About Jed Dog

The day finally came when the circle of life came calling in my home and we felt the bittersweet sting that comes to all of us. I lost my dad—a bona fide hero to me. He taught me how to be the man I am and the father I became. At 85, he had a good run. I miss him badly. Then, a week later, another sting. A type that comes one day to all dog lovers – the sting that comes when it is time to say goodbye to a great friend.


Just as I was getting used to the idea of my dad being gone, Jed, our 12-year-old yellow Labrador retriever, went on to catch up with my dad. Jed was a monster – one of the largest labs I’ve ever seen. While he was still quite energetic and alert, day to day, we saw his joints hurting him and his get up and go, slowing down more often. Finally, he seemed distant and off in a daydream at times, so we had him checked. The devastating news was that he, like his majestic father before him, was riddles with cancer and was in pain.


Each day when my obnoxious alarm clock blasted alive, my greeting was always the loud and hard, thump, thump, thump, of Jed’s tail, slapping hard the floor at the foot of my bed. It was also there whenever anyone mentioned his name. Anyone. As he awakened, he slowly stretched – more slowly now than in years past and with shaky steps, he walked over and sat back down at my foot, asking for nothing more than a few stokes across his soft head and a few words of kindness.


“Big ol’ Jed Dog,” I mumble as I scratch his head, trying to wake myself up and get in the shower for work. “You go on back to bed, now.” He would look away at his bed, look back at me and slowly get back up, doing the three circle curl-up thing and lay back down. A long moan would always escape his throat as if to say, “Man. Glad it ain’t me, pal” and within seconds, he was out again.


Jed joined our family when my oldest boy, now in his second year of college, was in the second grade. His younger brother, in Kindergarten. The youngest will graduate high school this year. Through it all, Jed had been there, watching them without a blink as they played in our yard, on camping trips or other outings, on constant alert for anything amiss. Often, he was the only friend a child had in our tiny town and was often a part of their fun; sometimes eating half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich a child lovingly offered his friend or, just as quickly, a threatening spider infringing on their play area a bit too close for his liking. A few guttural barks from his large vocal chords could instantly accomplish two things at once – alert Mrs. Geeting or myself of someone close by and perhaps, give a moments hesitation to anyone who might have wanted to snatch or hurt the boys.


On the camping trips he was always first out the door, running straight for the lake and jumping in, before we had even unpacked the tent. Then, he would remain soaking wet for the entire time we were there – he loved the water so. As we slept, we felt somewhat safer as he snored in the corner of the tent, knowing that if we have to step out in the middle of the night to go potty, he’d be out the zipper door first and any night stalking creatures out there, would have to deal with him if they got too close to camp.


Over many long recovery periods from injury or sickness, Jed was always right at hand, sitting close by or laying at your feet, in case one needed the occasional soft and furry, warm touch to feel better. In return, we always had his one addiction close at hand—a bag full of flip chips for him to toss about and then chew into complete heavenly oblivion. Kids with the flu or chicken pox; mommy recovering from surgery or me, nursing wounds from the battles of the street; Jed was there, sitting at whomever’s feet were needing him – staring and waiting for a stroke of his big head and then a yummie “chewie.”


A full half of my law enforcement career was spent on the streets at night and on weekends. You see, a cop must leave his family home alone at these times. All cops can feel a twinge of guilt – for not being there to protect their own family while they spend those dangerous hours, ironically, protecting everyone elses’s family.


For over half of those 20years – I had Jed. Vigilant and selflessly brave, he slept in the hallway blocking anyone who might foolishly want to sneak down into the dark, warm, inner-sanctum of his cave and hurt his family. Oddly enough, he only slept there, when I was gone. His growl and his bark – not to mention his intimidating size, would be certain to cause instant intestinal distress for any boogeyman and a sudden change of plans.


On those nightshifts, I would usually pull into the dark and silent driveway at one o’clock or so in the morning; the only sound the crumbling gravel under my tires. Quietly, I would slip my key into the door and slowly, quietly, ease inside, locking it behind me with an audible “click.” As I hung up my gun belt and uniform by the back door and crept through the dark and warm house where all who mattered to me slept in the peaceful bliss evidenced by three different snores, I would be welcomed home, by a familiar friend with a happy, loud and heartwarming greeting….
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.


Today, my pal, Jed, has gone where I believe all good dogs go – to the same Heaven that awaits us all, with all we ever loved in this world. I am happy for him, pain free and now young forever. In my mind and heart, I see him, sitting with my dad on the bank of some pine encircled, beautifully unspoiled Wyoming mountain lake. In his hand, my dad holds a fishing pole. In the other, a beer.


Jed, soaking wet, shares with him their little slice of heaven and together, they patiently wait for all of their people to catch up. And, maybe, bring a bag of flip chips.


I love you, Dad. Thank you for being my hero.


See you later, Jed Dog. Good boy.