It’s the end of an era.
We were on vacation with all of Brad’s extended family in Hilton Head this week when Brad and I received a phone call early yesterday morning. Our beloved bulldog, Herschel, died in his sleep sometime the night before.
Brad and I had talked through the ifs and whens of this occurrence many times. After all, English bulldogs only live about 8 to 10 years and Herschel would have been nine this fall. But at his last checkup, our vet said he was in excellent health. And the last time I walked him on Saturday, I would have agreed.
Nonetheless, God’s timing won out again (as it has a tendency to do) and we will now all have to get used to walking into a house without calling out to our dog and once again convincing him that going to the bathroom is more important than staying in the warm, comfy spot that he’s been in all day.
The pain is shockingly sharp. I’ve said goodbye to beloved pets before. But there’s a drastic difference between outside pets you bump into on the way to your car each day and inside pets you share a house, a space, a life with.
Herschel was a lot of things to our family. I liked to call him ‘a cinderblock with legs’ and ‘just a big brick.’ He was a solid 65 pounds and we were always wary of him getting out by the pool lest he sink like a rock. (Despite Brad’s protest and disapproval, I did attempt to take him swimming one day. I’ll just say it didn’t go well and leave it at that.)
He wasn’t much of a guard dog, as he was usually too busy sleeping to be disturbed by any disturbances. But as passive as he was, his vicious-looking underbite gave him the appearance of being able to rip a bad guy to shreds. So it was a good bluff.
For the five years I knew him, I only heard him really bark twice. Once was while he was dreaming, so I don’t think that counts. The other was when a delivery man was carrying in the large cushions that went with a chair that had been dropped off.
I have no idea what set Herschel off, but he stood in the front door, blocking the entrance, chest puffed, shoulders squared, back bowed, on full alert and let loose a ferocious series of barks.
I was absolutely stunned. I apologized to the delivery guy and tried to calm Herschel down, but I couldn’t help being terribly impressed and proud.
Caroline’s first few encounters with Herschel weren’t great. He was always immediately protective of any kid that came in the house and considered it his duty to follow them around and make sure they were okay. As a three year old, Caroline translated this as him chasing her with the intent to eat her. Thankfully, that phase was short-lived.
He was also our family mascot and basically a living cartoon. He was easily the loudest non-barking dog I’ve ever known. What he lacked in barking, he made up for with snorts, chortles, hacks, impressive snoring at night and Darth-Vader-like breathing during the day. (Another side effect of the breed.)
But of all the things he was to our family, Herschel was first and foremost a miracle and an answer to prayer.
At the lowest point of Brad, Beau and Sydney’s life, God provided them with a free pick-of-the-litter bulldog puppy. He was the lone bright spot in some very dark days and was a living, breathing reminder of hope, the promise of redemption and God’s love.
He didn’t require a lot of energy or attention, which is good because there wasn’t much to spare in the early days. He was just there. Always there.
I could occasionally get him to engage in a wrestling match, which I could tell he really enjoyed. He would shed like crazy and these play times always ended with a huge pile of Herschel hair.
Brad and I would often complain about the never-ending battle to keep the floor clean. During one such moment of complaining, I caught myself and said, “You know, someday this won’t be a problem anymore. And we’ll be heartbroken.”
I was right.
I remember how I hated when Brad would leave early and I had to walk him. I would always get irritated that he would go so slow, as I was usually running late for something. I regret that now.
He did NOT like it when people were upset. If there was ever any crying, yelling, tickling, wrestling happening (hard to imagine in OUR house, right?), he would stand anxiously near the action, trying to figure out what to do. And he couldn’t do anything. But he was always there.
“This is why we’re not getting another dog, right here,” I informed Beau through inconsolable tears as I sat on Herschel’s empty rug in the living room after coming home to a gapingly empty house for the first time yesterday. “I can’t do this again in ten years.”
He quietly, sadly said, “He was worth it though.”
And he was. He was worth it. All the hair on the floor. All the dry dog food that would end up all over the kitchen after he ate. All the tug-of-war walks. The baths that would leave both bather and bathee completely exhausted.
He wasn’t the kind of dog that would chase something if you threw it. He wouldn’t come greet you at the door when you had been gone all day. But he was always there. And in a world with so much instability and change, there’s something to be said for just being there.
He was a steady fixture in all of our lives through the most tumultuous seasons we’ve experienced. Our family has settled into a wonderful phase in recent days and I can’t help but wonder if he thought to himself, “My work here is done.”
As I deal with yet another phase of fresh grief from another loss, I find myself back at the same crossroads. Fold, pull a King Solomon, shrug and say, “It’s all meaningless. A chasing after the wind.”
OR
Hunker down like Herschel before bathtime and match every dose of death with a double helping of LIFE. Satan, I see you, and I raise you.
Life.
More life.
Even MORE life than that.
Eternal life. Everlasting life. A river of life that never runs dry.
As I drove home yesterday, I found myself getting more and more angry at Satan’s recent attacks. Death after death after death. Flaming arrows fired at important relationships. Plus all the usual suspects that come from this fallen world: terrorism running rampant and unchecked all over the world, American politics deteriorating in front of our very eyes, cancer, divorce, etc.
And yet folding on this life is not an option. I found myself squelching a strangely primal urge to stand outside, throw my head back and just roar like a lion whose territory had been invaded by another animal.
(In case you were wondering, I didn’t. Not even sure I know HOW to roar. Maybe I’ll practice. Note to self: Give the neighbors a heads up first.)
I’ve got life on my side. Light. Truth. We can’t stop death. But we can commit to live that much harder, stronger, fearless, with more purpose, more fire in our bellies. No more excuses, procrastinating, overthinking, or taking the road more traveled.
This morning, I won’t go get Herschel’s leash out of the laundry room and take him for a long, slow, annoying walk. Brad won’t wrestle him through a bath, like he always does after we’ve been out of town.
This afternoon, Brad, the kids and I will go pick Herschel up from the vet, dig a hole under the hammock in the backyard, lovingly and tearfully place him in it, cover it, mark it and eventually go inside and begin the long, painful process of finding our new normal.
I hate new normals.
Herschel taught me a lot about life over the years:
Get in where you fit in./It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. (Every year, he would commandeer the Christmas tree skirt as his Christmas blankie. The last couple years, we didn’t even bother putting presents there.)
Naps are not optional, but a crucial part of one’s life. (The dog slept 22 hours a day.)
Be patient and opportunity will come to you. (He would stand so still next to the dinner table. Didn’t move around a bunch or make a big deal about it. But his silent persistence would almost always be rewarded with table scraps.)
Most obstacles in your path are a bluff. Lower your shoulder and bulldoze that thing right out of your way. (Whenever I tried to contain him in an area without a door, it didn’t take him long that the dining room chairs were a fake barrier.)
Save your barks for when they’re really necessary and they’ll carry more weight. (Aggression was never his go-to move. So on the rare occasion that he did bark, we all snapped to attention.)
When in doubt, show up. (Whenever something was wrong, even if he couldn’t fix it, he would come sit with you, just so you wouldn’t be alone.)
We all loved him in different ways and he played a different role in each of our hearts.
But one thing we can all celebrate and agree on: He was always there. A big, ole, stinky symbol of God’s love for His children.
You were a damn good dog, Herschel. A damn good dog.
