Casey loved a good snooze on our bed.
The joyous life of Casey Charles Jones–thief of balls, connoisseur of sidewalk-aged pizza, sworn enemy of squirrels and new best pal of every person with a smile and a scritch to share–ended gracefully today at 10 to 3 after a fresh snowfall that until lately would have sent him all a-twirl. He leaves two broken-hearted humans whose privilege it was to share–for the past nine years, nine months and a few days–his TV couch, his cross-continental road trips and his daily rambles, the whole adventure chronicled in my memoir Starter Dog.
More beagle than anything else, a rescue mutt with a torn right ear, Casey was an Everydog–a doggy dog, as Paul would say, not a savant or a fashion accessory. He performed no tricks except catching a banana chunk in mid-air. I could count the words he knew without using all my fingers: sit, wait, walk, uh-uh, down, good boy (counted as one) and come (although he didn’t at least half the time). We briefly persuaded ourselves he’d learned “dinner,” a word that made him soar with upraised paws like a charismatic feeling the spirit. Then we noticed we had to roll the word on our tongues and release it with a booming flourish (all talk of our own dinner went right over his noggin).
Ordinariness made him the perfect writer’s dog. On our walks he attuned my senses to ordinary marvels–the Monet colors of earthworms after rain; the rugged beauty of the bindweed, which breaks concrete with its roots and dots the sidewalk with pale pink blossoms. He got me talking with the friends he made, from the Italian tourist who taught me “good boy” in her language to the street person hungry for a snuggle. When he lifted his leg to spritz a dandelion–this after the fence, the maple, the boulder and any number of hydrants–I saw him as part of all that he had met. He was innately, unthinkingly creative, and what he created was happiness.
He was our first dog. A day or two before we brought him home, I received a stern warning from a lifelong dog person. “You DO realize this is a 10-year commitment.” Anyone who says, “You DO realize…” has a good notion you don’t. Nine years, nine months and a few days. What happened to the other three months? What about our 10-year commitment? And yet a minute, fully lived, is all the time in the world. I’ll be reliving our minutes for the rest of my days.
See you in my dreams, dear Casey.
