Goodbye First Friend

You probably met your first friend in the sandbox, pre-school or kindergarten. Hamilton met his in the lobby of our apartment building. He was a Bernese Mountain Dog, about ten months old at the time. Hamilton was three months old, still adjusting to his new surroundings.

The Bernese was a happy, exuberant dog that loved to pounce on Hamilton, at the time half his size. Hamilton was thrilled. He rolled on the floor and sprung up, challenging the Bernese to give him all he could. They played this way whenever they met, in the lobby, outside on the street or in front of the stock exchange, which is often used by the neighborhood at night as an unofficial dog run.

The Bernese's owner would often let him off leash, making me uncomfortable as I was paranoid to do the same with Hamilton. He was a good dog and came when I called but I could not get up the confidence to let him off leash. I could only think of all that could go wrong. I began to think that my lack of confidence was a rebuke of Hamilton. He wasn't as good as the Bernese. He could not be trusted like the other dog. Or worse, a rebuke of myself. I was not as good an owner, not able to control my dog as well.

After a while I began to walk Hamilton on a different route hoping not to run into the Bernese. But try as I might we would often meet up. The Bernese would jump up and slam into Hamilton, who rolled over and over and came back for more.

One day in front of the stock exchange, blocked off to traffic since September 11th, I let go of Hamilton's leash. I stood as close to the leash as I could as it dragged on the ground, ready to step on it at a moment's notice. Hamilton played freely now, able to better parry the Bernese's moves. I knew he was a good dog. I was proud that I trusted him and, truthfully, took some self satisfaction in my ownership abilities.

Both were cold weather loving dogs. A heavy weekend snowfall that first January left the streets downtown impassable to traffic. Hamilton and the Bernese were utterly thrilled and rolled and pounced on each other in the snowdrifts, leash free and without worry.

As time passed Hamilton began to go to day care. He loved it. The Bernese's owner favored using dog walkers. I spoke to her about Hamilton's day care and even offered to take the Bernese there so he could try it out. I knew Hamilton would be thrilled, but she never took me up on it.

As time passed we ran into the Bernese less. He and his owner were often out of the city. She favored her home in the country. When we ran into them he seemed less exuberant. He was nearly a year older than Hamilton. Hamilton had made a new best friend, Sawyer, at day care.

You probably remember the same scenario in your life. Different high schools or colleges or moving to different neighborhoods and the first friend drifts away. You promise to stay in touch but time and other experiences are sponges taking up your attention. Those exciting first experiences are memories you now use on days when you are sad or just feeling blue or old.

Now when Hamilton and the Bernese met, older adult dogs, they sniffed briefly but focused on us, the owners, looking for attention and, hope against hope, a treat.

A few weeks ago I ran into the Bernese's owner, but she did not have the dog with her. I rarely saw her without the dog. She told me he had Lyme disease. At first they thought he was anemic but now thought he had been bitten by a tick in New Hampshire. He was at the vet's. A week later one of the doormen in our building said that they'd found that the Bernese actually had cancer, and that he had just been taken, bleeding badly, to the 24-hour animal hospital in Midtown.

The next morning I asked the doorman how the Bernese was doing. He said that the dog had been put to sleep. The cancer was incurable, and he would have bled to death.

Is it a blessing that I can't explain all this to Hamilton? It's clear he has left the Bernese behind in his life. I guess I won't know until one day I get a call and my sister tells me that my first friend has died. Maybe he already has. Or he's somewhere feeling old wondering whatever happened to me. Or not thinking about me at all.