Dougal

I have one of those dogs. People call him my "once in a lifetime" dog.

Everyone who meets him falls in love, though most look on him at first with terror.

He is a gigantic black hound with amber eyes that veer nearly red in the evening light. He has long legs, teeth, and claws, and a bark that booms low bass and causes the hairs at back of one's neck to tingle in salute. He's a cross-breed of a Golden Retriever and German shepherd that somehow came out all black and bigger than either. In light of this, his ears cannot decide whether they'd like to stand up or be floppy, and usually just match his mood instead.

He is my very best friend. The heart of a golden and the mind of a shepherd. Strong, agile, loyal to a fault. He is my children's protector.

They climb atop his back, brush his tail, put ribbons in his hair, and dance with him in the kitchen. All of this he delights in. He visits school children and lies immediately on his back, relishing in tummy rubs and snuggles and small feet squishing his tail and toes.

But on those rare occasions that a stranger passes by on the sidewalk, and I feel in my gut a sense of alarm, danger in the stranger's presence, my beloved dog immediately responds. He would not bite, not unless I told him to, but sensing my unease, he places his body in front of the children, and hackles raise inches in the air, quivering with threat upon his back. The stranger gives a wide berth as both the dog and I posture death if they dare so much as glance at the four small kids tagging along behind us. And once the moment passes, he is instantly back to the precious boy who sweetly snuffles and kisses at the palms of passersby.

When I cry, which is more often than I might like to admit, he nudges his nose under my elbow and looks at me with eyes too intelligent. He understands my pain and he sits with me in it-- quiet company for the war that rages in my mind. When I laugh, he bounds around the room like a puppy in springtime. When I take him to visit my elderly grandparents, he lays at their feet and walks gently alongside when they stand, slowly--support should they fall. He reads the emotion in a room with uncanny cleverness. He curls around children napping on the floor and covers them with his tail for warmth. He brings his most favorite toy and nudges it into your palm, an offering of peace in a room that has suddenly grown too loud.

He is seven now... and the giant breeds live shorter lives. It seems a crime.

He rises a little slower from his bed these days and the whiskers under his chin have begun to be quite white. One cannot miss the contrast with the jet-black fur covering the rest of him. He is beginning to be old, and my heart is beginning to be achy at the prospect.

A once-in-a-lifetime dog.

A once-in-a-lifetime hurt when it is time to say goodbye.

Dougal. His name means dark stranger, but I know him in my heart of hearts.