When she was little, my daughter's bedtime stories always included Tales of Jasper, my first dog, a wonderful companion who died before Hannah was born. Like those memories, putting Hannah to bed at night is now also a thing of the past: she's grown, a young woman. Partially as a gift to her, partially to have a written record, I've picked a few of what had always been our favorites from many memories of a best friend and my daughter's most loved bedtime stories.
I wasn't allowed pets when I was a kid, although I've certainly made up for that. Just graduated college, on my own, friends offered to get me my first dog, a puppy for my 21st birthday. Jasper was seven weeks old, the one in the litter that clambered onto my lap and fell asleep. Since I couldn't bring myself to wake him, we left together and stayed that way for many years.
As a puppy, he developed a passion for squishy things that come out of tubes. He had the best breath of any dog I've known, not a typical doggy trait, the result of years of mangled toothpaste tubes. Once, he got into an artist friend's tube of blue paint. A panicked call to the vet assured us there was nothing toxic in the ingredients, but for several days it looked like an alien with bad toilet habits had landed in the neighborhood, cobalt blue poop on pure white snow.
Snow and upstate New York were left behind when Jasper and I moved out to California in the mid-70s. An early visit from my East Coast parents to my new West Coast home sets the scene for "The Unfortunate Incident of the Disappearing Kosher Salami." The salami, a gift from my parents who didn't know I'd given up meat. Returning back to my apartment the first night of their visit, it was a surprise that no dog greeted us at the door, but serious moaning was heard from the bedroom. Somehow a picture of both satisfied gluttony and absolute misery, Jasper was spread across my bed, emitting sounds and sulfurous smells direct from canine hell. He slept on my bed for days while I camped out on the couch. I'd like to say he learned a lesson, but in truth I learned to put especially flavorful human foods up on higher pantry shelves.
Jasper saw himself as my rescuer and there were, indeed, occasions when this strong and serious dog got me out of several possible scrapes. One is only young once, and it is best to go through that dicey period with a large, muscular dog at your side. At times, however, he got things mixed up. Like when he insisted that my lounging on an inflatable raft was really a risky rather than relaxing situation. A lousy swimmer, he clumsily splashed his way out into the water and tried to grab the raft to bring us all safely back to shore. Big dog teeth quickly punctured the cheap plastic which began to sink along with the struggling dog. We ended that day driving home wet from the Russian River, an ex-raft in the trash.
Jasper and my future wife's dog, Peaches, were both important in our courtship. A serious dog (except around toothpaste), my now-geriatric Jasper took to Carolyn and her sweet canine like he'd finally found the family he'd always wanted. He fawned over the woman who I later married, sprawled at her feet, rolling on his back with his legs in the air while she rubbed his belly, comfy in positions he would have found embarrassing before. For awhile he'd jump to attention if I came into the room during such a make-out scene, but pretty soon he gave up all semblance of propriety, apparently figuring that a second puppyhood at these advanced years wasn't going to hurt anybody.
The love these two wonderful old dogs brought to us helped form our relationship. They both saw us get married, but neither made it long enough to see Hannah come into the world.
Jasper was the kind of beautiful animal that caused strangers to stop and remark. Solid gray, solid muscle, close to 100 pounds, intense yellow eyes that would stare straight at you. At the end of his long life, he spent months on our couch, mostly asleep, happy to be woken for a hug or meal. Some constants remained: the long silver ears, velvet to the touch; those yellow eyes that didn't miss a thing; his gentle smile and minty breath. When he died, the world changed. In addition to our own tears, I remember Peaches with her head on his old couch, resting her sweet face on his pillows, staring at the empty spot, softly moaning.
He would have loved you, Hannah. He would have wanted to protect you from all that is scary in the world. He would have let you dress him in silly outfits, and have happily licked toothpaste from your fingers. I so hope you will always remember his stories.