Skip to main content
first person

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

Open this photo in gallery:

Illustration by April Dela Noche Milne

“All terrain” was how we used to describe our dog, Ollie. You could take him anywhere. Drop him off at anyone’s house or kennel for a day, a week or two months. No problem. He could do any hike, jump from any vehicle, go to any dog park and eat anything (well, too much but that’s another story). Everybody loved him, even if they didn’t invite him back because he ate baking off the counter, or sent their drink flying with his tail.

A yellow lab, he had a loving, gentle personality baked right in. I’m not bragging, but at doggie day care, they brought him in to socialize with the “difficult dogs.” His report card from the kennel was always straight As, and any adolescent angst was eliminated with a long walk. He was easy to please and always in a good mood. He went along with whatever plan we had for him. Whether we left him for 20 minutes, or eight hours, he was thrilled to see us. He was so good, we sometimes forgot he was there. That’s why we were so shocked when his inner diva emerged.

It was when our daughter left for university this past fall, and he turned 13, which is 91 in dog years. He had always slept upstairs in our bedroom, on my side of the bed. When the lights went out on the main floor, he stood up and followed us up the stairs. A few months ago, the stairs got harder for him. Always a food-driven guy, a chunk of dried liver would do the trick. Then it got even harder, and it was several treats, plus my husband pushing him from the rear. Finally the day arrived when he just couldn’t make it up or down the stairs any more.

For the first few nights, he slept alone on the main floor. Problem solved, or so we thought. He saw us go up together, while he was downstairs alone. The barking started. The complaining. The deep, unhappy sighs. One of us would come down and lie on the couch near him and he quickly fell into a deep, contented sleep. After a bit, we would creep upstairs. Then he realized we were leaving him alone – again. The minute we moved toward the stairs, his eyes opened and he gave us a cutting glare.

Eventually we put a mattress on our living room floor and we slept there every night. Our dog owner friends nodded sympathetically and everyone else wondered if we had lost our marbles. Based on his success in training us at night, he started barking and whimpering whenever he wasn’t happy. Many a basement workout was interrupted with his proclamations of dissatisfaction. If we hadn’t petted him as much as he would like, barking. If he wanted a snack, barking. He laid there on his microsuede memory foam bed, and barked until we met his needs. We ran around like crazy people letting him in and out, petting, dispensing meds, feeding and cuddling. The rest of the time we were unwrapping deliveries with special dog slings, pill pockets and non-skid rugs.

Our daughter came home from university for a visit and could hardly hide her disgust. We had turned into Ollie’s slaves, running around trying to anticipate his every need. We reminded her that when she was a baby, we did the same thing for her, but she remains unconvinced.

I still see him, sitting like a king on his plush bed, barking, and I imagine he is saying:

“I put up with all those stupid pictures in costumes, bratty kids hugging me, being locked in the basement when the dog haters came to dinner, getting woken up from a great dream because you think I need to pee, and subsisting on those measly rations you called meals. Every time I got a good mud coat on, you’d rinse me with freezing water on the the front lawn for all my friends to see. Even the compost bin, which I thought was fair game, got moved out of my reach. I’ll be damned if I am going to put up with any more nonsense from you people. Who cares if I interrupt your dinner for the sixth time so I can go outside, and then come back in? Who cares if I leave my bodily fluids all over your Persian carpet you told me to stay away from? Who cares if I want to go out at 4 a.m., and then again at 5? Who cares if I want a tummy rub for an hour? I want what I want when I want it.”

I’m glad that his inner diva emerged. For so many years, we had his faithful, undemanding love. He was at the bottom of the pack and grateful for every speck of attention he got. As I watched him rage against going gently into the good night, I applauded him.

Research tells us that we most regret the things we did not do, not the things we did. Ollie rolled in every mud puddle, even as we screamed, “No, Ollie, no.” Ollie ate whatever he could find, including a 25-pound bag of dog food in one sitting. He stole sandwiches from office workers taking a lunch break on a bench, and he planned challah heists off the counter when no one was looking. He took every opportunity to have the most fun, the most food and the most love.

Ollie left us on April 26, with no regrets.

Marilyn Oshry lives in Calgary.

Sign up for the weekly Parenting & Relationships newsletter for news and advice to help you be a better parent, partner, friend, family member or colleague.

Follow related authors and topics

Authors and topics you follow will be added to your personal news feed in Following.

Interact with The Globe