Mojo the WonderDog died on January 30,2019. He was my constant companion, my friend, my confidante. He was “my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.” I was blessed to have had 17+ years with him. I’ll never forget his “You’ve-come-for-me” look of anticipation from the edge of his little bed in the small room at the #WashingtonAreaRescueLeague. He was a Katrina rescue who hadn’t lost his smile. I was happy that the decision to adopt him was made with my son and daughter. Even though I knew I would always be the one who walked and fed him—he and I would be besties. He came into my life at the end of a painful and protracted divorce. He saw my kids through high school and off to college. The years that I cared for my aged grandmother, he came to love her too. Maybe because he felt my love for her. But maybe there was unity in their advanced age and blindness. When I adopted him, I knew that #WARL had treated him for heartworms. And as any man in my life knows, it’s all about the run. #Mojo rebounded quickly and within a few months ran the same 5 miles I ran. On a hunch I put a basket on the front of my bike and lined it with fleece. We had even more adventures. He knew about all the #Smithsonian museums (I won’t mention the times he actually saw the inside of any of them) and he could direct you to National Airport on the bike trail along the #PotomacRiver. I think he knew people were waving and hollering “Toto” at him as he rode by in his basket. Occasionally, he would bark a “hello” back. He loved me fiercely. On more than one occasion he defended my honor by growling and barking in the face of dogs ten times his diminutive eleven pounds. He didn’t fear the mean streets of #WashingtonDC. He loved the warmth of places in which I had just sat. When he still had teeth, he loved raw carrots. Ultimately his vision and hearing diminished and he started to show his age. His last two years age ravaged him. But I didn’t have the courage to put him to sleep—selfish I know, but I still needed him, even in his blindness and confusion. All night on January 29th he yelped in obvious pain. He was ready to go. I girded myself with the love I had for him. I called my son to tell that while Mojo had been ready, now, so was I. Mojo, who also loved a car ride, laid on a pillow on my lap. The little kid who used to tease Mojo around the house drove us to the Washington Animal Alliance and Shelter. The idea of playing god with another life, no matter how justified, hadn’t been sitting well with me for some time. I wanted Mojo to die peacefully at home in his sleep. It was not a decision I wanted to make. On what was the coldest day I think Mojo had ever felt, he yelped under the blanket he was wrapped in. We walked into the shelter. We three sat in a small but light-filled cinderblock room and waited for the vet. I held on to my friend. I watch his labored breathing. I hoped he could feel my chest rising and falling, each time full of love for him and our years together. I hoped that he could feel the warmth of my body. I hoped that he knew that his former tormentor was there too and full of love for him. All had been forgiven between them years ago. I looked away just for a moment to see my son’s eyes filled with tears. I looked back down at the blanket and The Mighty Mojo was gone. There was not a need of a vet or syringe. Once again he saved me.
