Greg Hoch can’t imagine himself without a dog. But when his old Labrador retriever was nearing the end of his life and Hoch began training the puppy that would succeed him, he struggled with the transition. He came to terms with it through this letter to his old friend.
Hey Old One,
It's been a few weeks since the new kid got here, and I just wanted to check in with you. How are you doing? I try to give you the same amount of attention as always, but this kid really keeps me on my toes.
You aren't being replaced. As Guy de la Valdene wrote, "No one can have the part of me I give to my dogs." And this newcomer can't have the part of me or my heart that belongs to you.
You can't be replaced.
You deserve these last months to have peace, quiet, and comfort. But I have to be selfish. I define myself?and most people identify me?by my dog. In grad school with your predecessor, most of the neighbors didn't know my name but did know "the guy with the binoculars and the big brown dog." If that's all people know about me, that's fine.
You only overlapped with your predecessor by two weeks. That was cutting it too close. Me without a dog would be like a body without a soul. Lost.
For the last few months you've been more interested in your spot on the couch than being my shadow, than following me like you've done for the past decade. I miss you by my side.
I do worry terribly about the near future. For this first month, those short little stubs the new guy thinks are legs have kept pace with your long tired legs. But those little nubs are going to grow longer and stronger as your legs and joints grow slower and gimpier. In a few short weeks I'll find myself waiting for you behind me while the pup surges ahead of me.
I'm torn between my past and future. Worst yet will be that first road trip when you stay behind and the kid comes along. I honestly can't tell you how hard that will be for me.
Lately, a lot of deja vu moments have caught me between a laugh and a tear. I laugh when the kid does something that reminds me of you at that age. The tears come when you look at me the way your predecessor did when you were the kid's age and equally obnoxious. What happened soon after those looks is still too painful.
At this point in our lives and relationship, I don't have the right to ask any favors of you. You've given me more than I can ever repay. But can I ask you to give the kid a chance? He's pretty cute... when he's asleep.
GREG HOCH is Prairie Habitat Team Supervisor at the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. “Letter to an Old Friend” is excerpted and reprinted with permission from Just Labs magazine.