Feel free to disagree with this, but the cost of being brilliant, truly brilliant, is that some parts of your brain are vacant. The important parts required for you to deliver your gift to the world require so much energy that the remainder is in a constant state of atrophy. Somewhere on one of my many shelves there's a great book that shares the “wisdom” of the world’s most brilliant people. Aside from the obvious takeaways I was struck by a man infinitely smarter than the rest of us who said that dogs don’t have a soul. “That’s just what you want to be true”.  It’s fine to believe whatever it is you believe. We don’t all have to agree on everything, but how could a guy of unquestionable greatness, of unparalleled success, not understand something so obvious? He just didn’t get it.

I’ll never forget a woman stopping us on the street because Mojo reminded her of the dog she used to have.  Without solicitation she said “We started taking care of him when our friend got sick (short pause), but really he was the one that took care of us”. That’s what it means to own a dog whether you realize it or not. Doesn’t matter if you think you’re on top of the world or barely scraping by. They are your rock. Seeing that wagging tail through the front door as you approach is the best thing since back roads. They don’t care that you got drunk and made an asshole of yourself at the company Christmas party, how many Instagram followers you have, or what kind of car you drive. Their job is to love and they take it very seriously.

Ask any proper dog owner about their pup and they’ll tell you he’s the best in the world. The funny thing is, they’re all right. Obviously bias is at play but the bond that can occur between human and K-9 if you let it is indescribable. So to say that our relationship with our dog was special isn’t a matter of competition or superiority, it’s just a fact. Makes no difference if that fact is only true to Emily and I. Something worth noting is that we don’t have or want children. So Mojo, who was once a pawn for prolonging marital engagement, became the centerpiece of our happy family. Everything revolved around him. And from his first days with us we began a life that was different. Not for the purpose of being different, but to live the way we wanted. The way that came natural to us. That “way” just happened to be on the road. He went everywhere with us. Literally. 200,000+ miles of everywhere. To 45 of the 50 states. Days, weeks, a month at a time was spent in the truck, together. He was there for every road trip from San Diego to the east coast and back. For every family vacation to Cape Cod, Christmas in upstate New York, fly fishing trips, camping, snowboarding, and of course our wedding. He’s stayed in more cheap hotels and seen more of this country than most humans we’ll ever meet. Talking about it now only reinforces how lucky we are. So how can I do him justice with words? How can I describe the bond we shared? I can’t. That’s not a skill I possess. Even if I did, would it be something people couldn’t understand? Our life on the road has been one that very few people experience. Most probably wouldn’t want to, and that’s ok. For me though, it’s the only way. A special life made truly monumental only by Mojo’s glowing presence and the countless people he’s affected along the way. Through it all he never once complained. Not even after 20 hours straight on pothole infested roads. Never. He just wanted to be with us. 

What was Mojo like? For starters he was as majestic a dog as you’ll ever meet, which was an odd thing to address. Random people always commented on how handsome he was. Well, thanks, but we didn’t make him!? He loved adventure, especially in the snow. He was a stoic observer, gaining a lot of enjoyment from taking it all in. He loved but didn’t give away his love frugally. Even with us, outwardly showing love was rare, which made it all the more special to receive. He was a slave to food. A fault I’ll have to take blame for because he always got fed from the table, counter, campfire, tailgate, whatever. My mother didn’t help in that category either. He was always happy but also unimpressed with most things we did. If you tried to make him a puppet or the butt of a joke he would just look down his nose with a stare that made you question who was higher on the food chain. He cared. If ever we had a bad day he knew it and came to help by leaning his body into ours. Try to ignore it or tell him falsely that you were ok and he would paw to make you rub him until fully persuaded you really were ok. The rubbing wasn’t for him, it was for us. On days he truly wasn’t convinced, he’d eventually give up the pushing and sit at your feet. His presence alone made us better. He was protective. Especially of Emily. He was peaceful. 

The list of things we will miss about him would require too much of your time and attention span, so i’ll keep it brief. His hair was a welcome nuisance. It’s everywhere and will be for the rest of our days, ensuring that we never forget him. On that note, he had the best neck of any dog I’ve ever met. Never was there a problem that couldn’t be fixed by burying your face in that thick mane of hair. People say that dogs don’t smile. That’s untrue. When either of us was gone for more than a week, upon our return Mojo would gift us, if we were lucky, with a smile that went from one of his giant ears to the other. Same goes for our friends that he selectively grew to love. As great as all the long trips were, it’s the simple things that will probably be the hardest. Morning walks, his calming presence, cleaning up his pork induced drool piles, the way he tilted his head when asked a question, the fact that he smelled like Frito’s after a stint in the truck, or maybe his stupendous resume of outstanding accomplishments like being sprayed 3 times by 3 different skunks and eating an entire case of Clif Bars in one sitting. Wrappers and all. He had plenty of shortcomings that frustrated us daily. They too will be greatly missed. 

Death is inevitable for us all. Even more so for the pets we’re lucky to have throughout the course of life. You try to tell yourself you’ll be prepared when the time comes but that’s impossible. We lost Mojo just shy of his 10th birthday. Up until the very end he was happy and healthy. Nothing out of the ordinary that led us to believe he wouldn’t be around for another 4 years like we asked of Alladin’s Lamp. One day the week prior he dragged on an evening walk but was right back to normal the next day. Then on Saturday, March 20th Emily thought he was acting strange after dinner. As usual I brushed it off to her overreacting and the three of us went up to sleep like any other night. An hour later he made an odd commotion that woke me. So I sat down next to him and he immediately laid into me with his whole body. Not sure if I was comforting him or the other way around? Looking back I think he was telling me it’s all going to be ok. Either way I fought as hard as possible against everything that told me he was absolutely dying, and got back into bed after his breathing slowed. My crying woke Emily who took her turn laying with him in the dark next to my side of the bed. The stress of the what-if made the minutes crawl by as I went from watching the two of them, to staring through the ceiling. The nurse in her allowed for a calmness while whispering that he was having seizures and might not make it. She’s overreacting again!! But what if she isn’t?? I joined her on the floor as we both laid alongside him, our heads in his warm mane, crying. With continued calmness she urged me to relax so he didn’t take on my pain too. Minutes later his breathing stopped and he gently drifted away. The following 45 minutes weren’t  pretty as we took turns breaking down, one consoling the other, until it was obvious a move had to be made. As much as we didn’t want to say goodbye, looking at a cold corpse the next morning would only further the agony. So we dropped him off at the 24 hour vet, drove home in a daze, cried a lot more, then got back into bed. Sleep wasn’t an option. Lying there in disbelief, tangible stages of emotion came on one after the other. Denial came first. No way that just happened. Had to be a nightmare. Then came the anxiety of reality followed by anger which was the worst and most selfish of them all. I thought, what the fuck, he can’t give us a few more years?? Then, after a moment of dwelling, I realized he already gave us everything. 

The following day was a blur. Mojo was gone. Our rock was gone. So what were we left with? Only the positives. Sure we were devastated but our thoughts keep coming back to the magnitude of his countless gifts. 10 years of total joy is so much stronger than any of the hurt we are temporarily feeling. And his greatest gift of all was leaving the way he did. No health issues or diseases that caused a slow decline in quality of life. He wasn’t in prolonged pain emotionally or physically, which means that we were also spared the trauma. How does it get any better than that? We were able to live his entire life with him almost like it was scripted. The amount of life lessons, happiness, and gratitude he has taught us are immeasurable. That doesn’t mean the crying is over, but the memories will always win. 

On Mojo’s last day with us I was on the computer screaming at the monitor about a series of professional problems that seemed to have no logical  answer. It probably sounded a lot like the furnace scene in A Christmas Story. Right on cue he came in and pushed himself firmly against me. I told him I was fine. He didn’t believe me. So the pushing and petting continued until he could tell from my eyes that I had calmed down. Twelve hours later he was dead. And you’re gonna tell me dogs don’t have a soul? 

Much love, 

Rob Hammer 

PS: we found out soon after that Mojo’s mom died on the same day he did. Not the same day of a different year, the same exact day. 

P.S.S. I had never heard about the Rainbow Bridge until a good friend sent it over days later as consolation. The morning after Mojo died it was raining, but we walked anyway, and there was a rainbow over the Pacific. That has to mean something good. 

Suggested reading: Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck