I’ve always found one of the best adages in life to be: “Consciously strive to be the person your dog thinks you are.”

That’s a very high bar.

Last week, we laid to rest our golden retriever of almost eleven years, Murphy.

The house is quiet. And it’s cold. Something big and furry is missing.  Lucy grew up with dogs more than I did, and she’s right to say that “they’re more than just animals; they’re a part of the family.”  Murphy was our first dog together.  He was born on Elizabeth’s birthday a year later, so they literally grew up together.  She hasn’t known life without “the Murph” as a constant companion.

We got him from a breeder less than an hour away and only asked them to “pick out a pup that was mild-mannered” given that we had a very young toddler.  And she did.  Murphy was the most docile, mild-mannered dog I’ve ever been around.  And fully grown, he reached 110 pounds.  He was “the gentle giant” of our house.  I used to joke that he was specially bred to sleep for long periods at a time.

I remember when we first brought him home.  I could hold him in my hand balanced on my forearm.  He was this little exploding ball of soft fur and a bunch of small bones.  For some unknown reason, at night we decided to keep him in his crate next to my side of the bed for the first few weeks.  Every single night, he whimpered incessantly for his litter mates and I had to take him out to potty every few hours. Late one night, he was wandering around in the tall grass of our backyard to do his business under the bright moonlight and I heard a very distinct “HOOO” come from not too far away.  Let’s just say that “little Murphy” never peed again without me only feet away.

After Murphy came back from a six-week training course, he decided that he was no longer fit for a crate, but still wanted to sleep next to my side of the bed.  We bought him the biggest doggie bed we could find and he managed to fill it out in pretty short order.  He’s been next to my side of the bed ever since.  I used to hear him get up in the middle of the night to stretch and move onto the cool floor of the bathroom.  A 110-pound retriever lands on a tile floor like a large sack of potatoes.

Lucy kept in touch with the other owners of the litter for a while to share information in case any of the pups developed any sort of health-related issues (as pure breeds often do).  One particular couple had put down money to have first pick of the litter and came to observe the pups on several occasions before they made their selection (let’s just say they were a bit more serious about this than we were…).  A few years later, the same lady told Lucy that “Murphy was clearly the alpha dog of the litter” when they watched them all playing.

Lucy happened to tell me that comment when I was observing Murphy taking a nap on his bed while resting on his back with all four legs splayed wide open for the heavens to see and snoring like a freight train.  Murphy – an alpha dog?  God help us.  We’d all starve.  I named my personal LLC “Alpha Dog Ventures” after him.

Murphy never met a stranger.  He would sit quietly while other young kids would apprehensively approach him to pet him.  And then they’d realize he was the biggest teddy bear they’d ever met.  In her early years, Elizabeth would curl up next to him on the floor.  My greatest fear was that someone would break into our home with a knife in one hand and a doggie treat in the other.

Murphy was also very stoic – even aloof at times.  He used to love to go to our local doggie daycare, called “The Barker Lounge.”  When I’d pick him up at the end of a long day, I’d ask how his day went and they’d say, “Great!  He hung out with us the whole time.”  You mean we’d pay money to send him to doggie daycare to hang out with other humans?  Whenever their website said they were “full for the day” we’d just text and they’d always have room for Murphy.  When we let them know of his passing, they sent flowers.  Who does that for someone else’s dog?

I work out of our home and my office is upstairs.  When Lucy is working from home, hers is downstairs toward the back of the house.  Murphy would take morning naps on the landing in the middle of the staircase, so he could watch over all of us at the same time.  Ever the alpha dog, keeping track of his pack.  I would stop on my way downstairs for coffee to sit next to him and rub his ears or his back or his belly, so I could hear him make that guttural sigh followed by some deep cavernous breaths out of his huge nose.  I don’t have anything big and furry to step over when I go downstairs now.  For some reason, I still reach to step over something that isn’t there.

I get up at 5am most mornings to work out, so I’d take him down and feed him.  Murphy never knew what “most mornings” meant, so if my alarm clock didn’t go off, his stomach would…especially on weekends.  Oddly enough, when I was out of town or away on a business trip, he would sleep in for Lucy without a fuss over breakfast.  I miss the feel of that big, wet nose being shoved in my ear every morning.  I hate the thought of setting my alarm every night.  It means I have to get myself up alone to start my day.

Whenever I’d be gone – be it in a car or on a bike ride – Murphy would always lie down at one of the front glass doors that looked out into the cul de sac.  He was always waiting for me to come home.  I know this because as soon as I’d roll into the garage, I’d hear him yelp on the other side of the door.  And if I wasn’t quick about opening the door to the kitchen, he’d bark to let me know he was running out of patience.  It’s somewhat humorous to ponder how “unconditional love” can be that impatient at times.  It’s also heartwarming.  I used to have to open the door slowly out of fear of banging it into his nose shoved in the crevice, sniffing to greet me, big fluffy tail wagging.  I still catch myself slowly opening that door in hopes that there’s a nose waiting for me.  But there isn’t.

A little over three years ago, we decided to get a second dog.  When I say “we,” I mean Lucy, Elizabeth, and I took a vote.  The outcome wasn’t unanimous… Enter the Golden-Doodle, “Ellie.”  25% Golden Retriever.  75% Poodle.  100% chaos.  She jumps.  She barks. She’s

just tall enough to punch you “in all of the right places.”  I can’t say that I really welcomed her into our home.  But Murphy did.  Ellie used to love to bite his ears and his legs.  He’d roll over on his back; show his teeth (just so she’d remember who was boss); then let her try to antagonize him until she ran out of gas.  He became her big brother and her protector.  The people at the Barker Lounge said she’d rarely leave his side unless they put them in separate playgroups. Now Ellie is lost.  She sleeps on Elizabeth’s bed, so I get her up every morning with me to make sense of a morning routine that’s missing something.  For both of us.

Lucy and I have been married for over 13 years, and Elizabeth will be 12 in February.  I think back on our lives and our family together, and Murphy was there for almost all of it.  I think back on my professional life of that decade from the spring of 2015 to now (Patterson, Tusk, Polaris, NLE).  I think about a global pandemic.  I think about our friends, our parents, our siblings and our extended families.  Murphy was a part of all of it.  I’m grateful for everything he gave to our family.

I don’t know what the next decade holds, but I know I’ll still strive to be the person Murphy believed me to be.

That’s a very high bar, indeed.

Thanks, big fella.