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Zeke was excited as we drove toward the mountains.  He was my hiking buddy and he loved riding in the back of my SUV.  He had the whole back to himself and he was surrounded by windows.  He loved windows.  We arrived at the state park and found the line of cars backed up well outside the gate.  The park ranger walked back towards our group of cars and told us that our large group would be a lot better off at Table Rock State Park, just up the road.  When he told us it would be several hours before we made it to the gate of this park, we all made U-turns and met at Table Rock.  Zeke didn’t mind and I’m sure it all smelled the same to him, but when we reached the summit, I realized that I had signed Zeke up for a 3 mile hike at the other park.  Our change in plans resulted in a change in distance and elevation and poor Zeke was now at the midpoint of a 7 mile hike.  He seemed to have a wonderful time but as soon as he was back in the car, he slept all the way home.  That night, I noticed he had walked blisters on his paws and never let on that he wasn’t having the time of his life.  

14 years ago, we moved into the middle of nowhere on a few acres of land where you couldn’t see any neighboring houses.  We joked that when you move out here, they take away your turn signals and issue you a white labrador as a pet.  A joke based on observation of real life at the time.  So I stopped signaling my turns and we found white lab rescue puppies advertised in some online thing.  

The adoption was a story in and of itself, but I don’t want to embarrass or make fun of the strange lady who seemed to be in charge of a small, unregulated zoo and yet didn’t actually have the puppies when we arrived for our appointment.  After what seemed an eternity of walking awkwardly around the zoo, an old van pulled into the driveway and the doors burst open with a litter of the most precious white labs you’ve ever seen.  The most precious of all, of course, was the one who waddled over to me for belly rubs.  Everyone loved him immediately and after another small eternity of waiting and a bit of confusing paperwork, we drove home with our new dog.  

We debated names for a while before agreeing on Zeke, a name that was appropriately taken from an old Far Side cartoon.  The idea was for Zeke to patrol our acreage and live outside while protecting us from whatever lived in the woods at night.  He would be our faithful outside dog, sleeping on the porch and rushing to walk by our side every time we went outside.  Zeke had other plans.  

We noticed he was quirky for a tough, country dog.  He hated loud noises and wasn’t very fond of humans, aside from us.  Strangers made him cower or run away.  Loud noises sent him running for cover and sometimes peeing a little.  We, however, were in love with our beautiful dog.  He, however, was in love with the outside dogs who lived at the next house over.  

His friends next door were labs too and they took up like long lost friends.  Basically, he would come home to eat and that was the only time we saw him for a few months.  If we were lucky, we’d catch a glimpse of his gang running through the woods.  We knew he still liked us, though, when he proudly brought me the entire leg of an adult deer.  

Good times don’t last forever.  As the least experienced of the dog gang, I suspect he got peer pressured into going one-on-one with a skunk and you can imagine how that went for Zeke.  We got an angry message from the neighbor lady after she found a skunky, rain soaked Zeke sleeping on her outdoor furniture cushion.  It was time to buy a new cushion and for Zeke to unjoin the gang.  

Years earlier, we had to put a dog on a chain in a neighborhood and I was definitely not doing that again.  We tried the invisible fence for Zeke, but even on the highest setting, labs are smarter than the electricity.  We gave Zeke many, many baths, some in tomato juice (which was a myth busted) and when he no longer smelled like the butt of a skunk, we moved him inside.

Don’t worry, he won’t be allowed on the furniture.  Ok, maybe he can be on the chair, but definitely not the couch.  Ok, this is Zeke’s house now and we appreciate him allowing us to live in it.  That was pretty much the week-long progression and I can’t lie, we all loved it.  Zeke made this house a comfortable, safe place for all of us.  He patrolled the windows between naps and barked viciously when anything looked out of place.  Heaven forbid a package be delivered by the evil, probably going to kill us all, delivery person.  Just as long as the evil delivery didn’t fall during one of Zeke’s many nap times.  

The first year of Zeke taking over the house, we had one of the first Summer Studio Sales.  Neither of our devil-dogs responded well to people so they needed to go upstairs for the day.  Zeke, the big, strong dog, was terrified of the stairs and had never been upstairs.  That morning, I grabbed the 80 pound gentle giant and carried him upstairs while he shook in terror.  He definitely thought I was taking him to Hell.  Eight hours later, it was time to come back down.  He was wise to my tricks and resisted a bit more.  This time he wriggled himself into a weird, belly up position in my arms as I carefully walked down the stairs, trying not to fall and kill us both.  Around the second step down, our hero Zeke began peeing out of sheer terror.  His urine arched upward and hit the wall as laughter erupted from below where a group quickly gathered to watch the spectacle.  There was nothing to do but keep descending while he just kept peeing.  I managed to keep my footing amid the yellow waterfall that used to be our stairs and poor Zeke hit the carpet and ran and hid inside his crate for hours.

There was the time his collar broke on a hike and he ran free near a dangerous waterfall.  Another time he panicked when we passed a group of loud cub scouts on a hike and he squeezed his big head out of the leash.  He ran from the kids way up into the woods while I chased behind him only to find him lying down in a patch of poison ivy 10 minutes later.  But mostly, Zeke’s new indoor life at home was calm and uneventful.  He claimed the couch and you were welcome to sit on the other end if you behaved.

The boy loved his food.  And your food too.  We lost a lot of our food to the very attentive Zeke.  We learned that you don’t sit your full plate on the dining room table and go back into the kitchen for a napkin or you’ll come back to an empty plate.  We learned that you don’t leave Halloween candy sitting less than 4 feet off the ground.  Apparently chocolate doesn’t actually kill dogs.  We can attest, at least, that a full bag of Hershey’s kisses will not kill an 80 pound lab.  It will decorate the yard in silver foil a few days later.

And remember when Kennedy and Alayna dogsat and didn’t know to put the leash on the dogs when they let them out at night?  And then Zeke ran through the woods and eventually started doing laps around the house while they chased him frantically in the dark?

Oh, and the time he ate some smiley face stickers and then accidentally created the funniest dog poop with a face emoji sticker on it in the grass.

It’s just that Zeke’s greatest hits were actually his quietest gifts.  Like when it was 11:30 pm on Christmas Eve and he would sit with me on the couch, staring at the tree while I drank hot tea.  Or when the kids were sick and he’d shift his head to rest on their arm.  Or literally every single time you walked downstairs and he got up and wagged his tail and walked over to see what you were doing because you had been in that hellish, upstairs place.  Like when he’d follow you into every room and stand at the window watching you when you walked outside.  Or when you were sitting quietly and he’d walk over and put his nose under your hand so you’d pet him.  Or how he’d sit contentedly on the front porch beside you and try to stare out at whatever you were staring at.  Slow weekend breakfast chills when he’d just lie beside you while you drank coffee or how he’d stare out the front window at the sunrise.  

He was constant.  He was content.  He was a great TV watching partner.  I told him all about my frustrations and we watched a lot of stand-up comedy together.  He didn’t want anything from you except your presence.  If you had the best day and won an award, he was happy to see you.  If you had a terrible day and wanted to punch someone, he was happy to see you.  He didn’t know what happened outside of the house and he really didn’t need to know.  You were home now and he could be with you.  We could learn a lot from Zeke.  

The average lifespan of a labrador retriever is 10-12 years.  When year 14 started for Zeke, he was still happy to grab a toy and chase you around the house.  He would bound out the door and run with joy to find a spot to do his business.  We knew we were on borrowed time and as he quicky slowed down and started to feel his age, we did our best to give him the same gift he gave us, presence.  As his body failed him, we would take our turns lying on the floor beside him.  We’d sit and rub his belly or pet his head.  We couldn’t help him but we could be with him.  That turned out to be a gift to us as well.  

I walked down the stairs this morning for my pre-dawn run and when I leaned forward to look for Zeke on the couch or in the floor, for the first time in 14 years, Zeke wasn’t there.  His presence was gone.  He wasn’t there waiting for me to come back in after the run.  The living room is now too big, too empty.  Zeke-less.

Tonight I’m sitting on Zeke’s couch drinking my tea alone, grateful for 14 years of fond memories of the best dog.  Sweet dreams, Zeke.