First and Last.

I decided to write this true story in memory of a friend. It was hard for me to write it, and it may be difficult to read, not for its structure but for its inevitable end.
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Mom wouldn't have anything to do with him, so we spent the first night together in a tent in the backyard. It was the day after Christmas, but Houston weather made it feel like May. Jake was so tiny he could barely get up the steps of the deck, and when he finally made it to the grass, it went up past his legs. He nosed his way into the tent, and promptly curled up into a ball on my pillow. I couldn't have fallen asleep anyway. I had a dog.

For the rest of the winter break I spent the night outside with him, even though each morning I would have to clean up the little “presents” Jake left in the tent. During the day, we spent hours together, me dragging my shoes by the laces while he chased after them. I’m pretty sure I was responsible for his habit of chewing up Mom’s slippers.

When school started back up again, I had to go back to sleeping inside, but it wasn't long before Jake was allowed to start sleeping in the laundry room. Then the kitchen. Then the living room. And finally Mom’s bedroom. Or more specifically, on top of Mom’s bed. Unless of course it was raining; then he was under her bed. Jake didn't like the rain, and he was absolutely terrified by thunder.

We grew up together, and when I entered high school I spent less and less time with Jake. Between the hour long commute and being on the wrestling team, the only time I saw him during the week was when he would supervise me lifting weights in the garage. He’d sit and watch me until I was done and then would follow me inside for the night.

Sundays however, were always our day. First thing in the morning, or after church if I couldn't avoid it, Jake and I would take off running, and we wouldn't come back until afternoon. We had a routine: race each other to the end of the street (he always won), and then slow to steady jog until we got to the park. Once there, we would cut through the bike trails until we reached the creek. Jake never figured out water, so he’d just sit on the bank and stare at the ducks with murderous intent. Eventually, he’d get bored, and we would set out hiking, heading nowhere, but always on the look-out for squirrels.

I had to leave Jake behind when I went away to college. Every time I could manage to make it back, Jake would initially give me the cold shoulder, like I had abandoned him. He would actually turn his back to me and avoid eye contact. All would be forgiven though, when I took out his leash. By then, we didn't run together anymore, but he stilled loved our walks.

Graduate school was a dark time for me. Both emotionally and physically I was a wreck, and I sought refuge by making the 4 hour drive from Dallas to Houston every weekend. My internal demons aside, I was painfully aware that I didn't have much more time with Jake. Both lymphoma and the steroids used to treat it had taken their toll on him; he had hard time even making it out in time to go to the bathroom. One Friday night I came home, and he was asleep on the kitchen floor. I had never been able to sneak up on Jake, but this time he didn't stir. I sat down to put my hand on his chest, and he immediately woke up, abashed that he had failed to be the guardian of the house. He tried to stand up, but his feet kept sliding out from under him.

I wasn't angry at him, but I yelled anyway. “Damn you! Get up you son of a bitch! Get up!” But he couldn't, and I knew.

I laid down beside him, held him close, and we spent the last night together.