PJ

In Memorial
PJ
February 14, 1996-December 29, 2007

Nearly twelve years ago, my sister Michelle brought home a perfect little black lab puppy. But this was no ordinary puppy. My family is split pretty evenly between those who are animal people and those who are not. And PJ even won over the “nots.” When my niece called to talk to Mich after she heard the news she said, “For what it’s worth, even I liked him.” I myself even voluntarily took him for a walk once. Those of you who know how weak my stomach is know what a huge deal that is….

Now that perfect little puppy, like all dogs do, he started to grow. And grow. And grow. Which explains why he was often referred to as “The Moose.”

One year he knocked over the Christmas tree with his tail. Just his tail. As he got bigger, Mich waited for the puppy energy to burn off, for him to settle down into the temperament of a normal dog. She waited. And waited. And waited. And it never happened. She would take him for 4-mile walks to tire him out. It didn’t work. She would play chase the ball for, literally, hours. Barely even made a difference.

PJ was a good dog. But he was just a teeny bit rambunctious. He had a tendency to eat things. Other dogs eat shoes. PJ ate Mich’s hope chest. And her bedroom moldings. Oh, and the kitchen linoleum. She tried to train him, she really did. But he was too smart for that. One book suggested that she buy a water bottle and squirt him in the face when he barked. But the day she started using it, she left it out while she went to take a shower. He ate it. Another book said to tape balloons to the edge of the dining room table so if he tried to jump up they would burst and scare him. She found him playing with one of the balloons, batting it gently back and forth between his paws. He wasn’t having any of that training stuff.

PJ was the Worst. Guard Dog. Ever. If you came to Mich’s house when she wasn’t home, he’d come trotting up to the door, tail wagging, tennis ball in his mouth. She swears that if a) she had been home and b) he hadn’t known me, he would have barked. And maybe she’s right. But if she wasn’t home, anyone who wanted to could have robbed her blind. As long as they kept flinging that tennis ball, he would have happily let them clean out the house.

I read a book proposal once that said that instead of pets, they should be referred to as “animal companions.” And I’m not going to lie. I rolled my eyes. But that’s really what PJ was for my sister. He was her buddy, her partner, her friend, her child. As she called him, “her boy.” There were rough times when he was what made her get out of bed in the morning. And a lot of times when he was her biggest source of joy.

Michelle’s in a place in her life now where she’s happier than I’ve ever known her to be. She’s got a house right on the ocean, a man who makes her happy, and with that man came a ready-made family. Someone told her that’s why PJ was able to let go. Because he knew that she was happy and taken care of, and he had done everything he was brought into her life to do.

PJ leaves behind a mom, a stepfather, and a sister, a beautiful retriever who’s helping to heal the hole in Mich’s heart. And he also leaves behind a lot of people who were better for having known him. We’ll miss you, Peej.

p.s. If you have a PJ memory of your own you'd like to share, please leave a comment. I'd love to hear it.