Our black Lab trusted everyone equally, even recklessly.

Scientists have figured out dog DNA, according to a news story last week, and they have pronounced it remarkably similar to our own.

But I think the DNA of a black Lab is, in important ways, probably better.

I’ve walked three of them from cradle to grave, and each dog has been a carbon copy of the one before – loving, playful, loyal and eager to please.

Our family parted with that third dog recently, and it was the toughest thing we’ve ever had to do.

You’d think, after three dogs, that I would be better at this. You’d think I could really accept that ending our elderly dog’s painful and confused existence was best for him.

You’d think.

But it doesn’t work that way; it gets tougher each time.

It makes me wonder whether I could survive the death of a child or a spouse. People do it, I know, but how?

I’ve been fortunate. Losing a black Lab is about all the pain I think I could stand.

Sure, I’ve lost relatives. I was at an elderly aunt’s bedside when she drew her last breath, and my father died a few years ago after a long and difficult illness. And most of my older relatives have now passed away.

But that’s been different. Sad? Yes. But in each case I could look myself in the mirror and say, “That death is a relief, a happy conclusion to long life lived well.”

But a dog? I can’t seem to convince myself of that, and I’ve spent the past week trying to figure out why.

I’ve decided that it’s the DNA.

I can’t speak about other breeds, and some of them I can’t even understand. For instance, why would anyone tolerate a mean dog? Yet, people own them and, worse, encourage them to be nasty.

All of the Labs I’ve owned have had huge, generous hearts. Their DNA must contain a double helix of pure gold.

The latest one was just nuts for people. Certainly for his family, but for everyone on two feet. He loved the Poland Spring water guy and the mailman. He loved the UPS man and all of the kids’ friends.

Yes, he would also have loved the thief as he loaded up all of our worldly goods and hauled them away.

He trusted every human. Completely. Even recklessly.

We could never break him of one bad habit. He’d see a car coming and walk straight down the road at it, tail wagging, hips swinging and a big, stupid grin on his face.

He had no fear of motor vehicles, and that resulted in a number of close calls on the road near our house.

He was, however, terrified of the electric vacuum. There was a logic to that. You see, cars and trucks bring people, but he never did see the purpose of a carpet sweeper.

His love and trust were pure and completely unconditional. You could not make that dog angry. Wrestle him, yell at him, leave him alone all day. It didn’t matter – he’d come loping straight down our rural lane, tail whipping from side to side, to greet you. Whether it was in rain, cold or even snow over his head, it didn’t matter. As regular as Old Faithful.

My wife and I once paddled a mile out into a lake in our kayaks. We looked back and were shocked to see his grinning black head 50 yards behind us, swimming for all he was worth.

Just a nut.

His love was pure and his trust complete, from the day we brought him home until the day I tricked him into taking that last ride. And I’m sure he loved and trusted me even as I told the vet to shoot poison into one of his arteries.

For humans, love is always complicated. It’s so often tainted with the impurities: fear, anger, jealous, guile or guilt. We talk about loving unconditionally, and some people are better than others. But nobody is perfect. We excuse ourselves by saying we’re “only human.”

Not dogs. It’s all in the DNA, I guess.

I got home late the other night and drove down the long dirt lane to the darkened house. The headlights swept across the end of his leash partly buried in the blowing snow.

I parked the car, turned off the key and wept like a child.

If you would like to comment on this column, or share a dog memory of your own, please visit the Starting Point at www.sunjournal.com. E-mail Rhoades@sunjournal.com.

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