When Joy is a Dog...
And he dies.
Sometimes superheroes wear capes.
Sometimes they are furry and fuzzy and sport soulful brown eyes, a wet nose, and flappy lips.
Sometimes, they are named Zeus.
We flew up to Ohio to bring Zeus home. The only male of his litter and the only ridgeless pup, he was small and wriggly and unlike any Rhodesian Ridgeback we had ever seen.
Born on the same night that my husband pulled a fellow Green Beret out of the water, Zeus was the life that countered death, the only joy that could coax some light into that dark, gaping hole.
My husband curled his long torso around Zeus’ tiny one on the way to the airport, their scents already mingling together, a smile that I hadn’t seen in months playing on my husband’s face.
Right from the start, Zeus was unwittingly a pain in the ass. Totally calm while sitting curled in my husband’s arms, the second we put him in his soft carrier for the flight back home, he went ape shit, ramming the screen meant for him to breathe through with such force that his little head popped right through.
Terrified that they wouldn’t let us board without a functional carrier, my husband shoved his head back in, holding the screen on top while the carrier bucked and bounced under his arm. Desperate to quiet him, I gave him the Benadryl the vet told us would result in “mild sedation” for the flight home. It worked…too well, and by the time we hit 10,000 feet, I’d convinced myself I’d killed our new puppy because he went from uncontrollable pinball to limp noodle in a matter of minutes.
Little did we know that switch, the full tilt zoomies to face plant snoozing would be a hallmark of this dog. I’ve never seen such a bipolar animal. He’d tear around our half acre back yard at break neck speed only to stop mid run and fall over in the grass. I’d look out the window of our living room and see an empty backyard. Panicking, I’d dry my hands and rush outside only to find him sunbathing, catching a few zzzzz’s before his next rip around the perimeter.
When our daughter was born, I was so excited to bring her home to my dog, Tulie, the one who had been with me since before I met my husband. She was my personal savior, and I was certain my grown up girl would instantly take to my new girl.
Buti t was Zeus who sat at the top of the steps anxiously awaiting our arrival, whining as his body shivered in excitement.
Zeus who about knocked me over attempting to get his head in the baby carrier.
Zeus who gave my daughter her first puppy bath, tongue gently slobbering up her entire cheek.
Despite Tulie being the elder by eight years, Zeus took it upon himself to run security for our family now that we had a little one. He’d park himself in the doorway to her room, sitting at attention, head facing out, ready and willing to stand between her and anything awful, scary, or dangerous beyond the boundaries of her bedroom.
She pulled his tail. And his ears. He laid down and let her, big brown eyes every now and again looking up at me as if to say, “I won’t bite her, but could you make this stop please?”
Every time we laid her near him, his body went still, as if he was suddenly aware of the difference between his 70lb self and her infantile form. He didn’t startle at her baby noises, or jump when she flailed, a baby fist whacking him in the side. He laid still…breath calm…heart open.
Zeus was the best at unconditional, unwavering love.
Despite having fed this dog, trained this dog, bled for this dog during the six months my husband was deployed, Zeus was categorically my husband’s animal. Their kinship likely stemmed from their uncanny resemblance.
Zeus was my husband in dog form.
His steady presence mixed with his spastic energy layered with a soulful understanding of generations gone long before him. Zeus, like my husband, assumed you wanted to love him. And while his overtures were always intended to be sweet, he had little awareness of his size, even long after he reached full form. It was not unusual for him to pop a squat on your lap, the better to make you aware of him, I guess.
And, like my husband, I had to teach Zeus that I do not appreciate being laid on. Eventually, we found a compromise. He would jump up on the end of the bed and curl up at my feet, leaving me room to fully stretch out my legs and rub his back with my toes.
When my husband ended up spread eagle in the street after being rocketed off his motorcycle, it was Zeus who slept next to me for the three weeks he was in the hospital. He curled up in my husband’s spot, keeping it warm for his return, and keeping me sane in the process.
The day I brought my husband home, I was a wreck.
He was desperate to leave the rehabilitation center despite their protestations. The place was depressing, and as he regularly repeated, if I could help him get to the bathroom, he could wipe his own ass, and that was good enough for him.
Fair, but now I was the one responsible for keeping him alive, for making sure that the hole in his neck kept him breathing. And I wasn’t entirely sure I was equipped to do that.
Having settled him in bed upstairs, I returned to the main floor, determined to get in thirty minutes of work before I allowed myself to check on him. I set a timer, comical since I just stared at the clock watching the minutes pass as I prayed he was still breathing.
When the time was up, I crept up the stairs, trying to be quiet in case my husband had fallen asleep.
I got to the top of the stairs and slowly opened the door. Tears instantly welled in my eyes. Not because of my husband, who was in the same spot I had left him, lying on his back, loudly chugging air through his neck hole.
No, the tears were because of the furry brown arm rest burrowed under my husband’s left arm.
Zeus. Welcoming him home. Watching over him. Waiting patiently for him to wake up.
Zeus may have been my husband’s dog, but he was my running buddy. A born prancer, his natural gait might just be joy in motion. He quickly became the unofficial mascot of my running group, his easy cadence click clacking next to my much more laborious clomping.
I trained him with blueberries as a puppy, so despite his size and strength, I could easily hold his leash with a pinky. Right up until a squirrel crossed our path. It’s a miracle I didn’t break said pinky since I could never break him of the instinct to take off after said squirrel with the full force of his muscular haunches hauling me behind him.
Last week, I leashed up our younger girl for our morning run. Too early for my brain to be fully awake, I turned to grab Zeus’ lead as well. It sat still on its silver hook. He wouldn’t be coming with me anymore. There is nothing harder than walking out the door with one less leash on my pinky.
Maybe it was Zeus’ good morning kisses that personify him the most. Waking in the dark, as I unfolded myself from the covers, I would lean down close to his ear to whisper “Good Morning Buddy.” Most days, he would raise his head to deliver a single soft lick right on my mouth. Not overly juicy, but tender, communicating more with his discretion than one could ever hope to with words.
I smiled. Every single time. Because that one kiss was my morning joy.
My feet still reach for his back in the middle of the night. My toes searching the edge of the bed for his warm presence.
I catch my daughter’s face in the rearview mirror, staring out the window silently. She turns and catches my eye. “I miss Zeus, Mommy.”
My husband collapses around his ashes, tall torso folding over what is left of the dog that saved him more times than either of us can count.
I have lost humans I mourned less, not because Zeus mattered more, but because there was nothing to mar any part of our history together.
No bad memories.
No harsh words, no hurt feelings, no hard moments.
No mysteries. No secrets. No mistakes.
Nothing to forgive.
Nothing to mend.
Nothing left undone.
Zeus was just love. Just acceptance and loyalty and joy.
And so it makes sense. Because the absence of joy is sadness.
Sadness cannot be excommunicated by gratitude; they must coexist. So, I am grateful to my Zeus dog. For so much I cannot say but mostly for silently surrounding us with joy.
To our goodest boy. Our buddy. Our Zuzu bean. Our Zuzuzuela. Our Zeus Dog.
I love you.
Jess, I am so, so sorry for your loss. I did not expect to start my day in tears, but here we are. Having shared part of my life with a ridgie, I know a little about the kind of love they give. Though each is a unique soul, I recognized my Spencer in your descriptions of Zeus. Each and every dog is a fucking miracle of unconditional love and loyalty. We truly don’t deserve them, but I honestly don’t know how we’d survive without them.
Sending so much love and comfort to all of you. There are no words to ease the heartbreak. Even time only does a half-assed job of that. 💜
I am so sorry - what a special tribute to Zeus.
It took me a long time to read this because I knew it would be hard for me to get through it, not because I didn’t care.
I am so glad you had Zeus and Zeus had you - both were very lucky.