PETER WORTHINGTON Sun Media May 27, 2009

Murphy gave us lots of love
But now our hearts are full of grief

My mother, who died in 1992 at age 91, used to remark that "love and grief" went with having a dog in the family.

The "love" part is obvious. "Grief" is more complicated, and inevitable because usually the dog dies first in a family.

To avoid the grief of loss is partly why my mother wouldn't get a dog during the last 35 years of her life.

Last Friday night Murphy, our 16 1/2-year-old Jack Russell terrier, died quietly at home in her sleep while I was stroking her head.

She gave a deep sigh, then stopped breathing. While it was expected, the emotional effect of her death was ... is ... devastating.

(--Continued from home page--)Murphy lived the longest in a series of six JRs we've had in the family since the early 1970s. When each one died, "grief" was a claw of sadness, even though each dog's life was glorious as long as it lasted.

Any dog in our household is blessed with good fortune. But of all the Jack Russells we've had, Murphy had the most rewarding life.

Over the years, I've written 47 columns mentioning her -- perhaps excessive to some, but she was a source of inspiration.

Only time can heal the hurt of losing a family member, be it human or animal. Anyone who has what is casually referred to as a "pet" knows it is more than that, and an integral part of the family.

Yvonne's and my daily life revolved around Murphy.

When we got her in 1993 (she was named after TV's Murphy Brown), we also got Molly. When they reached age three, we realized the error of having two female dogs. They got into a series of life-and-death fights, so we gave the more placid Molly to my sister in Montreal.

Last year Molly came back to us when my sister died. Mercifully all was forgiven between M & M -- both were elderly, and emotionally secure. Last September Molly, by then a bit dotty and frail, died. We wept.

Last week it was Murphy's turn to go.

For 16 years we've planned trips and holidays around Murphy. She wintered in Florida, spent summers in the country -- a good life. By last Christmas she was frailer -- losing weight, rejecting long walks, more sedate. We took her to Florida, where she perked up and bossiness revived.

Jack Russells are incessantly curious, always nosey, game for anything and think they're 10 feet tall. When she was seven, Murphy was awarded a Humane Society Bravery Medal for challenging a burglar.

Our love for Murph didn't blind us to questionable traits -- like occasionally nipping the ankles of workmen coming to the house to give an estimate for repairs. (Invariably, a nipped workman got the contract).

With children, Murphy was Mary Poppins -- gentle, caring, tolerant, though she scurried out of danger when two-year-olds got a bead on her. She was undisciplined when adults had dinner, and would beg relentlessly -- but mostly at my side because I indulged her shamelessly.

An appealing characteristic was being fastidiously clean -- which a lot of dogs aren't. She rarely complained, and preferred our bed to hers.

And now she is gone.

The house seems terribly empty. Her beanbag bed is now gone from the kitchen floor; her water bowl is no longer by the fridge; her collar, leash, harness, and red winter Roots coat are put away. The back cushion of the living-room couch is still indented where she liked to sleep. A sad reminder.

When we got Murphy I didn't expect to outlive her. But I did. I now better appreciate my mother's observations about love and grief.

It's small consolation at the moment, but Yvonne's life and mine have been made richer by sharing it with Murphy. For that, I am ever thankful.

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