It was something about the eyes. Anyone who looked into them was momentarily taken aback. Many actually did a double-take, as in – this can’t be right, I can’t have seen what I thought I saw. But they did. Murphy’s eyes, liquid brown and shining, were so humanlike, you could not help but think he had human thoughts and feelings.  And he did.  No one can convince me otherwise.

People gravitated towards him. It wasn’t just his size and good looks; it was his aura.  He met everyone at their own level. He tempered his exuberance to each situation perfectly, whether it was the spunky Shih Tzu who put her front paws on his chest to touch noses, or the human toddlers who barely came up to his chin.  He was exceedingly gentle with the elderly and infirm, knowing instinctively who would want to pat his great head and who wanted to keep a little distance.

 I used to say he had the intellect of a 3-year-old, but in his last few months, he had the sad, knowing understanding of a very old man. It’s taken me a long time to say farewell to Murphy.  Nine months to be exact. He was our seventh dog, the canine love of my life, and his loss was devastating. The first few weeks were gut-wrenching. I had known it was coming, of course I did.  Murphy was a Newfoundland and at 12 had surpassed his life expectancy by a few years. I had even gotten a puppy that year to help ease the inevitable loss. It didn’t help, not really.

He was 12 and ½ when he died. The laryngeal paralysis that was crippling his back legs was also making it hard to breathe.  He was not himself, but he still seemed to enjoy his walks and his food and being with us.  That last week I slept on the first floor with him since he could no longer navigate the stairs.  I had hoped that would bring him some comfort. I knew what we had to do, had made the appointment but still, it was hard to accept.

On his last day, we took a walk, and he rallied a bit. It was as if he knew and even attempted to run a bit like the puppy he had been.  For that brief time, he was himself again. He may have done that to make me happy.  He knew how sad I had been. By the time we got back to the house, the rally was over and I had to help him up the stairs with the special belt, a trial for both of us. That afternoon found us at the vet, feeding him peanut butter, waiting for the sedative to take effect.

In the last few months, he still put his huge arm over my shoulder when I lay down next to him as he had always done. And sometimes he hit me in the face with his gigantic paw; he was clumsy. On his last day, it was almost like this act was deliberate, like he was trying to to knock some sense into me.  “Nothing lasts, my beloved.  Get hold of yourself.  You gave me an amazing life. Now, do what you have to do.  It was part of our pact. It is time to say goodbye.”