Brooks

My dog Brooks died a few short nights ago, on September 10th.  A piece of me has gone with him, rightly so.

Brooks with Owen

A dozen years ago, I was pregnant with my son and we had just moved out to Pennsylvania.  At that time we were the last house on the street, surrounded by trees and far from all of our friends.  Right around Mother's Day we made the decision that we were ready to get a dog.  I was home alone frequently, we now had a house with some property, there was no reason really to prevent it.  So began the search for "the dog."

We set out looking for an Australian Cattle Dog (Blue Heeler).  A local place had a pup that was Cattle Dog and Eskimo mix, he was gorgeous ... I even named him in my head.  We got there literally ten minutes after he was placed in a home.  Dejected we went home, put our names in the ring for a few rescue sites and began looking at Petfinder.

In doing the search for a Cattle Dog, we came across this picture of a "Cattle Dog / Lab mix" named "Brooks" at a shelter all the way south in Marlton, NJ.  It was a handsome profile picture, the dog's head was tilted up and you could see he was mostly black with spots on his chest.  But Marlton is almost three hours away and surely something closer would come up.

We found a Cattle Dog pup a few days later at a nearby shelter ... missed him by two hours.  We got contacted by a rescue for a 2 year old, fully trained and raised with kids ... the foster family then adopted him.  So every day brought us back to Petfinder and the picture of Brooks.  I'd like to think that perhaps Fate was nudging us together.

Finally we took a sunny day and decided to make the trip south.  I dutifully filled out the forms online and a few days later we went.  The staff was a little surprised when we asked for him by name, but brought him out to us in the play yard.  That was when we could see why his profile pic was at such an odd angle, why his lineage was unclear on the website - the brindled square jaw, the black and tan markings, there was no doubt that this dog was not really a "lab mix" but was a Pit Bull / Rottweiler mix instead.  We learned that he was brought in to the shelter as a puppy and that nobody had taken him, that he had spent the last ten months growing up in the shelter.  We spent an hour playing with him in the sun, there was no doubt for either of us that this was "the dog."  (We love taking the ones that nobody wants.)

Back inside to sign the papers and finally Mommy is going to have her dog.  I literally had the leash in my hand when the girl looks at the form and says, "Oh ... I have to get manager's approval for this one."  Long story short, they took him away from us.  They came up with a dozen different reasons why we couldn't have him, does not matter what they are now, but we could not take him home.  We left empty-handed.

One of the hardest things I've ever done is walk away from him then, openly crying and cradling my pregnant belly, him watching us with tilted head and confused expression, his wagging tail going slower and slower as he watched us get into our car.  Oh, and it started to rain - it was a scene right off of the Lifetime Network, I'm telling you.  (The person you should really feel sorry for is the Angry Viking, listening to his pregnant wife sob hysterically all the way back home.  "Mommy's never going to have a dog!")

Mama's Boy

A few nights later I was working online and talking with one of my friends, relating the whole depressing story.  He then became a superhero, putting on his cape he flew down to the shelter - lied through his teeth on the application, smiled charmingly and sailed back out with Brooks in tow.  He then drove him directly to Pennsylvania and delivered him to me.  It was one of the most amazing and selfless things anyone has done, one that made a lifelong impact on me and my family.

Which is why for his entire life, one of Brooks' tags read "I belong to Andrew Epstein."  (Besides, it's not everyone who can say they owned a trafficked dog.)

Baby Diva and Dog

While the idea was this dog was for Chris, that lasted all of a day - he had made up his dog mind, he was a mama's boy.  The first time Chris tried to take me out to dinner, he chewed an AC unit out of the window trying to follow us.  He was my shadow, I could not even move to another room without being followed.  He would butt his way into the bathroom, then turn around and stand in the doorway.  Obviously he felt he was guarding me from intruders ... or trolls, because there are definitely trolls hiding in the recesses of the bathroom.

Thanks Dr. Heidi!

He was a relentless guardian of the children.  He slept beneath my feet when I would rock James at night, if you played too rough you would turn around to find 75 pounds of pissed off dog staring you down.  He accidentally knocked James down the stairs once as a toddler, once.  For the rest of his life he would wait on the stairs if anyone was walking on them, he never rushed past again.  Endlessly patient, he endured a decade of being dressed up, bandaged, manhandled and wrestled with - never once even growling a warning.

One word - skunk.

He was clever, he was our Houdini.  Once off the lead he was gone, a black shadow racing into the trees with Beryl fast on his heels.  He knew how to push open screen doors and has successfully managed to escape every single new dogsitter at least once.  Like the "Incredible Journey" they would limp back hours later, covered in everything from pond muck to skunk.  He would just come lay on the deck and patiently wait for us to notice that he'd come back, he'd known where home was all along.

Eat the Baby!

He knew my habits and stayed in rhythm with me better than anyone else (dogs and people included).  If I slept for 12 hours (really, I used to), then so did he - never moving until I was ready to get up.  If I worked nights, he knew that right after breakfast was bed.  He knew how to lay on his side with me during naps, head on my pillow and my arm around his chest.  And always, he would stand guard in the bathroom.

Brooks & Banshee

The kids could do anything to him, he didn't care.  If you said "eat the baby," he would cover them with kisses. The cats often slept on him, he didn't mind.  When my cat George died in my arms, he crawled onto the bed and simply leaned on me.  When Banshee was dying of cancer, he put aside his differences with her and laid with her, day after day.  He would simply curl up around her on the couch, quiet and present - which is all any of us needs sometimes.

He tolerated other dogs, but Beryl was his lifetime friend.  Having been together almost their entire lives, she still sleeps next to his bed, never on it.  It sits empty and cold next to mine.  She used to help herself to treats out of his dish, because even though it's the same food it must be better because he has it.  Today I found her standing where his dish used to be, looking at me hopefully.  I have no hope to give her.


I am forever grateful of the series of events and choices that brought him into our lives, he made this more of a home, my first home.  He was there when we brought James, and then Meredith home - he helped make us a family.  He taught my children the love of dogs and he was my best friend.

Part of the heartbreak of dogs is that when they go you feel the empty places more than you ever did before.

Who will protect me from the trolls in the bathroom now?

Rest easy buddy, I'll see you at the Bridge.