Her blood work was abnormal and they did an extra liver test to ensure it would be ok and that test came back totally normal. And yet I worried.
While she was at the vet for surgery and recovery, I decided to deep clean my house. And that involved getting my file cabinet in order.
I got rid of a lot of paper. A lot of stuff that was more than ten years old!
In that paper were files on each of the dogs I've had since I could totally consider the dogs mine. Fred's file. Phoebe's file. Cody's file.
Each time a dog of mine has died I've had people console me. They know how deeply I love my dogs and they reach out and they use words of comfort and they tell me I gave that dog a happy, full life. And, inevitably, at least one of the consolers will point out that this is the reason why they cannot have dogs. They don't live long enough. The pain of their eventual demise is far too much. No dog can live up to the memory of the dog that came before them and made them know that pain. All of those things. And I listen and I nod and I say "uh huh" and things of that sort because I'm too tired and sad to argue.
I have loved each of my dogs deeply and completely. My heart, without question, has a dog shaped area that is only happy when it is filled with a dog. When they die, that dog shaped area is empty and I grieve and I am sad and I miss them and my life feels, and is, quieter because they are no longer in it.
And then? The day arrives that the dog shaped hole in my heart needs to be filled. And the only thing that can fill it is a dog. It's a dog shaped hole. That's how that works.
I am a person that finds it absolutely vital to have a dog. I just do. I don't know why but it's the case. I can't stop bringing those little fuzzy balls of happiness into my life simply because they will die some day. And I can absolutely have one without the memory of the ones that came before tainting anything. And it's not because I've not had awesome dogs. I absolutely have.
Fred was the gentlest soul I have ever known. He was so gentle and kind that the rabbits could sense it. Wild rabbits learned that Fred was no threat to them and they would happily stay in the yard as he lounged in the Sun and enjoyed their company. My boy and the wild rabbits, living in unity. And if I was sick? He was right there. He was an excellent dog. He was dramatic and funny and sweet.
Then I disrupted his life by bringing home Phoebe. And my goodness what a handful she was right out of the gate. But she feel in love with Fred immediately. Why wouldn't she? When you are around kindness of that sort, you are drawn to it. My girl had some issues. But I believed in her and I was responsible for her and I take that very seriously. I worked with her and earned her trust and she matured into just the best girl. So mature and lovely. And funny! And just, spunky! Good lord her personality was amazingly fun. She would bounce when she was happy. Literally bounce as she walked. And smile. And it was hard to not smile along with her when you saw it.
Then Fred died. And we mourned his loss. That was felt deep in my soul.
But then we brought Cody into our lives. And he and Phoebe became the best of friends. Brother and sister. He was the one and only dog that Phoebe loved, tolerated, and trusted completely. Because he was calm. He had such a calm spirit. Calm and goofy. And they would run and chase each other and lay all intertwined on the floor or a bed or the couch and right at my feet and wherever I was. They were my companions and they were each others companions and we were a family filled with love. Those two guys were with me during the divorce, my new found independence, my move across the country. All of it. They were there. And they trusted me. And I loved them.
Phoebe died. And, once again, my soul was so sad. But I had to be strong because Cody's grief over losing his friend eclipsed anything I felt. It was now my mission to make him happy and to help him transition into being the only dog.
That was not easy and it took some time and I truly do not think he ever fully recovered. But he tried. And I tried to make being the only dog, my boy, OK.
And then he started having seizures. And then he, too, died.
I didn't have much time to really mourn him. I left for Russia a few days after he died so distractions and life got in the way of that. But once I did, once I finally sat down and realized my boy was gone...my sweet, Beagle trained to be stubborn, Golden boy of love was gone.
Once again there was a dog shaped hole in my heart.
I tried to ignore it. I did. I tried to tell myself it was ok to just be me and a cat. I love the cat, after all. But she's not dog shaped. And my heart knew I was lying. I didn't. Not yet.
But then I went home for Thanksgiving and I hung out with Charlie. He was my Gramma's dog but by that point he was already living with my Mom and Dad. And he was funny and fun and all of a sudden that dog shaped hole in my heart started to throb a bit more noticeably.
May to November 2013. The longest I'd been without a dog since I was a child and we got our first family dog.
I didn't get Gladys until January. And it happened unexpectedly, as I already explained, but she filled that hole so quickly. For such a wee girl, she is filling the dog shaped hole in my heart and then some.
I got rid of Fred's file. And Phoebe's file. And Cody's file. There are a few key things from each dog I still have. But the bulk of it is gone. Because they are gone...but not forgotten. And I don't need their medical files to remind me that I had them.
So when people talk to me about not being able to have a dog because of the grief they feel when they die, I just cannot relate. Because I cannot imagine trading the years of joy and love that they bring for never feeling that loss. I just cannot.
And all of that is what I thought about as I cleaned up my house and waited to hear that my new wee girl that lives in the dog shaped spot in my heart had made it through surgery. Which she did. And she's been doing great all weekend.
Gladys fills my life with so much humor. She is funny and happy and just, simply, loves being alive. She loves the sunshine. She loves to chase birds. She loves to just lay in the grass. She loves a good stick. She loves getting into things if she feels I'm ignoring her. She loves to follow me around. She truly seems to be a fuzzy embodiment of happiness. And that's pretty great. She's six months old now. I hope I have many, many, many more years ahead of us to enjoy.
