Remembering Mocca by Brian

Mocca was with our family for 17 years—so long that it is difficult to separate our memories of him from the history of the family itself. He was there through years of change, joy, worry and loss, and through all the ordinary days that become precious once they are gone. He was an extraordinarily perceptive dog, with an emotional intelligence that sometimes seemed almost human. He could read the mood of the household and knew when someone needed comfort, especially Yuki. Over the years, he gave her an enormous amount of emotional support—often, if I am honest, more instinctively and reliably than I did. His devotion to her was absolute. Whatever else age took from him, he never surrendered that role: he remained her companion, her comforter and her quiet guardian. Mocca had a different relationship with each member of the family. With me, he could be affectionate, watchful and wonderfully theatrical. When I played ball with Winston, Mocca liked to curl up in my chair and observe us from above—as though his elevated position confirmed that, while Winston might be doing the running, Mocca remained the senior dog. And when I came to bed with Yuki, he would play his familiar game of treating me as an intruder, barking indignantly as if I had no possible right to be there. It was part protectiveness, part performance and entirely Mocca. He had an elaborate language of his own. A look, a sound, a movement or a carefully chosen position could communicate exactly what he wanted—and also what he thought of the rest of us. He understood far more than he sometimes let on. There were moments when one suspected that Mocca’s apparent failure to understand was not confusion at all, but a deliberate decision that our request did not suit him. He was also a loyal brother to Maui. Mocca seemed to recognize Maui’s gentler, simpler nature and quietly looked after him. As Maui grew older and more vulnerable, that bond became especially touching. Mocca appeared to understand that his brother needed watching over, and he accepted the responsibility in his own understated way. Their relationship contained both tenderness and hierarchy: Mocca was the worldly older brother, the one who kept an eye on things. Winston’s arrival brought a very different energy into the house. He was younger, noisier and more demanding, and Mocca dealt with him on his own terms—sometimes joining the family activity, sometimes withdrawing to a quieter or more elevated place from which he could supervise it. After Maui died, the relationship between Mocca and Winston inevitably changed. They were the two dogs left to navigate the altered household together, and whatever their differences, they became part of one another’s lives. Mocca understood status. He knew where everyone belonged, including himself, and it was usually somewhere near the top. Yet his authority never depended on size or noise. It came from intelligence, self-possession and his remarkable ability to read every creature around him. That worldly wisdom was hard-earned. Mocca began life in a puppy mill, yet he survived that cruel beginning and learned to trust, to love and to make himself indispensable. His survival was not merely physical. Despite what had happened to him, he remained capable of attachment, loyalty and joy. He built a secure life for himself within our family and, in doing so, helped make the family more secure too. As he grew old, his world inevitably became smaller. There were things he could no longer do, or could no longer do in quite the same way. But Mocca adapted with the same intelligence and determination that had carried him through his early life. He found different places to rest, different ways to participate and different ways to make his wishes known. He might relinquish an activity when his body required it, but he never relinquished his place in the family. Mocca was not simply a pet. He was a survivor, a guardian, a brother and a witness to 17 years of our lives. He gave us comfort, companionship, laughter and love. He helped define what home felt like. His absence leaves an enormous space, but his presence is woven permanently into our family story. We were extraordinarily lucky to have him—and he will always be part of us.