“That’s the one.” I said it more to myself than to the people standing around me at the Aussie Rescue. The dog I wanted was on a grassy knoll, tossing a Kong kettle bell into the air, racing to recover it and, with joyous abandon, tossing it again. I wanted that dog. Nay. I needed that dog.

I told the Aussie Rescue operator as much.

“Oh, well, he’s just a pup. We’re not even sure how old he is, or if he’s full Australian Shephard. I can show you other dogs we’re more sure about.”

Nope. He’s the one. “No problem. I’m sure.”

Paperwork complete, Brody and I rode home together in the back seat. It was a short trip, but long enough to bond. After that, we were a team. We’d chosen each other.

Brody was a quick learner and, as our relationship evolved, he assumed the role of running buddy. Remarkably behaved on the leash, he took his place on my side and only tripped me once in nine years. I broke a rib and skinned a knee but, as I lay prone on the bridge walkway, he sat protectively close, looking out for me until a couple of strangers stopped to make sure I wasn’t dead or, perhaps, mortally wounded. Once back on my feet, we kept running, though deep breaths were challenging.

Eventually we didn’t even need the leash. He, with little encouragement, understood where he was supposed to be in relation to me. Always at my side. If he lost focus, a quick reminder brought him back to me. The leash was used mainly to put passers-by at ease.

As perfect as he was, I have to admit that Brody had one doggie flaw: he couldn’t catch a frisbee. Sticks? He could fetch with the best of them. Tennis balls? He would race out, leap to the ball, and catch it in mid-air on the first bounce. His mouth-eye coordination was enviable. An athlete through and through. But, for whatever reason, he did not find inspiration in frisbees, and would just stare as I sent one sailing over the field, clearly perplexed as to what his job might be when it came to floating discs.

Alas, lacking the frisbee skill, he would never be one of those dogs who entertain the fans during pre-game antics. I guess nobody’s perfect. But he was damn close.

Over the years, our friendship was perfected. Indeed, he and I were on the same, five-week, grooming schedule. My haircut was always one day before his. By then, by the time of the confluence of our grooming schedules, we’d come to understand what the other needed. And those needs were simple and straightforward. For his part, he needed me to love him as much as possible. He needed to be allowed to rest his head on my feet. He needed to run. And he needed to be wherever I was, as much as possible.

For my part, he provided a reason for me to come home. He allowed me to sing to him without making fun. He gave me a reason to run. He let me know when it was time for bed.

He gave me something for which to care.

Then again, if he did have a complaint, I imagine it was that I wasn’t home enough. But, in my defense, if I travelled somewhere that allowed dogs, or at least did not have a strict policy against dogs well, then, I took my dog. Here’s a partial list of those places:

– Grocery store.
– My brother’s house in Indiana.
– Home Depot.
– Optometrist.
– Liquor store.
– Coffee Shop.
– Any government building.
– Insomnia Cookies.

One might question the wisdom, or even legality, of taking a dog into these establishments, but everyone loved this dog. If I didn’t take him, I’d get asked why. So, I took him.

For Brody, each locale was an adventure. Each provided something new to smell. Always a gentleman, he never tried to grab meat from the meat section, or eat cookies off the cookie counter. Never. The proprietors of these establishments needn’t worry. Brody’s worst offense was the occasional attempt to dig a hole in my couch, and that he couldn’t run by this Mexican place without taking a dump on the corner. No idea why. Placement on the running route? I always made sure I was ready for quick clean-up.

All was good.

Then he stopped eating.

Two days after he stopped eating, I took him to a pet hospital. He was lethargic by then and, since we didn’t have an appointment, we had to cool our paws in the waiting room for a couple hours. He laid his head on my feet while we waited.

The veterinarians couldn’t figure out what was wrong but still handed me three or four types of medication, none of which helped. Still, he was drinking water and asking to go outside. I found those things hopeful. Maybe whatever-it-was just needed to work itself out.

It didn’t.

Three days later we were in another pet emergency hospital. This time I had to carry him. The staff were ready with a doggie gurney.

Three days in this pet emergency hospital. On the last day, I walked with him and his nurse to a patch of grass on the side of the building. He, on a makeshift leash, looking over his shoulder to make sure I was there. He, walking ahead of me, clearly in pain, silently screaming to be saved or to be let go.

I couldn’t save him.

He deserved to be saved.

We were together those last three hours. They let us stay in an exam room and I sat on the floor with him, stroking his head and face while he slept so deeply that he didn’t notice anything else. He was just happy to have me there, happy to be together.

In the end, it was hard to let him go. Hard to watch him go. Hard to watch the life drain out of him. He was supposed to live forever, or at least another five or six years. That’s what I’d told myself. That’s what I told myself, even before he got sick. He’ll live to be fourteen or fifteen. Or forever.

The world now is a little less fun, a little less furry, a lot less loving. Thank you, Brody, for the time we had together.