We are plumb out of summer now. If you didn’t make that fresh peach ice cream or that heirloom tomato pie, you have only yourself to blame, and good timing too, because autumn is the season of regret.
There are shelves of studies to explain why the fall of the year lends itself to what the French call tristesse. Psychologists go with the acronym-friendly Seasonal Affective Disorder, ancient Chinese cosmologists suggested it had something to do with connecting the season to the direction west, but poet Robert Browning neatly asserted, “Autumn wins you best by this—its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.”
A lot of folks have lost favorite animals this year, which won’t make autumn any easier to bear. It happened to a little family on Oglesby Avenue last week. Just as summer slipped away, so did Boxx, The Giant.
Brooke’s cousin Molly found the black puppy back in 2004, a rumpled waif wandering loose around Center Point. There was already a dog named Radley in the house where Brooke and Bobo lived on Oak Terrace, but when Molly brought this new little critter over, there was no hesitation about taking it in.
It ate everything it was offered for quite some time after it arrived, so it was awarded the name Lunchboxx. It also turned out to be a she, a 21st century feminist. Boxx was way ahead of the curve advocating positive body imagery. Having become a plus-sized canine in short order, she was completely at ease with her zaftig silhouette. Though her roommate, Radley, was a slim mongrel, there was no body shaming around that house.
Boxx maintained a rigorous daily regimen, organized around sleeping, eating and barking. In some households, dogs feel compelled to take on tasks, like fetching or herding or retrieving, but Boxx was more interested in a contemplative life. It was thought that she might be part German Shepherd, part Labrador and part Buddhist.
To earn her keep, Boxx would bark when unauthorized personnel entered the house’s perimeter. She might not be inclined to investigate an intrusion personally, but she was happy to sound an alarm so that more motivated parties might intervene.
Curiously, she ignored her instincts when two little strangers arrived to stay. They came to the house about four years apart, smelling alternately of lotion and excrement, and at first she knew not what to make of them.
A sedentary dog, Boxx dealt with all manner of shoes and feet, but these tiny creatures were puzzling. When Boxx first encountered them, they would crawl across her turf on all fours. Time would pass, and they would slowly learn to rear up and walk around on their back legs, waving their shorter front legs around in amusing ways. Sometimes they would tumble into her as they attempted to navigate, but Boxx took no offense, because her alpha in the household pack, Brooke, was completely at ease with the little strangers. It is unclear whether Boxx ever deduced that Brooke was their mother, but since all that maternity didn’t interfere with regular feedings, Boxx gave the little strangers a pass. Sometimes she would steal their shoes to sleep with, but she was not criminally inclined.
Boxx maintained a special relationship with Bobo, who gave her the sobriquet The Giant. He was, after all, the guy who’d walk her in the afternoon, whether she wanted to walk or not, and made a general fuss over her the rest of the time. Both understood the importance of a timely nap and they plainly enjoyed each other’s company.
There were changes through the years, during which Boxx was always a reassuring presence. The family moved from Huffman to Leeds and wound up in Homewood, to accommodate the schooling of the little strangers, who by now had names that Boxx recognized; Alexa and Mick. Changes of personnel, too: after Radley passed, a new stray canine joined the gang. This one, named Teddy, was Boxx’s opposite in every way. He was short, twitchy and loud, a veritable Don Knotts of a dog.
Lately, there was an unexpected addition. At Bobo’s workplace, a kitten was discovered mewling inside a wall, and once again, an animal rescued from peril relocated to Brooke and Bobo’s. The kitten was first named Wall-ie, a nice androgynous name, but then Bobo, a sports savant who was shocked, shocked to learn of corruption in international soccer, decreed that the new critter must be named Sepp Blatter, which, it turns out, is also a nice androgynous name.
Boxx had once had cat issues, but with advancing age, her metabolism no longer allowed her to practice cat bigotry. She fell prey to various tumors. When Bobo took her to the vet, there were often disquieting tidings, but Boxx was not prone to complain. Usually she was just prone.
She cut back on her household duties, leaving almost all of the barking to Teddy. She started spending an inordinate amount of time with a stuffed squeak toy in the shape of a carrot. Perhaps that was her gesture toward cutting calories.
Boxx was clearly outbound. On her last day with the little family last week, Brooke and her mom took turns petting her and making that fuss she loved so much. The kids were checked out of school early so they could say goodbye. Alexa was disconsolate, but Mick, only six, was glad for extra time to play Bad Piggies. Bobo took The Giant for one last, slow walk outside and one final trip to the vet.
The story ends, as it always does, with life going on. There has been talk about maybe getting another dog someday, but it is hard to replace a legend so large. If you’ve ever lost a pet, you probably understand Bobo’s tribute. “When we brought that dog home,” he said, “it was like we won the lottery.”