“Death comes for us all. Yes, even for kings he comes.”

That’s a line spoken by 16th Century English Chancellor Sir Thomas More in “A Man for All Seasons,” a movie based on the celebrated Robert Bolt play. I guess the point is that nobody – not since Enoch and Elijah – gets out of this life alive. Death is the commonest of denominators for man and beast.

    And I’ve seen the face of death before, having lost my grandparents, father-in-law, aunts and uncles and many a friend in my tenure on the planet. But I’ve never seen it so up close and personal as I did this week with the passing of my 15-year-old black-and-tan dachshund, “Gator.”

    The poor little guy was suffering terribly from cancer – couldn’t hardly stand or breath. In the end, sending Gator along his Heavenly way proved not so much a decision, rather a duty. Still, it was heartbreaking – one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my mostly sheltered life. Yes, I’ve observed family members at rest in funeral homes, but I’ve never said good-bye to one, hugging him and weeping uncontrollably just before watching him humanely pass.

    Okay, I know, Gator was just a dog. But to my wife, Claudia, and me, he was more like a child. The little fellow came into our lives just as our youngest, Scotty, was pretty much leaving the nest. I named him after my favorite football team, having graduated myself from the University of Florida. Truth be known, Gator got off to a pretty rocky start. He was a bit stubborn and difficult to house train, which really irritated my Marine-white-glove-test wife.  But flashing forward, Gator soon became his Momma’s inseparable little buddy – so much so that I wouldn’t have wanted for Claudia to ever have to choose between that scamp and me.

    Like a lot of dachshunds, Gator proved a territorial cuss. Didn’t warm to many people, and, in fact, bit one of my MCC Board members and the wife of another when they visited our home. In those cases, it was like my whole life passed before me, wondering if I’d still be gainfully employed by nightfall.  Yet another time, Claudia hosted a church group at our home, and Gator wrestled away from me, chasing one terrified lady atop her car.  As the years passed, I came to look back upon those episodes and others with laughter. After all, I didn’t get fired or sued.

    Scotty and I laid Gator to rest on the edge of our property out in the country. I wrapped him in his favorite blanket and placed a couple of his squeaky toys in the homemade coffin we fashioned, then I thanked God for the joy he’d brought into our lives. I just couldn’t “man-up” as they say. Cried like a baby.

    Although God has cautioned us that no one knows when his or her hour will strike, if my life continues to unfold in a natural progression, the passing of other loved ones – some who are now seriously ill – is inevitably on the horizon. I told Claudia that perhaps Gator’s passing was his final gift to us – a signal to mentally prepare ourselves as best as possible for what may come. I know that whenever my phone rings these days at odd hours, I cannot help but cringe, thinking bad news is looming on the other end of the line.

    Gator’s bed sat right by the back door of our home. He was always the first one to greet me when I came home from work. His wagging tail was his smile.  It’s been really hard for me to smile these last few days. I know that every dog lover out there knows exactly what I mean.

    I also know this – that where there is loss, there is also love. And, thank God, love outlasts loss.

    Dr. Scott Elliott is president at Meridian Community College.