Rest well, sweet Moses; you were a special gift

By Tim Kolodziej
EnspireU

I knelt beside him and simply stared. I wanted to remember everything.

The caramel and creme fur. The “eyeliner” surrounding his big, brown eyes. The freckles on his nose. The “mustache” underneath it.

I stroked his ears. Still so soft. So velvety.

“You’re such a good boy, Moses. You’ve been such a good boy,” I whispered. “It’s OK. You can go home now.”

Truth is, I didn’t want him to go. He had been a part of our family for nearly 13 years. A big part of our family.

“He’s the ONE thing we can all agree on,” my son, David, would often say. “We all love Moses.”

I leaned forward and kissed his head softly. He lay on his side, laboring to take another breath. Just a month earlier, this handsome, strong and sweet golden retriever was our pandemic partner, walking miles in the woods with us. And now this.

By his last morning on earth, he couldn’t even adjust his position. An aggressive cancer had ravaged his insides and left his legs lifeless. But his eyes — THOSE eyes — still followed my every move.

When I stopped petting him for a moment, he slid his right paw slightly toward me. I grasped it in my left hand and I placed my nose on his.

“I love you, buddy,” I whispered again. “You know that, right? You’re such a good boy. I want you to know you will always be my good boy.”

An hour later, he was gone.

Moses Kolodziej was now free to romp and play and fetch and swim like he never had before.

“He was such a good boy,” I told my wife as we hugged tightly.

“No, he wasn’t,” she corrected me through her tears. “He was the BEST boy.”

COMFORT AND LIGHT

Moses was an answer to prayer. We bought him from a breeder in Ohio when he was about 9 months old. He was already house broken and extremely gentle. The perfect temperament for a home with two younger children.

We got him two years after our last golden, Harry, had passed. Our daughter, Carly, was in elementary school at the time. David was in kindergarten. Two siblings became three.

It took a little awhile to get used to our new pet. He was so QUIET. “Where’s Moses?” I would ask for fear we left him somewhere.

“Look down, Dad. He’s right by the table,” Carly would answer.

“Oh.”

He quickly grew on us, and he soon adjusted to the rhythms of our household. He learned how and when to get what he wanted. And he learned how and when to give us what we needed.

If you’re a parent, you know how quickly the fun-filled primary years can morph into the very real drama of high school. During our kids’ darkest days, Moses became their furry face of hope and comfort.

I would peek into Carly’s room and she would be lying on the bed. And so would Moses, resting his head on her tummy or the small of her back. A few years later, David would seek out the same pet therapy. Just a boy and his dog. Or all of us together.

We credit Moses for helping our sensitive and quiet boy open up a bit — especially at night. Our entire family would converge on our bed, with Moses in the middle delighting in the attention. If David wasn’t joining us quickly enough, we’d shout: “David, Moses wants you!” Moments later he would walk though the door. We’d talk about what happened that day. We’d pray about the next day. I think we all felt more comfortable sharing because our furry security blanket was there for support.

Moses could make the kids laugh on their worst days. He would coax them to play in the back yard when the last thing they wanted to do was look up from a screen. He remained gentle and extremely patient as the kids dressed him up at times. Yes, the rumors are true. Moses did wear a banana suit on one occasion. And he could even get camera-shy David to pose for a photo — as long as they were in it together.

In fact, when David turned 15 and Moses was 9, all Sally wanted for her birthday that year was a picture of them together. She still calls it her “best birthday present ever.”

David hated that picture. He thought he looked “ugly.” The night after Moses passed, David asked Sally if we could get a framed copy for him to take to college in the fall. He loves that photo.

Moses would become our walking partner through the trails at Brady’s Run. Even without a leash, he would stay near our side — unless, of course, he spotted deer or a squirrel. He would dive into the lake and chase the ducks all the way out into the middle, until we became frightened he wouldn’t make it back in. On warmer days, he would find rest and refreshment in the “jacuzzi,” what we called a small body of water near the trails. He would lay and drink at the same time. When he’d run back up the hill to rejoin us, he would shake off all the water until we were drenched.

But in typical Moses fashion, before racing down to cool off, he would always look back and wait for us to say, “Go ahead, Moses! It’s OK.”

I thought of that as I knelt by his side during his last moments. He was waiting for my approval.

“You can go, Moses.” It’s OK.”

‘GOD SPELLED BACKWARD’

Moses loved to swim. He loved to run and play. He LOVED food. But he loved people the most.

If I was in the basement, I knew someone had arrived home by the sound of his tail. It didn’t just wag when he got excited. It sounded like a sledgehammer pounding the floor.

I have a confession to make. I used to have a theory that dogs were selfish. I thought they cozied up to humans because they wanted something FROM us — be it affection, a treat, an open door, or a walk. Moses changed my mind.

As cancer began to overtake him, not an hour went by when there wasn’t a hand on him. Petting him. Comforting him. Whispering to him. Letting him know he wasn’t alone.

We thought we were doing that for HIM. But I soon realized it was for US. Every time I stroked his fur, I experienced a sense of peace, a closeness he first brought into our home in 2007.

When he saw that I was down, he would rest his head on my lap to pick me up. He wanted nothing from me. He wanted to be there FOR me. Of course, that made working from home a challenge. We just couldn’t pet him enough.

Another confession. I used to think it was somewhat silly when people would say, “Dog is God spelled backward.” Moses changed my mind in this area, too. Please understand, I’m in no way equating him to our Heavenly Father. But I do believe God uses people — and our pets — to reach and teach us in unique ways. Many of the lessons Moses shared pointed me straight back to Scripture.

“I was sick and you looked
after me …” — Matthew 25:36

Any time one of us suffered from an ailment, Moses would not leave our side. It was uncanny how he could sense our pain or discomfort. It was remarkable how he would stay so close.

The simple lesson: Sometimes, a quiet presence is the greatest gift.

“Greet one another with
a holy kiss.” — 1 Corinthians 16:20

Whenever a family member walked through the front door — whenever anyone walked through the front door — Moses would race to greet them. For those who happened to be eating or drinking nearby, we held on for dear life. Like an airplane propeller, his tail could do some serious damage.

The simple lesson: If you’re happy to see someone, show it.

“Ask, and it will be
given to you …” — Matthew 7:7

Obviously, Moses never asked us for anything. But he used body language quite often.

If he wanted me to pet him, he would dip his nose under my arm and lift it onto his fur.
If he wanted a treat, he would sit up and beg.
If he wanted attention from a stranger, he was too much of a gentleman to jump. He would rise up on his hind legs and “perform” for it.
If he needed to go “potty” early in the morning, he would head to my side of the bed, pant heavily and whine ever so softly in my ear. And just for the record, it was ALWAYS my side of the bed.

The simple lesson: If you want something, just ask.

Yet there were times when Moses asked — and he probably shouldn’t have received. One year we were away on vacation and we had our neighbors watch him. Their 10-year-old daughter loved to give him treats, and on this day she offered him an entire box — biscuit by biscuit. Later that night, Moses developed a bit of a tummy ache and would soon, um, “deposit” the contents of the box throughout that home — one squat at a time. We still chuckle about it today.

“Make it your ambition
to lead a quiet life.” — 1 Thessalonians 4:11

Moses may have been the gentlest 75-pound dog around. Even when he wanted to show off whatever he had in his mouth, his saunter was more like a tip-toe. He was a hit at my mother-in-law’s memory care center. Residents there doted on him until we’d leave.

Sometimes, they’d forget where they were or the names of their family members, but they always remembered to ask about Moses.

But “Mo” wasn’t only gentle. He might have been the quietest 75-pound dog around. He barked only when visitors came to the door. If we were preoccupied with work or home projects, we often would forget he was around.

Yet it now seems even more quiet — eerily quiet, if that’s even possible. A piece of our hearts, and the linchpin in our home, is gone.

It’s still so hard to believe.

EMPTY YET INSPIRED

Every time I drop a piece of food, I expect him to come running.

Every time I have a few crumbs left on my plate, I look for him to “pre-clean” it before putting it in the dishwasher.

Whenever a family member leaves, I catch myself wanting to ask, “Does Moses need to go out?”

Every time I hear thunder or fireworks, I prepare for him to bound onto my lap in terror.

When Sally went walking with a friend the other day, I nearly asked, “Are you taking Moses?”

Whenever I enter the front door. I still believe he’ll run to greet me.

It’s been a full week since Moses left us. The tears are slowly beginning to morph into smiles now as I reflect on his beautiful life. And a beautiful life it was. He not only surpassed the typical lifespan for a golden, but he thrived until the very end. What a blessing.

And he continues to inspire me with how stoic and determined he was during his final days.

I was the last to see Moses stand up on his own. It was about 2 a.m. and I was awakened by the sound of panting. He had struggled to sit up and appeared to be thirsty.

“Do you need some water, buddy?” I asked him.

I got out of bed and poured some into a bowl and carried it over to him. He didn’t drink it. Instead, he just lay on the carpet.

So I went back to sleep.

About an hour later, I heard rustling and then the sound of Moses lapping up water from the bowl. This time, he had managed to stand on his own — yes, all the way up — so he could get a cool drink.

I just stayed under the covers and watched through the open door. Tears began to well in my eyes. Not from sorrow or pity. I was moved by his persistence, strength and toughness.

Yet as much as Moses inspired me, my family blew me away with their selflessness. Sally and Carly would alternate sleeping in the basement to care for Moses through the night. David, now as active and social as any 18-year-old I know, stayed home each evening to be with his puppy. He even suggested buying some paint so he, Carly and Moses could leave handprints together.

Does it hurt? It’s awful.

Was it worth it? A thousand times yes.

Will we get over his loss? I don’t think so. Nor do we want to.

If you’re a dog person, you know EXACTLY what I mean. There’s that special companion that comes around only once in a lifetime.

That was Moses.

In a span of 13 years, he lifted us through severe illness and surgeries, the deaths of family members, horrible days at school, job losses, athletic frustrations, and pretty much everything in-between.

He left us on Thursday, June 18. Before saying our final goodbyes, we sat around him as a family. We wept together. We held hands and prayed.

I could barely get the words out. But I do remember the two I used most.

“Thank you.”

Thank you, Father, for such a beautiful gift.

Thank you, Moses, for such a beautiful life.

Thank you Sally, Carly and David for such beautiful expressions of love for our special guy.

Moses gave us nearly 13 years of happiness and joy. And now he’s giving us a lifetime of special memories to share.

God knew exactly who to work through to reach us. He knew exactly what our family needed. At exactly the right time.

Moses wasn’t just a very, very Good Boy.

He was the BEST Boy.

Ever.