The Perfect Foam

Happy Greetings

I had one of those moments yesterday when a conversation triggered a memory of mine that had been hidden in the furthermost recesses of my brain.

My family had a dog, named Dongo, that I was obsessed with when he was still alive (to the tune of like 10 photos of him on the walls of my college dorm rooms), and I haven’t really stopped being obsessed with him since he died in February of 2006.  I still have pictures of him on the walls of my apartment and I still talk about him from time to time, but I have definitely pushed some of my favorite memories of him to the back of my mind, such that some have even fallen into those aforementioned recesses.

Dongo was a huge Bernese Mountain dog and I basically treated him like a brother, from wrestling around in the snow, to running around like madmen in the backyard.  Though Bernese Mountain dogs have a fairly short life expectancy (about 10 years), our first Bernese Mountain dog lived to be 13, so there was no reason for me to expect anything else this time around.  Unfortunately, Dongo got pancreatic cancer and died when he was only 7.

The memory that was triggered entailed the way that Dongo would greet me after we had experienced an extended absence from each other.  This was usually during the college school year when I was gone from home for about 3-4 months at a time.  When ever I came home the same ritual was played out.  My mom would go inside our house while I stayed outside on the front lawn, waiting for her to let Dongo out.

He would come charging down the lawn towards me, whimpering and jumping all over me, as I attempted to give him as big a bear hug as possible.  For the rest of the day he would be by my side, as if to make sure that I was really there!  The next day things would be back to normal for Dongo, and for him it was as if I had never left.

I miss those happy greetings… so much.  They were the purest expression of joy and happiness I have ever experienced, and the kind that only a pet can give.  Absolute love, with the only thing wanted in return perhaps being a big hug.

When it was time for me to leave, Dongo somehow always sensed what was happening.  When I tried to say goodbye he would barely look at me, seemingly to punish me for leaving.  He would be just as happy, though, the next time I came home.

Most of my friends probably became tired of hearing about Dongo and more than one asked me why the heck I needed so many pictures of him on my walls.  Well, can you really blame me?