Rex
3,064 views · Published 14 August 2016 · 4:00 · Indexed 2 October 2026
Channel: GrapplingIgnorance · 2016 · News & Politics
For over a decade, Rex seemed to make it his mission to see that I rose before the sun. He would lick or nudge at my hand as it hung down from the tall mattress. He would dash back and forth from the head to the foot of the bed, his paws scuffling along the carpet. He would pant, huff, and almost growl, and if I truly tested his patience enough, he would prove his ability to leap onto the bed, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he’d never bark to wake me up. Rex was a magnificent mutt who any canine connoisseur could instantly identify as a healthy mix between one breed which sheds a great deal of fur and another breed which sheds just as much. His shaggy coat lost no beauty as the dog years slowly turned happy face to a soft pallet of grey to white around his jet black nose. Once out of bed long enough to stumble to the back door, let him out, fill his food dish, refresh his water bowl and let him in, Rex was content to let sleep again. Of course, by then I was usually too awake to slip back into a steady sleep quickly enough before it was time to start the day anyway, so I would accept my fate and embrace the premature consciousness more often than I’d attempt retreat from it. Rex unequivocally loved human attention. He was over 90 pounds, even as age made him thinner with a loud bark, and quick legs. Despite this properties Rex was possibly the worst guard dog on the planet. He mostly reserved that fierce bark of his for other dogs, people on two-wheeled pedaling contraptions, the invisible mailman on the other side of a noise-producing front door, and other things incapable of giving him head rubs or other such affection. He was 100 times more likely to shove his head beneath a stranger’s hand, pleading as if he’d never been given attention or been pet than he was to so much as snarl in one’s direction. Unless a burglar had dog hair allergies, road a bike, or brought his own dog with him, the big furry pile of face-licks on legs who slept at the foot of my bed would have been more inviting than threatening to the thief. Rex was something of a neat freak, which he demonstrated by quickly disposing of any food left barely within his reach. He could pull down pans from the stove, attempt to resort the recycling bin with his own personal style, or even help himself into cans, jars, or Tupperware if he were left unsupervised. In this way, Rex was much like a pet goat, and I am convinced that he was in the top percentile of his peers when it came to discovering and devouring food not intended for his consumption. The strange thing is, these little inconveniences of the time are what I miss the most now that Rex is no longer there to slumber at the foot of my bed. Now I wake up to an impersonal alarm clock ring, rather than a smiling set of eyes more happy to see me each morning than any person ever has been to see me for any occasion. On weekends I sleep later, only to reach beside my bed and run my fingertips through the wake of where relentless loyalty used to wait. Now when arrive back home everything is exactly where I left it. Not an item out of place, and no smiling furry face waiting at the door to greet me with pure excitement no matter how wonderful or terrible of a day I’ve had. The house is empty, the carpet once tinged by a perpetual coat of fur all year long is finally as immaculate as every other square inch of my minimalist home. He is irreplaceable, and his memory so embedded into multiple folds of my daily life, that while seems he will never be truly gone, that too seems true for the pain of loss.
