My Marley

In remembrance of Joey, October 2000 to September 2009

Making the decision to put an animal down has to be the single hardest thing in life to do. I've done it three times. And each time, it's more heart breaking than the time before.

We've always had our Goldens in pairs. First came Al in 1989. A few years later, Bob. Five years after that, we lost Bob, but within months, we gained Joey. Al went to doggy heaven in 2001 and has now been joined by the puppy who once gave him so much grief.

John always reserved the right to name the dogs. That right has been revoked when the next Golden takes up residence with us. Al? Bob? Joey? I always felt like I was calling kids into dinner when I hollared for one of them. Still, I guess that's what made them unique to us.

Of all the boys, Joey was the one with the most personality. He was a rowdy guy, with unbounded enthusiasm and an equally unbounded appetite. He was one of 11 in a litter born to Ben and Lucy and was quickly named Fat Boy by the breeder for gaining weight faster than the other pups. He came to live with us at seven weeks, no where near house broken but somewhat eager to learn.

What WE didn't know was that Joey had a recessive Marley gene. As we worked to integrate him into the household, his name became "Joey-NO." That's all we ever seemed to say to him.

My other two boys never chewed shoes or really, anything. Joey didn't chew -- he digested. Doc Maarten sandles (one pair), dog beds (three), tennis balls (numerous), seats on the exercise machine (two) and more books than any of us have read in a lifetime. It's not that we left temptation in his line of sight. He could just smell things he knew he wasn't supposed to have.

I was working full-time when Joey came home, so the dogs were left to their own devices outside during the day. Al was still with us, but aging and having some issues with arthritis. John didn't want Al laying on the hard cement all day long, so he purchased a soft, cushy (read: expensive) dog bed. Joey ate it out from underneath him in a day. John purchased another dog bed. Joey ate that one too. Not to be outsmarted by a puppy, John built a wooden frame, layed a big chunk of foam inside, covered that in chicken wire (nailed to the frame) and enveloped the whole thing in a nice soft blanket.

Joey moved the blanket, peeled back the chicken wire and started eating away at the foam padding. With Al in the bed.

The outside water bowl became another problem, especially when the weather got warmer. Joey would upend the bowl and parade around the dog run with the bowl in his mouth. Several days, we came home to find the bowl bone dry and upside down in a pile of bark dust. John ended out bolting and chaining the bowl to the foundation of the house.

About this time, our neighbors next door brought home Blue, an Alaskan Huskey who quickly became Joey's new best friend. They would run the length of the fence talking to each other, and eventually, Joey had to check out how his buddy lived. We kinda suspected he was digging holes when the neighbor kept appearing at the door with our dog on their dog's leash! John finally poured cement in all the holes to keep Joey in his own space. We had to have that section of fence repaired last spring and you should have seen the look on the guy's face when he encountered all that cement.

After we lost Al, Joey flew solo during the day. Things began to go missing in the garage. We discovered Joey was climbing up to the work bench, helping himself to whatever was there and dragging it out to the dog run to take out his agression at being left alone. Nothing was sacred. It still makes me laugh to recall the night we found the strap to John's bowling bag hanging outside the dog door. The bag was still in the garage -- Joey had drug a 16-pound bowling ball across the garage but couldn't get it up through the dog door.

Joey always hated suitcases. He knew that meant somebody was leaving. He reserved a special pathetic face for when he saw them come in the house. And with the amount of time John and I spend on the road, they're in the house frequently. While we were gone, he'd pout and sigh and sometimes, boycott food.

He always slept in the hall at night, where he could see the bedroom doors and down the stairs. In the morning, he'd lay on the bed and watch while everybody got dressed for the day. He loved the hose -- anybody's hose -- and would wander yards to see if somebody else had water better than his. When John fired up the sprinkler system every spring, Joey would run through the water with the wild abandon of an out of control toddler.

We've always been a vet's nightmare in the treat department, but these last few weeks we repealed the ban to let Joey have people snacks again. Cracker packaging could wake him out of a sound sleep. The bread wrapper brought him running. And if somebody took food downstairs, he'd patiently sit in front of them and drool.

Joey never had a bad day. He loved unconditionally and he had a happy tail that wagged continuously. Everybody was his friend. There is nothing more endearing to me than the face of a Golden Retriever, but Joey's always possessed a sort of smile. He was a happy dog, but he gave us so much more.

And he's sorely missed.