The Life of a Dog in Five Acts

By Stan Steindl. Mooloolaba, Queensland, Australia

When you get a dog, your life changes forever. I had Bruno, a chocolate Labrador with hazel eyes, velvet ears, and a very waggy tail. He was the embodiment of compassion. My compassionate friend.

Act 1

When Bruno first came into our lives, he was the most adorable living being. His big paws would trip him up if the lawn grew even a little too long. He would slip on the tiles, bump his head on the coffee table, and chew all the plants out of the ground.

But that first day, the day he arrived, I hid him in the laundry downstairs and created an adventure game for my unwitting children. They had to follow a path and solve a series of puzzles before finding the special prize at the end—a new puppy! Oh, the shrieks and cries of delight that day still echo in the happy places of my mind.

Act 2

When Bruno was a little older, I used to joke, “It’s great to have a dog when you have teenagers, because at least someone is happy to see you when you get home!” My teenaged children were great (of course!). But there is truth in jest.

Bruno loved unconditionally, unreservedly, and with his whole body. He was all about relationships, closeness, attentiveness. I would walk in the front door to be greeted by his skittling, twirling, leaping joy. I’d put down my work bag, lie on the polished floorboards, and wrap him up in my arms so his big boy body would fall without hesitation onto my chest, his feet up in the air, his tongue lashing my face.

A heartbeat would pass. Our heartbeats would slow. And then in unison we would sigh, deep, luxurious sighs, our nervous systems co-regulating to a state of mutual bliss.

Things were okay in the world.

I was home.

Act 3

Bruno was such a delightful fixture in family life.

“Hey Bruno, time for a walk!”

“Hey Bruno, time for dinner!”

“Okay, Boo Boo. Time for bed.”

Days melted into days, years melted into years. He would notice—who’s had a difficult day? And he would get close, lean in, rest his chin on a knee.

He was there for the fun and frivolity too. The parks, beaches, birthdays, Christmases. There he was. Never imposing, but with an undeniable presence that added something very precious to life’s moments.

Act 4

He was only 8 years old when the small sore appeared on his toe. He had a little grey around the muzzle, but he was still a young dog, full of life, full of love. The vet thought it was probably a prickle that was infected and prescribed antibiotics.

But Bruno licked and licked at his sore toe and the medication did nothing to bring aid or relief. He was put in a cone, which seemed undignified for the poor old fella, but he didn’t mind. He still just lay at my feet when we watched our nightly shows. I rubbed his belly with my foot and periodically stroked his head or tickled him behind the ear.

Bruno started to get sicker.

He kept trying, of course. He never wanted to be left behind. He showed up when I arrived home, just a bit more wobbly on his feet. A biopsy confirmed the melanoma and the veterinary surgeon removed the toe. We all crossed our fingers, hoping for the best.

But only a few more weeks passed before I found myself sitting on the back deck, Bruno curled in my lap, the palliative care vet visiting one last time. I had just taken Bruno to a little beach he knew so well. He had looked happy and I held him close. He struggled getting back up on the grass and I carried him. I knew it was time. And so there we were, my partner and I — Bruno curled up on my lap as he took his last breath.

Eight years he was with us. So significant and immense, yet so fleeting, I could not believe it. I loved that guy with all my heart, and he loved me just as much in return. I couldn’t believe he was gone.

Act 5

After that, time passed slowly for a while. Arriving home at the end of the day was a much quieter affair. And the floor looked hard and cold, although sometimes I felt like falling to my knees and sobbing. I would still expect him to come running in the back door, or sit patiently drooling when we were cutting cheese, or simply be at my feet when the day was done. It hurt a lot when I realised that life was going on and he was not there.

One day, not long after he passed, but long enough that the weeks had really dragged, I was at work feeling particularly stressed. It wasn’t a major problem, but I was concerned about certain aspects of the business that had been keeping me awake at night. So I stopped, shut down my laptop, swiveled my chair away from the desk and closed my eyes.

I tried to use my breath to slow my body and my mind. And I tried to think calmly about the work issue that confronted me. But then, my mind started to wander. I imagined my home, the TV room, the floorboards. I imagined lying on the floor, my arms out wide. And then there he was, Bruno, clear as day in my mind’s eye. His hazel eyes and velvet ears, his body coming to rest on mine, our breathing coming into sync. And I felt him convey in not so many words, “I love you. I’m here. And I always will be.”

And I realised it was true. When you get a dog, your life really does change forever.