I’ve got to say that I have never been a fan of the expression “crossing the rainbow bridge” when it comes to describing the end of a beloved pet’s life. There is something about it that just feels too much, like an unwanted and insincere pat on the head. As with people that we love, the end of a pet’s life is a loss and the hole it leaves behind is not, perhaps, the same gaping hole as losing a human family member, but it is a hole just the same.

We have had our Moose since 2009. We took a trip to our local animal shelter, with my stated objective of just “looking around” with an eye towards potentially volunteering. Of course, within less than five minutes we met a little, skinny, raggedy dog who stole our hearts. He’d been found in a parking lot some 60 days before and no one had claimed him so he, very quickly, became ours.

We named him “Moose Munch” which was a family joke. Our previous, 100 plus pound Golden Retriever had fallen madly in love with a very tiny dog who lived next door to us. Buddy would stand at the fence and look at the other dog with longing. When he realized that he could see the neighbor’s yard from our bedroom window, he would stay there like a sentry and watch the object of his affection. We have always had many nicknames for our dogs. Buddy was often Budster or Budaroo but, even more often, Moose. So we dubbed the neighbor’s dog “Moose Munch” and when this little scruffy dog came into our lives, Moose Munch was immediately his name, always shortened to Moose or some variation thereof.

We never had any doubt as to why Moose ended up in the shelter. Although he liked attention and affection, he would be quite content to get that from anyone as long as they could feed him. He would wriggle under the fence and wander down the street until we could corral him again, never concerned about where he was going and, while he knew where he lived, always open to options,

Moose stories abound in our family. I remember how attached he was to his first stuffed animal. It was a pink lamb and we called it (no surprise!) Pinky. He carried Pinky around in his mouth for weeks and seemed completely enamored of her. Until the day he realized that he could rip off her nose and pull all of her stuffing out. That was much more fun. One evening, we were out with friends for dinner. Both Moose and our other dog were home as they had been many times before. When we got home, I walked into the kitchen and stopped dead in the doorway. I wondered aloud, “Did it snow in here?” Of course it hadn’t. Moose had discovered that there were cushions on the seats of the kitchen chairs. And then there weren’t!

Moose taught us many lessons. He reminded us that life can be simple even when we think it is overwhelmingly complicated. If we just sat with him and rubbed his belly, that was enough for him and, often, it was just the comfort that we needed as well. So many times he would end up being stepped on or jumped on by one of his canine siblings, all without malice but in the name of fun or just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d limp around but never whine or moan or complain and the only way we’d know he was hurt was to see him moving. He took it all in stride, just living his life and accepting all that came along. And, in the last year, as he clearly declined, he taught us that the right decision is not always the easy one. As we stood by his side at the vet yesterday, he turned his head and looked at us with such a look of understanding and peace. He knew and understood far sooner than we did, far sooner than we were willing to accept.

All the relationships in our lives matter. All of them have an impact on us, on who we are and how we see ourselves and the world. Thank you Moose for so very many years of love and laughter and comfort. Your memory does, indeed, live in my full heart.