When I told my mother we were getting a puppy, she asked about its gender. I told her it was a male, to which she quickly replied, “well I guess you can’t name him after me then.” My parents were not pet people. They were afraid of most animals, thought they were dirty, and didn’t think they belonged inside a house. That, along with my brother’s allergies, meant we could never have pets. Art and I initially laughed at my mother’s reaction, saying that Marie Antoinette probably wouldn’t make a great name for a male dog anyway. We wanted to foster a connection between my mother and this unnamed animal. Then it dawned on us. At the same time, we shot up in our seats and shouted out the name Mario Antonio. I called my mother to let her know that the dog was, in fact, named after her.
I don’t think Mario’s name had much to do with it, but in the few short years that remained in my mother’s life, she developed a deep, genuine love for Mario. She marveled at the countless tricks Art taught him and often joked that Mario was smarter and more well-behaved than all her children. I couldn’t really argue! He brought her a joy no other animal had ever been able to do.
In the last few months of her life, my mother was in an assisted living facility and she insisted we bring Mario to visit. Each time she would lead us around the facility and wherever two or more people were gathered, she’d march into the middle of their gathering and shout, “Have you met our dog yet? Art – make him dance!” Proudly and dutifully Art would lead Mario through a series of moves, concluding with his signature bow. We’d then walk down the hall to the next gathering, my mother beaming as we shuffled along behind her.
Though my mother didn’t struggle with dementia, her cognitive function was impacted and her stories became more meandering, sometimes making it hard to follow her train of thought. One day a friend had visited her and called me after. He told tell me he found it hard to follow my mother’s stories “except for the stories about Mario. She LOVES that dog and when she talks about him, she’s clear as a bell.”
With his gentleness, soft fuzzy coat, and eagerness to please, Mario made my mother a dog-lover. I used to tease my mother, saying that apparently a young dog can teach an old dog new tricks, as Mario did with her.
And so was the story of Mario’s life. His mere presence evoked joy and love. He didn’t have to do anything other than look at you with his sharp, expressive, nearly-human eyes and you were hooked. Recently I overheard a neighbor talking to Mario as he sat on the front porch. The neighbor, an older Vietnam veteran, scratched behind Mario’s ears saying, “You are such a handsome boy. You bring people so much love and joy.” I stood silently behind the door, so touched by the beauty of it all.
I got Mario as a gift for Art and, truth be told, I did so reluctantly. I wasn’t sure I wanted another dog. Art had high standards for everything he did. I knew I would likely be a lazy dog parent that would have an ill-behaved dog that resulted in nobody wanting to come to your house anymore. Our old dog, Puck, greeted every person by jamming his snout into their behind — with enthusiasm! No matter how hard I tried, he would not be deterred. I had no reason to believe the next time around would be much better.
When we brought Mario home, we immediately enrolled him in puppy kindergarten at Canine University. Where else would Art possibly send his dog?! Mario thrived while I was a kindergarten drop-out. I couldn’t manage a clicker, treats and a leash all at the same time. I dropped all the treats on the floor, sending all 12 puppies into a frenzy. You might as well have asked me to juggle swords on a tight rope. Driving home after our second session, Art was less than amused when I asked how many sessions remained. Fortunately, Mario’s rapid mastery of the tasks allowed us to graduate early!
Mario was certified as a therapy dog, a trick dog, and participated in agility training. He loved to be engaged in these tasks and his focus on Art was laser sharp. Our backyard looked more like an agility course than a garden, complete with tunnels, hurdles, and every size ball. Art regaled all visitors with an assortment of Mario’s tricks, not because visitors asked but because Art loved to show him off. Once, while on vacation in Provincetown, we placed Mario’s leash in the hand of a mannequin on the street, in front of a small shop. From across the street, Art directed Mario’s behavior with simple hand gestures. We watched passersby do a double-take when they realized the dog was not a mannequin. We went paddleboarding, with Mario sitting on the front. Art paddled past all the waterfront bars and restaurants with on-lookers pointing, laughing and marveling. In the evenings when we’d walk him down the street, people would point and exclaim, “it’s the paddleboard dog!” Art would pretend not to hear the comments, while smirking silently ear to ear.
Art and Mario became volunteers in a program of JRI, where I was working. Together they went to a program that provided services to people with disabilities. There was a client who had multiple disabilities and had given up on her physical therapy, resulting in a decline in her ability to walk. The only thing that seemed to motivate her was having Mario’s leash in her hand. With him by her side, she mustered the strength to eventually walk across the room.
Mario was only two years old when Art was diagnosed with IPF. Despite his boundless energy, Mario instinctively slowed down to Art’s pace. He could spend an entire day sitting at Art’s feet while I was at work. When we walked, slower and slower over time, Mario kept pace, never running ahead or making feel Art as though he was holding us back.
When Art died, Mario spent two weeks lying in his spot on the bed. It broke my heart but simultaneously felt as if he embodied my own grief, wanting nothing more than the scent or sign of Art. Then one day, Mario leapt to his feet and resumed his normal activities, somehow having had integrated the loss.
I wasn’t sure I was capable of parenting a dog alone. I’m not proud to admit it, but I was intimidated by the prospect of it. I feared that Mario would always see me as an inferior substitute for his real parent. Mario’s eyes would fixate on me and I’d say to him, “Look away! I don’t know what to do!” I’d laugh and he’d inch closer, always drawing me in. Always patient. Always trusting.
He has been my constant companion ever since. Whether I leave the house for five minutes or five hours, he greets me with equal amounts of enthusiasm. When I lie down, he will lick my salty head for 20 minutes straight. He will always find a way to nuzzle his head against my hand, forcing it into a patting motion.
I know that many of these behaviors aren’t especially unique to Mario. What is unique, though, to every dog and dog owner relationship is the depth of the connection that is exclusively yours. Whenever I left Mario in the care of others, I left them with a 10 page set of instructions. The first time I wrote them, I realized I had a special understanding of Mario’s eccentricities that might not make sense to anyone else. It is precisely that kind of understanding that made me feel as if he was mine and I was his.
Just last week while walking him, we came across a puppy and its owner. The owner told me her dog was four months old, to which I replied mine was 13. “13 months?” she asked. She was shocked to hear he was 13 years old given his enthusiasm and brightness. That was Mario. Fully alive and engaged.
I’m aware it’s a bit narcissistic but I have to say I loved becoming Mario’s person. If you are a dog owner, you know. The fact that your mere existence, no matter how crotchety you feel, brings this creature such joy is so heartwarming. He has been astoundingly patient with me as I’ve bumbled through my life without Art, dragging him from home to home, trying to find our place and rhythm together.
I’ve never had kids but I somehow imagine I’ve had a tiny sliver of that experience with Mario. He has been so well-loved by my family and friends, and the joy they found in his company has made me proud and happy. In many ways, he created his own community. Everybody wanted him and he has been well-loved by a huge tribe of family and friends. Together we have been loved beyond measure.
Caring for Mario has been another way for me to love Art. Saying goodbye to Mario feels like letting go of the last, tangible pieces of my life with Art…this creature Art loved, cuddled and adored. I’m aware, too, that I couldn’t have made it to this point in my own grief without Mario. On the days I wanted to pull the covers over my head, he still wanted to go out. When I wasn’t sure I could welcome new people into my life after such heartbreak, he greeted them with unbridled enthusiasm. When the stillness of my own life could be unbearable, he breathed new energy into it. Perhaps most powerfully, when I doubted my ability to navigate life without Art, Mario ushered me through, dutifully following along, convincing me day by day that we were going to be okay. And so we were.
There’s so much I will miss about him – the way he huffs and puffs when he wants more of anything, the way he pounces on every toy, as if it’s about to attack, cuddling with him, rubbing the back of his neck while he stares into my eyes purring, the athleticism of his earlier days, the way he would jump up every time I say “walk” or “car.”
There’s what I will miss about Mario and what his absence means to me. There’s another level of grief triggered by this. This is a strange time of life. My career has wound down. I am without a partner, and now without my trusted canine companion. It can feel as though life is shrinking a bit. While I’m generally someone who will create new experiences and adventures when a window opens up for them, I’m feeling less energy for that. Do I have the energy or desire for another relationship? I know there’s still much living left to do, even if it’s alone, but how much space should just be left open? How much of these losses and changes in my energy are organic parts of aging? How do I – how do all of us – embrace life as it is while still holding a future vision? The loss of this furry, loving, quirky, creature raises powerful questions and lessons. What I know, though, is that Mario opened my heart in the unique ways only a dog can – with their presence, unconditional love and faith in us, even at our most vulnerable times. Now I send him back to Art in hopes that their connection transcends this next phase.
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