A Family Member First; A Dedicated Public Servant Second

Mary, Everett Police Dept.’s dedicated Police Dog is lovingly remembered by her family

By Jailyn DiNuccio

If you were to Google the definition of time, you would find words like: “the indefinite

continued progress of existence and events” or “a point in time measured in hours and

minutes.” But if you asked me to define it myself, I would say something different. I’d call

time the thief of happiness.

Time is quiet. It does not knock when it comes to take things from you. I never

understood its power until the day it stole something I loved most.

When I was younger, it felt like every friend I had grew up with a dog. After years of

pleading, my parents finally said my dad would get a police dog. She arrived with a tail like a

hammer, banging against our legs as if she already knew she belonged. Her butt wiggled to

the pitches of our laughter. From that very first day, I knew this dog was not just going to be

part of our family. She was going to be everything including my best friend.

Her name was Mary. Some said it was strange, but to me, it was perfect. She was

brave at work, fierce and focused, saving the day beside my dad. But at home, she was

soft. She was love in its purest form, quiet, loyal, patient. She let me ramble when no one

else listened. She chased toys and went on walks around the block. And every single time I

cried, she came over, rested her head on me, and licked the tears right off my cheeks. That

was her way of saying “everything is going to be okay.”

Some memories stand out more than most. It was memories at sports games when

I became too nervous to function so I would scan the bleachers, trying to find my parents.

But then I saw her first. Mary. Sitting upright next to my dad, her ears perked, eyes locked

on the field or court like she knew exactly what was happening. After each game, she ran

up to not only me, but any person who wanted to say hi. I did not care about the score. Mary

had been there, and that made it unforgettable

Eight years later, time caught up with her. I came home from school and walked

through the door like it was any other day. But it wasn’t. My dad sat me down and told me

that Mary had cancer in her back leg. It had gotten too bad. She was in pain. And we had to

let her go. could not speak. I could not breathe. The only thing I could do was cry. If l’m

being honest, they were not just cries, they were heavy, shaking sobs. How do you say

goodbye to someone who gave you everything and asked for nothing?

Mary was not just a dog. She was a piece of my heart walking around outside my

body. Everywhere we went, she was remembered. A trip to Dunkin’ meant someone asking,

“Where’s Mary?” A stop at the bank turned into “No dog today?” She was known. She was

loved. She was ours. And now she was slipping away.

So, what does this have to do with time? It’s everything. I spent so long waiting for
weekends. For summer. For the next thing. I was too busy dreaming of what was ahead to
notice what was slipping behind. I thought there would always be more time for one more
walk. One more cuddle. One more “I love you.” But time does not wait. Not for anyone. Not
even for Mary. I wish I had realized sooner. I wish I had been more present. I wish I had told
her, really told her, what she meant to me, instead of assuming she already knew.

That day I found out the sad news, I cradled her and cried into her fur, and she did it
again. She licked my face, one final time. Even in her pain, she was comforting me. That is
how I knew, somehow, everything was going to be all right. Time is a thief. And I will miss
what it stole for the rest of my life.