 17 years. The Boy had just had his second birthday. Mickey was the perfect present. She was always excited to see us at the end of the day and no matter how long it had been since we last played, she would always fetch the tennis ball when we threw it or be contented to lay in your lap while you watched cartoons. My mind is full of memories of her. You see, Mickey was my dog, too. I always thought she’d be healthy and fast, jumping and running around the yard after squirrels. I was wrong.

Once, I thought that moms and dads stayed together forever. Sadly, eight years ago, I found that not to be the case. The Boy and Mickey stayed when I was asked to leave. Divorce takes a terrible toll on families. Some scars run very deep and take many years to heal. The Boy moved in about four years ago with The Wife and me, and even though we argue, fight, and fuss, we’re family. His presence has helped to heal a lot of scars, but Mickey didn’t come with him.

I try not to reflect on divorce; it shook me to my core.  For the last six years, The Wife has helped to mend that wound. Once a gaping hole in my heart, it’s now but a fading scar. She is truly an angel sent from above. And The Boy seems to have turned out all right in spite of having me for his dad. He’s the one that told me Mickey had passed away.

Mickey was more than a dog to me. To me she was family. She’d meet me at the door each night, no matter how late I worked, happy to see me like I had gone away for a year and just returned. She never barked unless it was to alert us to someone approaching the house. She never bit, unless she was playing with The Boy and a friendly nip was in order. A nip followed by endless giggles.

If you asked Mickey to do something, she would sit up, raise her eyebrows and cock her head to one side as if to show you that she understood what you just said. And if she could speak she would tell you so. When we put The Boy to bed, she’d walk down the hall, hop up on his bed, and watch over him ‘til he was fast asleep. Then she would trot back into the living room and curl up at my feet, all without being asked to do so. Her job for the night was done.

When I hung up the phone I did something that I hadn’t done since the divorce. I cried. I cried because of the unfairness of it all. I cried because of the pain and how divorce destroys families in ways people never realize. I cried for Mickey. I grieved like I would for any dear family member who had passed on. My dog has gone away, and she isn’t coming back.

Even though I had not seen Mickey for many years, in my mind’s eye she will always be that muddy, wet, long-haired puppy who came around the corner that cold spring morning with a biscuit in her mouth, looking for a loving family to adopt. Goodbye, my friend; I will see you again one day.