Otis

He sat tall, wedged between his two new brothers. His tongue lolled lazily from one side of his generous mouth, his ears perked, and his eyes sparkled and shone with a sense of adventure.
As I looked into my rear view mirror, he answered my gaze with a look that said “Hey, Mom, where are we going?”
We had just met.
Just over a year old, Otis was a live-wire bundle of energy. During his first week in our home, he led us on several long chases through the streets of our subdivision, and the one adjacent to ours, as he exercised his sense of adventure, and our unaccustomed legs. Several times during the chase, he would stop to smell a flower, or investigate an errant piece of trash and move nothing but the quivering tip of his large black nose until our pounding footsteps fell within a few feet of our prey. And he was off again, in a mad dash, that was, for him, a joyful game.
Blessedly, as he became more accustomed to his surroundings and more attached to his family, the game lost it’s lustre, and Otis settled into his new home.
Once acclimated, his manners were impeccable, and one only had to say “Otis, where are you supposed to be?” and he would back away from the kitchen table and just over the piece of floor trim separating the kitchen and den. Once there, he would slowly lower his hips and sit patiently until the meal was finished. His eyes, though, never left the crumb-strewn floor beneath my son’s ill-placed chair.
Otis never met a stranger. He loved everyone and everything, and elicited the same emotion in everyone he met. He was pure love.
Weekends were his favorite, as he waited patiently for the recliner to be filled as the football game started. Seizing the opportunity, he climbed slowly into the space reserved for him, and wedged his large body, long-ways, into the space. Then, lowering his head to his outstretched paws, he slept, peacefully, for hours.
He was a great gardening buddy, loping behind me around the yard as I pruned and planted. He sniffed every flower placed in pot or bed, and took great pleasure from the sweet, earthy smell
of freshly dug soil, while happily sharing in the digging.
It was during these times outside, and in the kitchen, that Otis was most attentive, studying my every move as though in preparation for the time when he would be asked to complete the task on his own. He, and he alone, was allowed to share my galley-style kitchen during cooking, as he stood, alertly, just out of my way, but close enough to scoop up any falling debris after I moved away. He loved Christmas cooking the most, and waited, patiently, for the crackling sound of a bag of chocolate chips being opened. Otis loved chocolate, and particularly chocolate chips. He stood, still as a statue, as I wrestled with the bag, nose twitching, and only moved when I held a single chip between two fingers and invited him to take it.
If anyone loved Eufuala as much as I, it was Otis. He began the trip at the window, watching traffic and taking occasional gulps of exhaust-filled air, but, very soon, he stretched out in the back of the SUV and succumbed to the lullaby sung by spinning wheels.
On arrival, he lumbered slowly out of the back and stretched, languidly, as his nose caught the scent of the water. The race was on to see who would reach the dock first. Once there, we stood in companionable silence as close to the lake as we could get, gratefully allowing her peace and serenity to wash away the road dust. We gave thanks to her when we arrived, and Otis always insisted on one last walk before we left, as if to assure her we would be back.
His grace and dignity served right up to the end, as he faced serious illness with remarkable aplomb. Despite significant weight loss, disturbing tremors, and piles of appetite reducing pills which included embarrassingly productive diuretics, he never lost his spirit or his will to live, outlasting most doctors’ predictions. He fought to eat, he fought to breathe, and through it all continued to spread his special kind of love.
The void he leaves is multi-faceted.
He was the only dog I ever knew who preferred to sleep with his head on the pillow. This came in handy on cold nights spent in a half-empty bed.
He appreciated a captive audience, nosing open the slightly ajar bathroom door, to stand in front of the throne upon which I perched, offering the sweet valley between his eyes for a nuzzle and a kiss.
He valiantly guarded the bathroom door as I bathed, and I prefer to think it was my safety that motivated him, and not the dog treat he knew was waiting in the kitchen.
He ended every night, before settling in on an assortment of pillows spread for his comfort, by coming to the side of the bed and placing his large head quietly next to mine in a request for a final rub and a goodnight kiss.
And, on unsettled nights when sleep wouldn’t come, Otis silently accompanied me in my wanderings of dark hallways. When, at last, I sat, he followed suit, giving me a look that said, “You know, if you need me, I’m right here.”