First Person: Old Dogs Stick Together
Opening one's home to a trio of geriatric dogs proves to be a balm for the soul.
John Palumbo with Jake at the East Greenwich Animal Protection League on the day he brought him home. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
All my life I have been a dog person (not to the exclusion of other animals, though). My father worked in a Fall River textile factory and whenever we were “dog-less” a puppy would arrive, usually from a co-worker’s litter. Blackie, Dutch, Teddy — along with Sadie, who came home from URI with me — an array of mutts filled our lives with love and devotion … and devastation when they crossed that rainbow bridge.
Well over a decade ago, I had one of those unfortunate life-changing events: a divorce. I found myself estranged from family and many friends, living alone in an apartment. I was depressed because the marriage had failed, and I felt abandoned and lonely.
Always happy Jake. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
One Saturday, completely on a whim, I visited the East Greenwich Animal Protection League. The cure for all my pain was in that building: Jake, a small brown-and-black spaniel mix with a wide canine smile and a constantly wagging tail. I named him in honor of my dad, whose middle name was Jacob.
Our days started and ended with a walk around the neighborhood. We bonded over dinner on my small deck, watching television together. On those first few Father’s Days, he was the only child I had. We sat on the bench at Stillwater Cove in Pawtuxet Village watching the swans.
We were not without our crises, however. Like the time I tried to crate train Jake on the first night I ventured out alone, only to hear from a co-tenant two stories below that he banged and howled all night. Or the time I bought a Roomba robot vacuum because of his prolific shedding, only to find it nestled under a pile of you-know-what, completely fried.
Jake was my top priority when I eventually went house hunting. I had a vision for Jake’s yard, something fenced in and safe with enough room to explore. When I finally found it, I knew immediately it would be our new home. He lorded over it as if it were his domain, chasing rabbits and performing sniff patrols for invaders daily, and sitting in his Lion King pose watching everything.
Jake was everyone’s sweetheart — whether at work, on a walk, at the groomer, at the vet or at doggie day care. It was not uncommon for people to say, “I love this dog.” The day care staff dressed him up for holiday photos and posted the pictures on their Facebook page. Whenever we walked in, there was a unanimous chant of “Jake!” from the front desk staff, much like when Norm entered the bar at Cheers.
Jake was my pride and joy. His photos were all over my Facebook and Instagram pages, on my phone and holiday cards. Whenever I met another dog owner, I’d haul out the pictures like a proud parent.
During the pandemic, we took long, soulful walks every day to escape the isolation and dark, unknown times. I would sit at my desk at home, running a business I was doubtful I could keep alive. I would glance back and he was there with eyes that said, “I’m here for you, Dad.”
It became apparent that he was growing older; his muzzle had grown white, and on most occasions, he needed help getting on and off the couch or in and out of the car.
June Cleaver. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
Fast-forward a few years. With solitary life wearing on me, I started perusing the same rescue site on Facebook, thinking companionship would be good for both me and my aging buddy. Enter June Cleaver. Yep, that was her name. Junie was sadly surrendered by her owner, who was expecting her first child.
At our first encounter, it was obvious she hated the rescue and all the noise, as if she wanted to burst through her enclosure. Nervous, high-strung and scared, she was not the warm and fuzzy dog everyone wants to adopt. And at six years old, she wasn’t exactly a puppy.
After a week of deliberating, I finally relented, and June Cleaver entered our lives. June is a beagle/foxhound mix. I learned very quickly when they want to do something (or not), you’d better comply. She would plop down in the middle of the street if the walk was too long, too warm or too cold. After begging and tugging, she relented, especially if a car was coming in our direction.
We grew accustomed to her scampering off to a quiet place when the bug zapper buzzed or when I dropped a piece of silverware. She avoided Jake, except when she could sneak away to steal some food. June Cleaver was no Miss Manners.
With a year behind us, June mellowed, tolerating some noise, other dogs and people — a significant step. The three amigos — Jake, June and I — began a Sunday ritual of walking the trails in Warwick’s Goddard Park, often confronting rabbits, deer and the occasional coyote. We became a family on an outing, greeting familiar walkers with canines in tow.
June quickly joined the backyard Paw Patrol, where no squirrel dared to set foot, no matter how tempting the bird feeder.
My life was full. The walks, feeding routines and managing a growing list of meds
may seem trivial, but I felt needed. I was happy, busy and there were never two sets of eyes with wagging tails far away. I felt unbridled devotion.
Then that damn rescue Facebook page struck again. I opened a post about a pair of retrievers who were surrendered. Their owner had entered hospice care. One was a smaller brown dog, about three years old, who was adopted immediately.
Then there was Cole.
The three amigos — Jake, June and Cole — relaxing at home. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
An eight-year-old black Labrador retriever, Cole was large but underweight, with a flaky coat due to malnutrition. He hated the kennel, was depressed, and infrequently inquired about. He had the saddest eyes.
Who in the world was going to adopt this large geriatric dog?
Dog Man to the rescue.
The kennel staff sold him hard. “He’s big,” I said. “What does he weigh?” “Oh, maybe fifty pounds,” they said. At his first vet visit I learned he weighed eighty-five pounds. I had just adopted a pony.
As was the case with beagles, I had never owned a Labrador retriever. I named him after one of my favs, Nat King Cole, because he was tall, dark and mellow (or so I thought). Cole quickly accelerated my learning curve.
My dog duo had met Cole before adoption; it was a requirement. But when I came home with this behemoth one Saturday morning last summer, they scampered anywhere and everywhere to get out of his way. Rather than force the introduction, I let them be while I worked in the yard.
While unsupervised, Cole devoured a loaf of bread and a pound cake I had purchased for the office, as anything on the counter was easy picking for him. He learned rather quickly where the treats were stored — in a cabinet not reachable by the other two — and more than once I came home to a Milk-Bone explosion, with empty bags and wrappers everywhere. His current record, before I found a more secure spot, was four bags in one day.
After a few days of chaos, it hit me. I have three dogs. Oh my God, what have I done?
I became paranoid — was I going to be labeled a canine hoarder? Neighbors would ask on our walks, “You have three now?” During our dark winter strolls, donning our reflective gear and blinking lights, we must have looked like
a mini–Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
A dear friend and I caught up for lunch. “What was the thinking behind three dogs?” he asked. Which was code for “Are you nuts?”
“Thinking?” I responded. “You think I thought about this?”
Jake’s soulful eyes. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
Jake dressed up for Easter by the team at doggie day care. Photo courtesy of John J. Palumbo
Over the past year, Jake the Wonder Dog, as I called him, developed multiple health problems. His visits to the vet became more frequent. He was diagnosed with an enlarged heart, which put pressure on his larynx and esophagus. He had a growth on his ear. A flight of meds silenced his involuntary coughing. When the cough returned, more medication was added. I bought a mortar and pestle so I could grind them up like an old-fashioned pharmacist and feed them to him.
I made weekly trips to the vet’s pharmacy. He was up to almost ten prescriptions, including narcotics, which I managed through his pill case on the kitchen counter. Yet the coughing, which now sounded like asphyxiation, continued. I would wake up in the middle of the night, in the early mornings, to a horrendous, gruff cough, giving me a sick, sinking feeling.
I doubled his meds when I could. When he wasn’t coughing, he was panting at a high and unnatural pitch, since his heart was also affected. Finally, after weeks of denial and much soul-searching — Was I being selfish? Did he have a good quality of life? — he stopped eating. That meant his meds were not entering his body.
I called the vet and got ready to say goodbye to my best friend. It was surreal; heartbreakingly reminiscent of when I first divorced. There was not a dry eye on anyone at the vet’s office that day.
My home is just a little emptier now. When I’m alone, it’s my time to mourn, and the remaining dogs join me in quiet sorrow.
There is a great quote I will always remember: “Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”
Rest in peace, Jakie, my boy. You were such a good boy.
