farewell, old girl.
mojo in the early days.
Mojo wasn’t well. Her regular vet couldn’t see her, so we took her to Blue Pearl. The name, as we would come to find out, means you have to have your own mine full of the rarest gemstones to afford their fees. Why is it you can get an x-ray of a human for about $75, but it costs $500 for the same picture of your dog? That’s just one example, and sadly Mojo needed more. The “experts” told us she had a rare, aggressive form of cancer, and she likely wouldn’t make it to the end of the year. We traded another exorbitant sum of money for some pain management meds and went on our way. We had decisions to make.
That summer, we took Mojo with us to Charleston to visit Jake. She had never seen the ocean before, and since it was going to be her last year on earth, we thought she might like it. Everyone should see the ocean at least once.
We all had fun watching her engage in her own game of chicken with the waves. She’d sprint at the water, only to turn tail and retreat as soon as the tide began to crash into her. Then she’d do it all over again.
Mojo hated the crap out of water. Which is particularly odd because she’s mostly black lab—basically a seal with fur. She hated water so much that If it was raining, we’d have to join her outside with an umbrella so she would go to the bathroom. I’m sure if she had thumbs, she would’ve carried the umbrella herself. Baths were even worse.
But that Charleston trip was five years ago. Maybe more. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last few weeks because this will be our first Christmas in over a dozen years without her. We knew she’d let us know when it was time. When she was ready. That time was around 6.30pm. Dec. 15, 2021.
She was old and she had a bevy of issues, but this time was different. She used to love to walk. When she was younger, we could walk together for miles. Especially when we visited Lockport. We would walk around the neighborhood and head out past the Kenan Center. We only visited once per year, so every walk was like a new adventure for her. But lately, she could barely get down the street. She had also grown several lumps on her head and belly. She chewed her tail until it bled. She couldn’t keep her balance. Her hearing was going. She didn’t want to eat or play.
When I visited, she barely lifted her head. It had been a long time since she lost her shit like Dino in The Flintstones, but she had always greeted me at the door. Not this time. I sent Jake a picture—the one below. They replied, “She looks sad.” I think she was.
Jenni and I spent over an hour with her at the vet, struggling with the decision we knew we had to make. Mojo was telling us something we didn’t want to hear. Her body hadn’t cooperated in quite some time, and her mind was starting to let go as well. She knew before we knew. Before we wanted to know. She was hanging on. For us. Because that’s what dogs do for their people. And it was time for us to do this for her.
Processing is a funny thing. For me, it usually involves analyzing the past to make sense of the present. Which kind of sucks for me. Especially since I’ve worked hard at looking forward—not back—for the last few years, and I’ve been making good progress.
Now, I find myself thinking a lot about the 13 years Mojo was in our family. She drove us crazy at times, and she gave us so much joy.
I remember the day we got her from Happy Tails. We met a handful of dogs that day. We walked with a few. And they all seemed nice. Then Jake noticed this smallish girl just laying in her crate. People walked by as though she were invisible. Young Jake pointed, and asked “What about that one?”
Now, I may be conflating two visits to Happy Tails, but my brain says this was also the day Emily decided to hang out with the kittens, which nearly led to a trip to the ER when her eyes about swelled shut. I took the kids home to tend to Emily while Jenni did all the paperwork to adopt our new family member.
Mojo was a rescue. She had been abandoned by her owners. Her foster family found her abandoned on a discarded couch at the curb. Assholes. Not the foster family. The bag of dicks that left her on that couch with no food or water.
Mojo’s given name was Brittany, which we took as a final act of cruelty. No. Hell no! That name just wasn’t going to stick.
“Mojo” came from Austin Powers. And it was my fault, I guess. Or a stroke of genius. If she ever got lost, I wanted to be able to walk around asking, “Have you seen my mojo?” But the name stuck—even for a female dog. And her personality fit her name better than we ever imagined.
She was instantly the family protector—even from me. If I picked up one of the kids, she would lose her mind. She’d bark incessantly and jump on me until I put the child down. Now, looking back, I wonder if maybe she just wanted me to pick her up. She could also be a little jealous.
Jenni professed to not want her or like her for a long time, but it was Jenni who caved on the “not on the furniture” rule after we had a growth removed from Mojo’s leg. She was wearing the cone of shame, and she looked pretty pitiful, so Jenni decided she could sit on the chair in our family room, but just until the cone came off. Yeah... that’s not how dogs work. To Mojo, she had been gifted the chair. It was now hers. If you sat on it, you better make room for her to sit next to you.
She didn’t much like the cone. She broke the first one, probably by accident. But apparently something clicked, because we watched her deliberately run into the wall until she broke the next one. And the one after that. No more cone. Problem solved.
Early Mojo stole things. She tried to be sneaky with toys. She’d get quiet and slink off toward the dining room, but all it took was a stern, “Hey. Where are you going?” from Jenni for Mojo to drop her contraband. Food took longer. After all, she was a dog. She’d eat pretty much anything except potatoes. She thought she liked them, especially French fries. We’d give her one and she’d steal away with her treasure, until she realized it was a potato. Then she’d trot back into the kitchen, hoping the next treat was her favorite—a baby carrot. One time, she pulled an entire pizza off the kitchen island. That was a great day for her. Until it wasn’t.
Much like with our human children, I got to play the role of fun parent. We’d play tug of war with her toys. I’d chase her around the dining room table and then drop to the ground and she’d leap over me.
We didn’t play much in the kitchen because she didn’t have traction on the hardwood floors. There are a couple dents in the stainless steel fridge from her head—proof of her lack of brakes. She was smart about it, though. She’d grab a toy and lure me into the carpeted area where she had a decided advantage.
Outside, she never did quite catch on to fetch. I’d throw a tennis ball and she’d dart after it, often snatching it out of the air on a bounce. And then just like that, she’d turn the game into “keep away,” making me pursue her like Sylvester Stallone chasing the chicken in the first Rocky movie. I never did catch her.
Her last moments were peaceful. Just before the vet administered the final shot, Mojo seemed to have a moment of clarity. She stopped shaking and kissed the vet. She kissed Jenni. She turned and her eyes seemed to lock onto mine. She kissed my nose. Then my chin. For those few seconds, she was Mojo again. Showering me with her Mojo kisses. She seemed to smile one last smile. And then she went to sleep.
In some ways, I’m still processing. Admittedly, I didn’t see her as much in the last few years. She didn’t like my place. She never seemed comfortable here—too many stairs for her aging legs.
It’s entirely possible I’ll edit this piece. Clarify some stories. Add a few more memories. Maybe they’ll show up in a book, instead. Mojo would make a great book dog. Or maybe I’ll just keep them to myself and relive them over a beer. Mojo liked beer.
Farewell, old girl. Thank you for the laughter you brought us. For the unconditional love you gave us. And for getting me out of every occasion that had a chance of fireworks. I miss you.
