Moshe

He had the name of a Jewish military hero and the heart of a Jewish princess. Seventy pounds of muscle and sinew wrapped tighter than the string round a top, and all he wanted was to have his hindquarters rubbed and a lap to lay his head on.

Danielle and Chris rescued him from the pound seven years ago. He already had two strikes against—not only was he a large dog, but five previous owners had given up on him. That’s a lot of strikes for a young pup. Nevertheless, for a dog starting out with two strikes against him, he did all right.

He went to obedience school and learned a few words of a second language—the German “sitzen” and “plotz.” Then he did something not that many dogs do—traveled cross-country in the cargo bin of a jet liner. And then two years later he took the same trip back by car. Two cross-country trips—one at 20,000 feet and one at 60mph—with a stop at the Grand Canyon. How many dogs can knock those big ticket items off their bucket lists?

I visited Dan and Chris in Fullerton and noticed Moshe had taken well to California’s laid back style of living. He liked getting attention. He liked the good life. But he wasn’t a prima-donna about it. If you wanted to share a sofa with him, you were always welcomed. That went for anyone. He didn’t show favoritism.

We had become such good friends that Danielle warned me there was a strong likelihood that Mosh would climb into my bed that night. My first thought was how bad could that be? I knew I’d be going to bed first so I would have first shot at getting comfortable under the sheets. When Mosh came in he would, of course, take his place on top of the blankets—a common enough sleeping arrangement between companions that respected each other’s space.

My only experience with this peculiar protocol was decades earlier, when I spent a night in Cheyenne with a girl who picked me up in Nebraska when I was hitchhiking. Heck, I don’t know what she was worried about. I was happy to get the ride and would have been more than willing to sleep on the floor. Besides, she didn’t have half the personality that Moshe did. Neither did I.

I knew from the get-go that Moshe wasn’t going to crawl up in a little ball at the foot of the bed. That’s what cats or terriers or cocker spaniels do. Seventy-pound dogs that can speak German like to stretch out; they like to own the bed.

I was pretty sure we wouldn’t sleep face to face. Each of us facing outside was a distinct possibility and there was a good chance I would spoon him or he would spoon me—in a good way.

I retired early that night while Moshe stayed up to watch a little more TV with Chris and Dan. When they finally went to bed I listened as he tiptoed into our room like only a seventy-pound dog with nails as big as meat hooks walking on a hard wood floor could do. I waited for him to leap into the bed. This was when I learned that there was another way for a human and dog to share a bed—one that I hadn’t even considered.

After a moment of turning and shifting and pawing at the blankets, he positioned himself widthwise across the bed with the bulk of his weight pinning my legs down. I tried to budge him, possibly coax him into a more comfortable position for both of us but he wasn’t feeling it—just like I wasn’t feeling my legs. I lay there wondering what the long term damage might be from having circulation cut off to me feet while at the same time assuring myself that he would get tired of my knees sticking in his chest at some point and seek out a different position.

This was when I learned something else about Moshe. He wasn’t a restless sleeper. Not at all. He fell asleep almost instantly and didn’t change position once that night. Neither did I.

After living in the pound and then several large cities, Moshe became a country dog when Dan and Chris moved back to Virginia. He lived on a chunk of land nestled at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains where he spent his days chewing large branches and small trees down to toothpick size splinters of wood.

He took long walk into the woods—usually longer than he or anyone else anticipated. Maybe if he had been a country dog from the start he’d have been better at finding his way home. But he wasn’t and there’s no use crying over spilt milk. The good news was there was always a meal waiting for him when he did return home.

Speaking of meals, Asher Jackson became part of the family in 2013 and there was some legitimate concerns that Moshe could make a meal of the baby, if he so desired. For the longest time, the two of them, although aware of each other’s presence, always seemed to be separated by one barricade or another.

But it was meals that finally brought them together. For a while, Moshe was content to just eat the scraps that fell to the floor from Asher’s highchair, but in time it became pretty apparent that Asher was actually feeding Moshe the scraps he so desired. While my sleeping arrangements with Moshe might have had some flaws, the eating arrangement between Asher and Moshe was working out fine.

One day Chris and Dan had to go into town—a necessity of country living today as it was a hundred years ago. In a world where things are changing sometimes on a monthly, weekly and even daily basis, living in the country is what it has always been—a breath of fresh air in a crazy world. Still, for whatever reason, sometimes you simply have to go into town.

Moshe didn’t need to go into town so he stayed home. He’d take a few walks around the place, chew up a stick or two, but would probably spend most of the day on the porch soaking up the sun, with an eye out for their car to come round the bend of the driveway.

It was one of the nicer days of a winter that had been one of the worst. A few trees were beginning to blossom and birds were slowly returning, bringing with them new songs of spring. The air was fresh and there was an ever so slight breeze blowing across the land, bringing with it a mixture of smells that had been missing during the long cold winter.

One remnant of winter, maybe the only good one was that with their branches stripped of leaves, Moshe could look clear through the trees and not only hear but see the infrequent cars that whizzed down Eleys Ford Road.

At some point, Moshe got off the porch and meandered down the driveway to get a closer look—maybe give one or two of those cars a run for its money. That’s probably what he was doing when he got too close, or lost his footing on the damp ground, or just couldn’t put the brakes on fast enough. A long cold winter can do that to a dog—make him a little rusty or get him out of sync. The driver probably didn’t see him coming. Moshe’s last thought was probably the same—“Neither did I.”

The driver stopped, covered him in a tarp and probably mouthed a few words.

“Sorry, old boy.”

“I know someone’s going to miss you.”

“I wish—”

There’s really not much you can say when a dog’s life is over. Only that you hope it was a good one.

Moshe’s life was a good one in every respect. He was well loved. He was part of a family, which is all a dog really wants. Things like the Grand Canyon are merely extras, icing on the cake. All a dog really wants is to be with people who want to be with him. Moshe had that and more.

For a dog that started with two strikes against him, he had a good at-bat, a really good at-bat.

My only wish for him on that day, his last day was that he found himself a really big stick and had a really good time playing with it. I’m sure he did because Jewish princesses usually do get what they want.