Dedication to Mocho

Here I sit, some years after losing NIKO, writing another dedication for a lost companion. This time it is for Mocho, our beloved pound puppy Labrador Retriever.

I can remember when we first found you. It was me and my wife going to the pound to pick out our very first dog together. We walked up and down the aisles, looking at all the smiling, wagging, barking faces, trying to decide who would become the new addition to our family. I was set on a big husky mix named Spot, but my wife was not so sure about such a big dog. So I agreed to walk the aisles one more time with her, just in case we had missed something the first time.

And missed something we did. We missed seeing you the first time around.

There you were, sitting in the back of a fenced kennel, lying down, not making a sound, with a look of utter hopelessness and despair. It seemed as though you had given up hope. At that time, I had no idea why you were so quiet, or why all the other dogs were barking and begging to be taken home while you sat small and silent, trying to be unseen.

What I did know was that the second my wife set her eyes upon you, it was a done deal. You were going to become a member of our family.

What we came to learn, after speaking with the adoption staff, was that you had been severely abused. Someone had burned and scarred you with a clothing iron. It was for this reason that you wanted to be invisible from human eyes. I could certainly understand. Your trust in humans had been shattered, and from your point of view we were probably all alike at that moment.

I remember taking you home that first time in my tiny Toyota pickup truck. I was driving, and you sat on the floorboard with your head in my wife’s lap. I remember giving you your first bath and watching the dirty water pour off of you. I remember how quickly you bonded with my wife, and how quickly she bonded with you.

It worked. At the time, I was in EOD school at Eglin Air Force Base, and you and my wife kept each other company during the day.

I remember being stationed in Japan once my school was completed, and how upset you and my wife were when we knew you would have to live with my family for a while. I remember how scared you were some months later, after a 20-plus-hour flight, when we picked you up at the airport outside of Iwakuni, Japan, and reunited our family once more.

We shared so many memories, the three of us. You grew out of your shell with us, and we grew as a family with you. You swam, you played, and you provided us joy your entire life. And in the later part of yours, we cared for you and carried you.

Mocho, we miss you. We really do. We hope that we, as your human caregivers, were able to give you even half of the joy that you gave to us.

Thank you, Mocho, for providing me and my wife with so many years of happiness.