The saying goes there’s nothing certain in life but death and taxes. To that I would add dogs and steak. Being carnivores, dogs cannot resist a hunk of beef. Which is why when Bella, our Labrador retriever, started leaving kibble in her dish, I offered her a few chunks of red meat — by hand.
She looked up at me with those big brown eyes. Bella sniffed the grilled steak, turned and walked away. And I knew we were in trouble.
That was a week ago. Bella had been off her feed for a few days. Then she quit getting off her bed, stumbled downstairs when she did, settled down under the porch. She was telling us the fun was over. She was not in pain, but she was struggling. Last Tuesday we put her down — and now I am a writer with a hole in his heart.
The vet had diagnosed her with cancer back in February and said she could last a month or more. She had been my playmate and soul mate since 1998. She was gone in a month and one week.
Bella was a Washington dog through and through. Her favorite times — mine, as well — were our walks in Rock Creek Park along the creek, between Ross Drive and Broad Branch Road. We would walk along the up and down trail, Bella would find a tennis ball or a perfect stick, she would drop it at my feet, I would fling it into a pool, she would launch into the water, land with a splash, fetch the quarry and return. And we would walk, and throw, and fetch until my arm wore out. Bella never did.
When Bella had pups — five black and five brown — my daughters and I loaded them into boxes and took mom and the fluffy ones down to frolic on the banks of the Potomac River. We raised them in our Chevy Chase back yard. When they were ready, we put the word out in the neighborhood, and five found homes close by.
Bella was smart, even for a Lab. She obeyed. She rarely strayed. She knew when to stay out of the way. She had two faults: She would occasionally nap on the couch; and she could not resist barking at the mailman.
For the past few years Bella spent most of her time out in our place near the Shenandoah River. Not a bad life. A whole river for swimming and fetching. Fields and forests to roam. At 10, she had the energy and enthusiasm of a puppy. When my wife and new daughter were at school, it was me and Bella, banging around the house, enduring the cats, taking an occasional walk to the barn.
Now I take walks to the grave my wife and I dug in the corner of the field. It looks over the pine woods where Bella and our daughter would roam. There’s a boulder where we can sit and visit. And we have started a ritual: Find a small stone and set it on her grave, so she knows we stopped by.
And maybe, after a month or two, we can take the new black Lab pub down for a visit, too.
E-mail Harry Jaffe at [email protected].
