Zorro was 120 pounds of massive black Labrador love. Big floppy ears. Warm brown eyes. An absolutely gigantic cranium. Jaws that could easily crush a human hand, yet such a thought would never dare enter his gentle soul. I know, everyone’s dog is the best dog who ever lived…but mine seriously was.
If you’ve never experienced the heart-melting euphoria of beholding a litter of squirming, squealing Labrador puppies (or really, any puppies for that matter) …well, you should try it sometime. It will restore your faith in goodness.
Out of the gang of pups, we instantly knew which was destined to be The One. We didn’t even have to pick him out; fact is, he picked us out. Scampering his way over the other puppies and wagging his tiny tail, he homed in on my five-year-old
son — enthusiastically smothering Jacob’s face with licks, kisses, and love. We named him “Zorro” — after my childhood hero, the dashing figure who cloaked himself in black and gallantly protected all those in need.
From the moment we brought him home, Zorro was a nonstop source of unbridled enjoyment. As a puppy, he would sprint across the kitchen floor, realizing only too late that he was unable to put on his doggie brakes; he’d then frantically back pedal, his ridiculously large paws getting no traction — like a character in an old Warner Brothers cartoon — and crash headlong into the cabinet…yet he’d just shake it off and emerge unscathed and ready for more playtime.
Sure, puppyhood can be a pain in any family’s collective butt…but it still passes much too quickly. As Zorro entered adolescence, his little puppy yap transformed into a not insignificant canine woof! We spent countless hours playing fetch in the backyard, hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains, and taking day trips to the lake where he’d repeatedly dive into the chilly waters — paddling frenetically and using his Labrador tail as a rudder — to retrieve the rubber toy that we kept tossing in. But perhaps our favorite activity was taking long walks in the neighborhood, with my daughter (and Zorro’s adopted sister) Briana. In order to train him where to go if he ever got lost, we’d finish our walk with, “Home! We’re going home!” Zorro would always brighten up, and bolt back toward our house, dragging us by his leash.
He was a trusted companion and emotional protector for twelve years — through good times and bad: When we brought Briana home as a newborn, as my kids matured through childhood, throughout Jacob’s school years, when our house was torn apart during its remodeling, during my separation and divorce. Through it all, Zorro was always there. Ever playful. Ever loyal. Ever loving. Ever happy just being in his family’s presence.
But time passes and spares no one…not even Zorro the Lab. It started innocently enough, with some white fur making its appearance around his muzzle and his gait gradually slowing down. But then his rear legs started to give way, and it became harder and harder for him to walk. When he’d stumble to the ground, he looked up at me, confused, hoping I’d be able to help him, or at least to be understanding: He was doing his best.
I didn’t anticipate that my visit with him to the vet that November afternoon was going to be our last. After a careful examination, the vet’s face looked kind but sober. Then she said in words what her expression had already communicated: “I think his time has come. But it’s up to you.” Up to me? The very thought was unthinkable. What a heavy burden and humbling responsibility. I pleaded with myself, couldn’t I have just one more week — even one more day — with him? Or was I being selfish trying to keep him alive so I wouldn’t have to lose him? But I knew he wasn’t having fun anymore. And he was more than uncomfortable — he was hurting. Zorro trusted me implicitly. During his lifetime, he sometimes needed me to help him when he couldn’t help himself. And now, he needed me in a way that he never did before…to help him end his suffering.
The vet told me I could take all the time I needed, and then left us alone. I sat on the cold tile floor, cradling Zorro’s weighty head in my arms, stroking his weakened body. I didn’t know what to say…and then I did. I gently and reassuringly spoke to him, the memories flooding back:
Remember when we first brought you home, how you’d paw your way across our faces, showering us with your puppy breath?
Remember how you’d chew everything in sight? Furniture, shoes, even garbage?
Remember the time you cornered a possum in the yard…and then looked back at me, with no idea what was supposed to happen next?
Remember the time you broke into a big bin of dog food and ate yourself nearly into a puppy coma?
Remember how you’d nudge me with your rope and demand that I play tug of war with you — until my arms were nearly dislocated from my sockets?
Remember how you’d eat branches of bamboo, and then later you’d sheepishly approach me — to unceremoniously pull them out of your rear end?
Remember how our neighbor’s Jack Russell terrier would burrow under their wooden fence, dart across the street, and then wait patiently on our porch for the chance to play with you, his canine pal?
Remember how you would wake yourself up with a startle from the sound of your own snoring…and sometimes your own farts?
Remember how you’d fall asleep next to everyone in the den, feeling safe and secure with your adopted pack?
There was more I needed to say:
I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with you.
I’m sorry I didn’t take you on more walks.
I’m sorry if you ever felt ignored.
Please forgive me.
I love you, Zorro.
The time had come. I kissed him gently on the snout. The vet came in to release Zorro from his anguish. Wait…there was one more thing I could say to him that might bring him some peace and comfort in his final moments on earth:
Home. Zorro, we’re going home. We’re going home…
If he could have smiled, I’m certain he would have. He gently closed his big brown eyes for the last time. His body was still warm…but he was gone. The vet left us alone again. I just clung to him, nuzzling him with my face. Then it was time for me to go home. But this time, alone, in an empty car, without my beloved companion…
All these years later, I still miss the presence of my trusted friend, adopted family member, and heroic protector. But I rest comfortably, knowing that I loved him enough not to selfishly hang on to him; but instead, to let him go. And to set him free. Zorro was, at long last, home.