A Specical Section of:
My dog Taco follows me everywhere.
Author: By Suzanne Moore | 
From the minute the black Lab mix set eyes on me at the animal shelter, he gave himself to me, heart and soul. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want him, that only the pleading of my three daughters persuaded me to OK his adoption. It didn’t matter that, in the beginning, I came close to detesting him.
His worst behavior (among many) was as Destructor Dog: He chewed up shoes, a tube of Ben Gay, a big section of the couch, the wooden gate put up to keep him away from the rest of the couch …
It didn’t matter that I’d chew him out, holler at him, tell he’d never win my love by being a BAD DOG. He still worshipped me.
In fact, our connection even seemed psychic, though not in a good way.
He chewed the face off a Raggedy Ann doll that, just that morning, I’d eyed appraisingly and judged it too high for the dog to reach. I moved a valuable antique book another day; that was his next victim.
But Taco evolved. He stopped chewing up stuff and instead took to meeting me at the door with some item of my clothing, unharmed, in his mouth. He didn’t run off in fits of wild abandon anymore, pretending he couldn’t hear us calling him.
He’d break up fights between our cats and unruly, annoying games of the other dogs.
I’d say, “Find the kitty,” and he would; once, he tracked a cat that had hidden itself away with an abscessed jaw.
When he was recovering from paw surgery a few years ago, I took Taco to work with me. He’d trail behind me to the copier, to the restroom, into Page 1 meetings. If I had to leave him for a bit, he’d insist the reporter asked to keep an eye on him sit at my desk.
And he waited for me to return.
Taco turned 17, then 18. His body began to fail, with arthritis in his back and hips. His back legs would lose strength outside on cold winter days, and I’d have to carry him back to the house.
We got him a portable ramp to get in and out of the car, a coat to wear outside.
When he got breathless on short excursions, we took him to the vet and learned he had congestive heart failure. The first dose of enelipril was like a miracle drug -- Taco could run again.
But time was catching up with him.
Camping last summer, the old guy couldn’t hike anymore. Even short walks found him lagging behind. And a few times, his legs gave out completely.
We still had to tie him up to keep him from following me off the campsite, though. And my heart would contract when, as I returned, I’d see him come hobbling out to meet me.
As Taco approached his 19th birthday, climbing the stairs became a challenge. But there was no question that he’d make the attempt every single night. For I slept upstairs, and therefore so did he.
So we developed a routine -- he’d gather his strength and put a paw on the bottom step, and I’d support him under his belly as he climbed to the top.
The first below-zero cold snap this winter hit Taco hard. His arthritis medication wasn’t doing its work anymore; we had to up his heart pills. And his appetite grew finicky. Already, we’d been tempting him with his favorites, tuna and canned cat food. Now, he turned up his nose at them.
I cooked him special meals of ground turkey, of hamburger, even steak. He’d wolf down a few bites but then lose interest. And we all began to prepare ourselves.
Taco slipped into his last sleep surrounded by his human family – my husband, Bryan, and daughters Shelby and Britt. He’d had some symptoms that would lead to great suffering; we knew it was time to say good-bye. We told him how much we loved him, how he’d be frolicking soon with all his old friends -- Fudge, Cody, Pretzel, Mocha, Stew … We had to laugh, realizing how many pets Taco had outlived.
I sat beside him for the final injection. At that point, he was completely unconscious, but his ear stood up in that endearing way it’d always had, and I knew on some level he was still listening to my voice. When his heart stopped, I tied the arms of one of my shirts around his neck and gave him a last kiss. I felt silly about it, but somehow it gave me comfort to leave something with my scent with him.
And so Taco still follows me around.
I hear him making his slow way up the stairs at night, his nails clicking on the wood floor of the hall. Then one of our other dogs will walk into the room.
A quick glance tricks me into thinking its Taco curled up on the pet bed by the couch. But then our other black dog, Pepper, raises her head.
Watching TV sometimes, I can almost feel my old dog’s nose shoving insistently at my wrist so that I’ll pet him. And I still listen for his deep, hoarse woof amid the other dogs’ barking.
I’m not so sentimental that I mark Taco’s passing with anywhere near the same feeling I would for a person. I know I don’t just mourn a dog, but the memories of him woven among those of my children growing up, of my more youthful self.
At the same time, how rarely are we granted such pure, unconditional love in this life? How lucky I was that Taco picked me.
His worst behavior (among many) was as Destructor Dog: He chewed up shoes, a tube of Ben Gay, a big section of the couch, the wooden gate put up to keep him away from the rest of the couch …
It didn’t matter that I’d chew him out, holler at him, tell he’d never win my love by being a BAD DOG. He still worshipped me.
In fact, our connection even seemed psychic, though not in a good way.
He chewed the face off a Raggedy Ann doll that, just that morning, I’d eyed appraisingly and judged it too high for the dog to reach. I moved a valuable antique book another day; that was his next victim.
But Taco evolved. He stopped chewing up stuff and instead took to meeting me at the door with some item of my clothing, unharmed, in his mouth. He didn’t run off in fits of wild abandon anymore, pretending he couldn’t hear us calling him.
He’d break up fights between our cats and unruly, annoying games of the other dogs.
I’d say, “Find the kitty,” and he would; once, he tracked a cat that had hidden itself away with an abscessed jaw.
When he was recovering from paw surgery a few years ago, I took Taco to work with me. He’d trail behind me to the copier, to the restroom, into Page 1 meetings. If I had to leave him for a bit, he’d insist the reporter asked to keep an eye on him sit at my desk.
And he waited for me to return.
Taco turned 17, then 18. His body began to fail, with arthritis in his back and hips. His back legs would lose strength outside on cold winter days, and I’d have to carry him back to the house.
We got him a portable ramp to get in and out of the car, a coat to wear outside.
When he got breathless on short excursions, we took him to the vet and learned he had congestive heart failure. The first dose of enelipril was like a miracle drug -- Taco could run again.
But time was catching up with him.
Camping last summer, the old guy couldn’t hike anymore. Even short walks found him lagging behind. And a few times, his legs gave out completely.
We still had to tie him up to keep him from following me off the campsite, though. And my heart would contract when, as I returned, I’d see him come hobbling out to meet me.
As Taco approached his 19th birthday, climbing the stairs became a challenge. But there was no question that he’d make the attempt every single night. For I slept upstairs, and therefore so did he.
So we developed a routine -- he’d gather his strength and put a paw on the bottom step, and I’d support him under his belly as he climbed to the top.
The first below-zero cold snap this winter hit Taco hard. His arthritis medication wasn’t doing its work anymore; we had to up his heart pills. And his appetite grew finicky. Already, we’d been tempting him with his favorites, tuna and canned cat food. Now, he turned up his nose at them.
I cooked him special meals of ground turkey, of hamburger, even steak. He’d wolf down a few bites but then lose interest. And we all began to prepare ourselves.
Taco slipped into his last sleep surrounded by his human family – my husband, Bryan, and daughters Shelby and Britt. He’d had some symptoms that would lead to great suffering; we knew it was time to say good-bye. We told him how much we loved him, how he’d be frolicking soon with all his old friends -- Fudge, Cody, Pretzel, Mocha, Stew … We had to laugh, realizing how many pets Taco had outlived.
I sat beside him for the final injection. At that point, he was completely unconscious, but his ear stood up in that endearing way it’d always had, and I knew on some level he was still listening to my voice. When his heart stopped, I tied the arms of one of my shirts around his neck and gave him a last kiss. I felt silly about it, but somehow it gave me comfort to leave something with my scent with him.
And so Taco still follows me around.
I hear him making his slow way up the stairs at night, his nails clicking on the wood floor of the hall. Then one of our other dogs will walk into the room.
A quick glance tricks me into thinking its Taco curled up on the pet bed by the couch. But then our other black dog, Pepper, raises her head.
Watching TV sometimes, I can almost feel my old dog’s nose shoving insistently at my wrist so that I’ll pet him. And I still listen for his deep, hoarse woof amid the other dogs’ barking.
I’m not so sentimental that I mark Taco’s passing with anywhere near the same feeling I would for a person. I know I don’t just mourn a dog, but the memories of him woven among those of my children growing up, of my more youthful self.
At the same time, how rarely are we granted such pure, unconditional love in this life? How lucky I was that Taco picked me.
