I met him just twice–just twice–but I fell in love with his beautiful eyes, one brown and one blue. He was just a few months old when he died.
He had a brother named Lincoln (yes, as in Abraham Lincoln). As far as I know, Lincoln lived.
Lincoln and Hugh were both rescue dogs.
I have worked in rescue for nearly a year now. I have seen dogs with amputated legs, dogs with their ears cut off, giant pit bulls that want to be lap dogs, and tiny Chihuahuas that believe they can rule the world.
But Hugh Jackman was the first dog that died.
I have heard stories of dogs that have died, and I have known dogs that have died. But Hugh was different, not for any other reason, except for the reason that he died in rescue. He had a health condition, in which he couldn’t eat properly, but he died because of a sudden heart attack, which was completely unrelated to his health condition.
Two families rejected him, saying that it was too much work to care for him. “Rejected” here means “adopted then returned.” I understand that some people just couldn’t care for him. I understand that he was always expected to have a long and happy life, but then he didn’t.
I wish he could have had a family, to love and care for him as he grew old, or died young. Because I think having a family teaches dogs–and people–the concept of love. And that, living or dying, they will always be okay. And they will always, always be remembered.
So, really, I guess the point of this entire ramble about life and death and dogs and love is just to say that it would have made a difference. In his entire, short, beautiful little life, it would have made a difference to have been loved.
Let’s spread the love