Requiem for an athlete

True, in a rare moment of repose.

Hi gang,

It's been almost a month since the girls and I had to say goodbye to a very, very special member of our family. Thanks to my editor at the New England Hockey Journal, I was able to pay tribute to our wonderful Labrador retriever, True. 

Anyone who has ever lost a pet, especially a pet dog, can probably appreciate the following. There is a rare and remarkable bond that forms between a pet and her owners. And True was truly remarkable. Let me know what you think ...

##

Requiem for an athlete

Your indulgence, please. Writing has always been cathartic, and I'm hoping my craft can work its magic this evening.

It is approaching midnight, on the eve of July 4. I'm home, but can't sleep. The long holiday weekend was a tough one. Earlier today, my wife, daughters, and I had to put down our beloved yellow Labrador retriever, Trudell.

Longtime readers of this column might remember True (the nickname I always felt most comfortable with). I wrote about her a few years back, as an example of the perfect goaltender – remarkably quick, agile, and focused.

True celebrated her 10th birthday earlier this year. I realize that's 70 in "dog years," but this dog was still an absolute stud. Her narrow head and lean build was a testament to her lineage as a full-on American field Labrador retriever. True was bred to retrieve waterfowl, even in the most inhospitable environments.

Her father, Zeb, was my father in-law's prized retriever, and he enjoyed needling me that True, as a family pet, was "a waste of a great hunting dog." I always laughed, knowing he was right. In her prime, True was 65 pounds of quick-twitch muscle, sinew, and gray matter hard-wired to fetch.

But even in her "golden years," she continued to personify the qualities that make Labs such phenomenal pets. Good-natured, kind, exuberant. But what really set True apart was her boundless capacity for fun.

When True saw me grab my lacrosse stick and tennis ball, her response was unadulterated joy. Her ears picked up, her tail wagged uncontrollably, her entire body would shake with anticipation. At that moment, she was absolutely locked onto the ball, a pure athlete waiting to pounce. She was the perfect goaltender – coiled, confident, and unfazed by any outside emotions or distractions.

But True, as I would learn, was more than a natural goaltender. She was the ideal teammate. Though she wasn't a "cuddly" pet, she lived and breathed whatever mood filled our house. If we were happy and celebrating, True had to be in the middle of it. Unsuspecting visitors would get smothered with slobbering kisses. If we were upset, True would mope. She embodied our family atmosphere, yet rarely failed to lift our spirits.

Late March, True started showing signs that something was amiss. Her exceptional endurance began to ebb. She was hesitant to jump into the back of the family wagon after a run at the beach, and even struggled to hop onto our bed (her favorite napping spot). Like her father, True developed laryngeal paralysis, making breathing difficult.

Starting in May, True's condition deteriorated rapidly. Her decline happened so fast, we couldn't get ahead of it. Our local vet was visibly stunned when he saw her, just six short weeks after her annual physical. She was stumbling badly, her hindquarters barely able to support her weight.

We had X-rays taken, and were told that True, orthopedically speaking, was flawless. After consulting with four different veterinarians, the consensus appeared to be that True was suffering from some kind of neurological problem. It could have been the result of a tumor on her spine, or brain, or caused by a stroke. We tried steroid supplements, with minimal benefit.

The only option at that point was more expensive testing, which would only tell us what type of more expensive surgery needed to be done. For an aging pet who already was suffering from laryngeal paralysis, it simply didn't make sense. Our vets concurred. Lauri and I resigned ourselves to helping make True as comfortable as possible for however long she was with us.

Over the last two weeks of June, it was clear True's time was coming. She held on for a final visit from my mother in-law, the woman who weaned her as a puppy. On Sunday, Lauri made the courageous decision that True shouldn't have to deal with her declining health any longer. We drove to a clinic in North Andover, our girls cradling their "knucklehound" in the back seat.

We would return home to our small cottage that afternoon, knowing it would seem far too big without True. There would be reminders waiting for us, of course. Tennis balls in the backyard, the water/food dish in the kitchen, couches and carpets covered with her fine blonde fur. I'd miss her appearing out of nowhere every time I opened a peanut butter jar, or a package of cheese. Daily rituals, including her trembling delight at meal times, and our slow walks around the neighborhood (when she had to sniff every blade of grass), would change forever.

Now, though, we were only concerned for True's well being. More than anything, we didn't want her to be in pain. Her tail still thumped vigorously against the floor every time a new person came into the room, a sure sign of her indomitable spirit.

But part of True was clearly resigned. She had fought the good fight. She put her faith in our decision, just as she always had. She trusted us, unequivocally. She seemed perfectly at peace, even as the technician put the catheter into her front leg. The veterinarian then came in, assured us that we were doing the right thing, and explained the process. True, she promised, would not suffer.

Not a minute later, our beautiful True was gone. Her incredibly strong heart stopped beating, her labored breathing stilled. My wife, and our two daughters, took turns lying beside her, sobbing. The love this dog engendered was truly breathtaking. My girls then left, leaving me alone with my True.

I leaned in close, looking into those deep, milky brown eyes that no longer could see me. I apologized to her for being a less-than-perfect owner, for being short tempered at times, for being impatient when her boundless energy prompted her to run off.

Stroking her soft coat, I thanked True for the lessons she taught me, lessons about how to love without conditions, without boundaries of any kind. She taught me about joy – the joy of simple pleasures, joy of physical exertion, and joy of camaraderie, of just "being there." I knew I had to leave True's body behind, but I would take the lessons she taught with me.

Then, with a heavy heart and swollen eyes, I said my final good-byes to this wonderful athlete, to this perfect teammate. True.

FINIS

An old goalie and his dog

My knucklehound, True, on full alert.

Hi gang,

You've all heard the adage, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." But that doesn't mean we can't learn a thing or two from our canine companions.

This month's blog post is dedicated to my wonderfully wacky Labrador retriever, True. She is about as pure an athlete as I've ever met. If she comes back in her next life as a human being, with her laser-sharp focus and quick-twitch muscles intact, she could make one heck of a goaltender!

##

An old goalie and his dog

The small chapel at Merrimack College in Andover, Mass., was packed with nearly 100 superb goaltending prospects, ages 14 to 24, and some of the best goaltending coaches from North America and Sweden. It was the first full night of the week-long Prospects Camp, hosted annually by the Goaltending Consultant Group. The day was spent on the physical aspects of the game. The evening would be dedicated to the position's mental challenges.

The speaker was Dr. Saul Miller, a sports psychologist and performance consultant from Vancouver, British Columbia, and author of "Hockey Tough: A Winning Mental Game," among other books. Miller has impressive credentials, having worked with numerous NFL, CFL and Major League Baseball teams, as well as professional golfers and Olympians. In hockey, Miller has consulted with teams and players ranging from youth and recreational programs up through junior and college programs and the professional ranks, including the NHL. The guy knows his stuff.

For an hour, Miller (a former goaltender himself) entertained his young audience, addressing key ideas such as focus, emotional control, mental toughness, mental preparation, attitude, and commitment. I was impressed with how he concentrated on positive reinforcement, being "in the moment," and embracing the Japanese concept of "kaizen," or "commitment to continuous improvement."

At one point during his talk, Miller asked his young listeners what animal embodied the characteristics that they would use to describe their game. I jotted down my own answer, but quickly found out it wasn't shared by the majority. Typical answers were "cheetah," "jaguar," or '"tiger." In short, big cats. Predators. Miller obviously liked the response.

Miller told his audience that, as athletes, they have a choice. They can be the predator or the prey. I agree with that, in large part. Competition, especially in a game as rugged as hockey, is not kind to the meek. There's an unmistakable Darwinism that exists in hockey, particularly at the higher levels. As Miller correctly pointed out, when the fear factor gets bigger, the goalie actually gets smaller.

Plus, I loved Miller's characterization of a short memory, which every goalie knows is critical to success between the pipes. When a lion or cheetah misses a chance to bring down an antelope, for example, there's no judgment. They don't get depressed, or sulk, or throw a tantrum. They simply start hunting again. Goalies who beat themselves up over every goal could learn a great deal from that.

But there was a seriousness to Miller's general message that I couldn't help but feel was a little over the top. If you want to be melodramatic, the whole predator-prey analogy comes down to "kill or be killed," and that's not really hockey. I kept thinking there was a missing element to Miller's discourse, and it hit me when I looked back to the answer I had scribbled earlier.

The animal I would emulate, if I was still on the upward curve of my hockey career, is my 7-year-old yellow Labrador retriever, True. Yes, our family pet. There is not an ounce of "predator" about True. In fact, she can be a total goofball. Once, when I was berating True for being such a knucklehead, my youngest daughter corrected me: "No, Dad, she's a knucklehound." The nickname stuck, for good reason. True can be stubborn to the point of intransigence.

As her narrow head and lean build indicates, True is a full-on American field Lab, bred to retrieve waterfowl, even in the most inhospitable conditions. Her father, Zeb, was one of my father in-law's prized hunting dogs. In fact, anytime he's back east, my father in-law likes to remind me of "what a waste of a great hunting dog" True is. He's probably right. True is 65 pounds of quick-twitch muscle, sinew, and gray matter hard-wired to catch and retrieve. She is an athlete, in every sense of the word.

True also personifies all those fabulous qualities that make Labrador retrievers such phenomenal pets. Loyalty, kindness, exuberance. But what really sets the Lab apart, in my eyes, is their boundless capacity for fun. Fun. Such a simple word, but it makes a world of difference in so much of what we do. When True sees me grab my lacrosse stick and tennis ball (our favorite form of exercise), her response is sheer, unadulterated joy. Her ears pick up, her tail wags uncontrollably, her entire body practically shakes with anticipation.

Yet, at that moment, she is absolutely locked  onto the ball, a pure athlete waiting to pounce. In that instance, she is the perfect goaltender – coiled, confident, uncluttered by outside emotions or distractions. I'm pretty sure that you'd have to measure the time between when the ball leaves my lacrosse stick and True's initial response in nanoseconds. She is that quick. And when she catches a ball off the bounce, mid-flight, I swear I can feel her sense of pride as she turns in a big, triumphant arch before running back.

Now, don't get me wrong. True is a competitive beast. Fun doesn't change that. If we're at a local ballfield or beach, playing pitch and retrieve, True doesn't mind a little bump-and-run with the other dogs. And, most of the time, she's the first to the ball. But even if she isn't, her spirit never fades. She doesn't mope. She simply trots back, tail wagging, ready for the next toss.

Coaches and parents can learn something from my True as well. I praise her, constantly. As a result, she will run through walls for me. If I scolded her for every ball she "missed," it probably wouldn't be long before she would lose her enthusiasm for our games of catch. Because they would no longer be fun.

That's one of the reasons I always tell my goalies to smile. I work them hard, because I want each and every one of them to enjoy that distinct sense of accomplishment that comes with maximizing their potential. But I never want them (or me) to lose sight of the fact that, at the end of the day, this is a game.

My coaching experience tells me this – if you're having fun, you're probably going to be a better goaltender, because you won't be as tense. Tense goaltenders play at a disadvantage, because taut, rigid muscles are slow. Relaxed muscles are quick. The same holds, I believe, for your brain. So stay loose, even while working hard. Be kind to yourself. Have fun. Always have fun. If you need a reminder, stop by my place, and watch my knucklehound in action.

FINIS