Derek and I adopted Deucey in March 2004 from the Palomar Airport Animal Shelter in Carlsbad, California. We were living, albeit briefly, in Oceanside, married not quite two years, and wanted our dog, Butter, an Akita/St. Bernard mix, to have a companion. We went to all the local shelters, and when we got to Palomar Airport there was a big buzz around one of the pens. Everyone gathered around, nudging their way to the front, to see a litter of maybe ten puppies — yellow lab mixes, not older than 10 weeks old. The dogs everyone wants, the easy ones to adopt.

I’ve never pushed my way to the front of crowds, and I wasn’t inclined to this time. I looked over to the left, and saw a long, skinny black bundle of fur stretched out on the cot in the next door pen. He lay there on his right side, legs outstretched and dangling off the little cot. He was already full grown and clearly tall, with a sleek black coat. We couldn’t tell anything more about him. He barely even would look up at the front of the pen, and certainly wouldn’t walk up to say hello. He gave Derek and I a look that said “I know you want one of those puppies, you don’t have to pretend.” We instantly wanted him. We talked to the shelter workers to find out more: He was about two years old, found on a the street with his own litter mates as a puppy, adopted a few weeks later by a family, then returned by the family 1 1/2 years later. That first family said, simply, “This is not a good dog. He humps everything. We cannot keep him.” The shelter was hesitant to put him with another big dog, particularly one that seemed to be a dominant breed. But I convinced them to let Butter and the dog then known as “Cooper” play in the big play yard at the shelter to see if they got along.

The worker coaxed Cooper off the cot, out of the pen, while we got Butter and waited in the outdoor open play space. The three of us — Butter, Derek and I — watched as he slowly trudged his way over to the yard. Butter loved him the moment he saw him, his tight curly Akita tail wagging, his big goofy front paws pattering up and down in anticipation. Finally, “Cooper” walked in and the world changed. They sniffed each other, their tails both wagging. “Cooper” got into a play stance and Butter mimicked it, though not nearly as agile. “Cooper” then went darting and ran in the fastest circle along the perimeter you have ever seen. Butter, a big 120 pound goof, had no chance of keeping up, so he jumped around in the middle pretending he had a chance of getting “Cooper” when he’d weave through for a figure 8 every now and then. They played like this non stop, and when Butter plopped down in exhaustion about 20 minutes later, “Cooper” came up and licked him and laid next to him. “Well, looks like you can take him home,” the shelter worker told us. He chose us. He and Butter were instant soul mates.

However mellow and sad he looked at the shelter, he was the opposite once we got him home. He was happy and spastic and energetic and 90 pounds of untrained 2-year old dog. He was wound up tight with energy and needed an outlet for it. He never barked, but he moved and he moved fast. My dad, another dog lover, admitted later that he wondered what I’d got myself into. He was untrained, and didn’t look that trainable. We renamed him Midnight, then Harley, and nothing seemed to fit him. Finally, we named him Deuce — he was our second dog, and we loved him just as much as the first. It was a tie, and Deuce seemed to honor that better than any other name would. And it had the implication of a nifty card trick that matched his untamed personality.

After a few weeks of being trained by me, corrected by Butter, and neutered — humping was a non-issue (with rare although humorous exceptions!). He just needed walks and play and attention. And we gave him all. He fell in love with dogs at the dog park, particularly a big gentle giant of a Great Dane named Goliath. If Goliath left the park when Deuce was still there, the 8 foot fence stood no chance of keeping him in. He literally would jump over that fence and climb into the car taking Goliath home.

The years that followed had a common pattern. We’d try to train Deuce to go off leash, so he could enjoy most the open space we lived in whether in San Diego or soon after New York. But he was too curious about the world to be successfully trained to stay close by off leash. We’d make progress, progress, tiny progress, then think he had it figured out. Then he’d catch the sight of a squirrel, or a bird, or a flutter in the wind, and want to follow it. I chased Deuce through Batiquitos Lagoon in Carlsbad; I chased him through Prospect Park in Brooklyn; I chased him up the 101 in Carmel, California; I chased him twice in Duck, North Carolina. I lost him in all those places, and more, to have him make his way back. He never wanted to leave us, but he was too curious about the world around to not go on his excursions. As I chased him, Butter would usually follow behind, trying to keep up with me. Tail wagging, happy his brother/friend/soul mate was exploring the world that he was a little too scared and a little too slow to get to see. They had a pact — Deuce would push the boundaries and Butter would cheer him on.  Although panicked when I’d lose him or have to chase him — I was never mad. I understood his eagerness to explore, see the world, dive in to different cities – we are kindred spirits that way. But I just wanted to keep him safe and with us.

His hours on walks, at the dog parks, on trips, changed as time went on. In November 2007, I was 5 months pregnant with Kai and Butter died on the way to the vet. After I said my goodbyes, I went home and brought Deuce to the vet to see Butter so he’d know what happened. He came in the room, walked up to Butter’s peaceful body and laid down next to it. He nuzzled into his neck and made two big whimpers, then walked to the door and looked back at me, letting him know he was ready to go. Our house was silent for weeks, and when I’d cry Deuce would get one of the chew ropes he played tug-of-war with Butter with and bring it over to me and whimper. We missed him, all of us.

Deuce’s next companion was a little baby named Kai, and he transitioned into the role well. Many of our friends with dogs found the dogs new homes when they had babies — that was never a thought when we had Kai. Deuce was our family and we needed to transition him into the change as much as we did ourselves. Wherever Kai would lay, Deuce would lay close by. If Kai was crying, Deuce would come to wherever I was (asleep in bed usually) and paw me until I woke up and took care of that crying baby. Deuce wasn’t a huge fan when Kai started crawling, but rather than ever threaten Kai, he’d just remove himself. There were lots of days with Kai chasing Deuce around. Once Deuce figured out that Kai would also feed him, amends were made. Not to mention Kai loved walks as much as me, and as much as Deuce, so there were plenty of steps logged all around Brooklyn together.

Then the girls came. My sense of guilt for putting Deuce lowest on the totem pole was constant. He deserved attention, but he also wouldn’t cry if I didn’t give it to him. So he got the least while deserving the most. He was resigned to what life with babies was like, but he also knew the ropes. Sasha started feeding Deuce before she could even sit up. To this day, I’m pretty sure Deuce has eaten more of her food than she ever has. And the girls have loved him better than any two little beings could love another. Their love for Deuce spills onto him, onto other dogs, onto cats, onto fish, onto hamsters. Onto any other animal, big or small, wild or tamed. Gemma makes friends with animals on a daily basis, and tells each of them about her dog Deuce. They learned to care for Deuce — feed him, give him water, hold his leash, give him love — before they even had a clue of how to do anything for themselves. He’s brought out more love and confidence in them than I believed existed in certain moments, and all with very little except a few table scraps and some good petting sessions in return. The have promoted him both in our Brooklyn neighborhood and now LA, and constantly convince other kids who are petrified of dogs — nevertheless such a big dog! — to pet him. And inevitably, each of those scared kids have. And Deuce has sat there patiently, loving the pets, and the girls have cheered on those kids who conquer their fear with our sweet big guy Deuce.

I’ve been in denial these past six months, as I’ve seen him slow down. And then stop so suddenly. All of his energy, all of his patience, all of his strength — it made me believe he would quietly keep going forever. And selfishly, I wanted him to. He’s been part of so many chapters of my life — an entire Part III from the time I was 30 to 40. The beginning of my marriage, my entire life in Brooklyn, becoming a mother, being a mother, most of my career after law school, our move to California, and the end of my marriage and my effort with Derek to negotiate how to recompose our family into two homes. He’s given me his patience and time when I couldn’t give him mine. He’s given me the excuse to walk under the midnight sky, to brave the cold and enjoy the snow, to walk in the rain, to enjoy the sun, to explore every block and every corner, to run through lagoons and north on Highway 101, to get fresh air at all hours of the day and night, and to do these things when I needed it most. He’s always been true to himself, and true to us.

I hope I’ve made the end of his life as peaceful as he has made my life — and the life of my kids — energetic, content and rich. If there is a heaven, I know he will be rampaging through it – exploring every corner — with many dogs following happily behind, including Butter. There’ll be no thunderstorms or fireworks, and plenty of hills to climb and lakes to swim in.  If our energy gets the pleasure of coming back for yet another life, he deserves one filled with safe excursions through every countryside there is. I find myself wanting to say that the love I feel for him far outweighs the grief at having to help him go. But it doesn’t. It’s a lesson I’m relearning — that the grief at the end is always as big as the love. The more you love, the more you grieve. The more full your heart is, the more it hurts when it breaks. The solace is just remembering what lies at the foundation of the pain. And that some of the tears are caused not just by my heartbreak, but by how incredibly grateful I am that we brought him home when he chose us.

Deucey, all of us miss you already.