Happy Girl

 

It’s the next to last class in June’s obedience training and things are not going well. While the concept of “sit” and “down” were mastered early on, the “turnabout” and “front sit” remain elusive (it doesn’t help that I also don’t quite understand those commands). Seeing us struggling, the instructor, Mike, comes over and tries to help. Since he has a treat in hand, he’s June’s new best friend, and she jumps excitedly, breaking the rule of “off.” I watch as he coaxes June into doing the desired response, trying to remember how it’s done. But when I try, she sits, drops down, then stands, going through her short repertoire and clearly hoping that one of them will earn her a “good” and a treat. I sigh and rub her ears. “How old is she?” Mike asks, and I tell him four or five. “She’s a rescue, right?” I nod and he looks down at June’s wide, panting grin. “Well, she’s certainly a happy girl,” and he walks away. I realize in that moment that he isn’t expecting much from us.

In the short time we’ve been in class I’ve come to understand that, with rescues, the bar is set pretty low. Although the dog that Mike uses to demonstrate is also a rescue, she happens to be mostly Border Collie and is wired to learn and perform. I watch Bella the Wonder Dog with admiration and a touch of snarky jealousy as she flawlessly turns, sits, lays down, stays, and walks next to Mike in a perfect heel. He could tell her to “stay,” leave the room, get in his car, go out for a nice supper, and return an hour later to find her still sitting there, eyes glued to the door. I find myself secretly hoping she’ll make a mistake, something that would indicate she was just a dog like all the other dogs in the room. As I look from graceful, beautiful Bella to my chunky, funny, stubborn June, I feel defeated. We will never graduate, and June will never be able to take her American Kennel Club Good Citizen test and hope to pass. After an exceptionally frustrating hour, during which numerous liver treats were consumed (too bad that’s not an AKC event), Mike released us, and we bolted to the door.

I was quiet on the way home, fighting my mood. In the back seat, June panted and sat quietly, looking out the window and occasionally looking my way. “Good,” I murmured when our eyes met, a habit that apparently Mike had successfully taught me (where’s MY treat?). At home, I opened the car door and told June to wait, which she did, while I snapped her leash to her collar. “OK, c’mon,” I gestured, and she jumped out, waiting at my side, and then walked with me to the house. Once inside, I took the leash off and she ran to her water bowl, gulping and slurping as if she hadn’t had a drink in years. Then she collapsed on the kitchen floor panting and grinning wetly at me. “One more class, then we’re done,” I told her, and at the sound of my voice she came over to me and nudged my hand for some pets. As I rubbed her solid body and dandled her floppy ears, I thought about how far we’d come in the two months we’d been together. Walks were no longer dreaded, Ming the cat lived consistently and comfortably upstairs, June knows that when I leave, I’m coming back and no longer shreds the door mat attempting to see where I’ve gone, and she immediately sits and waits for a treat whenever she comes inside after a pee break. We are nowhere near the level of trust and obedience it would take for me to let June off the leash, confident that she would stay with me should a squirrel come along, but I believe she is now fully aware that I am her Person, and this is her Forever Home.

Next week we will (hopefully) graduate from Basic Obedience and get a certificate and our picture on Facebook, along with the others: The giant Newfoundland with a deep bark that shakes the ceiling, the nervous Cairn Terrier who can’t relax, the beautiful blue pit bull who hangs on his person’s every word, the old retriever who loves to roll over for belly rubs, and the young black Labrador who dances and pirouettes. And my June. A dog who has overcome so much in her hard life and is teaching me that trust and love (and treats) can make all the difference in the world. She is not a Wonder Dog, but she is a Happy Girl. And I couldn’t be prouder.

Sitting With Anger

 

It wasn’t really about the new phone, or having to re-program my Bluetooth, or the lost photos from my Cloud, although that last one was what made me collapse into tears. It was about the fact that, exactly a week ago, I had held my sweet Rhody in my arms as she left me. And that I had picked up her remains from the vet on Thursday. And that I still hadn’t found the strength to vacuum the dog hair from the corners of the bedroom. And that when the sunlight fell just right across the wood floor, I saw the ghost of her pawprints because I couldn’t bring myself to mop, either. When the AT&T guy came to my door to set up my service, he asked if I had a dog. I hesitated, eyes glancing to Rhody’s collar, hanging on a hook by the door where her leash used to hang. Then I realized he was talking about going into my neighbor’s back yard. “It’s a duplex,” I explained. “The yard isn’t mine. And yes, my neighbor has a German Shepherd.” He brightened at that and told me he, too, had a German Shepherd, and so for a few minutes we talked about the challenges of protective dogs. My veneer began to crack, ever so slightly.

Later, when he was in the living room, he asked if I had a hand vac or something for him to clean up the mess he’d made, drilling a hole in the wall. I didn’t want to get the vacuum out and told him I’d take care of it. “Oh no,” he joked. “My mom would hate it if she knew I’d left my mess for you to clean up.” I smiled and told him he’d been raised right and hauled the vacuum out of the closet. Stray dog hairs clung to the plastic body, and when he turned it on, the unmistakable whiff of “dog” entered the air. The crack grew a bit bigger. I went to the bathroom to get some aspirin, and from behind the closed bedroom door where I’d contained the cats, I heard a noise of distress. “Oh, you’re alright,” I automatically called, forgetting that my dog wasn’t around to whine. “What?” asked the technician and I realized my error. It was the neighbor’s dog, on the other side of the wall. The crack widened and allowed a couple of tears to sneak through, though I hastily wiped them before returning to the living room.

It was after the technician had left, and the coordinator had tried and failed to recover some photos I’d saved to another service’s Cloud, and I realized that my Bluetooth (upon which I heavily depended) wasn’t working, that the crack completely broke open and I lost myself in the emotions I’d been holding in. I stormed from room to room in my tiny house, ranting at AT&T for being there, yelling at Verizon for not being able to recover my lost phots, berating myself for not just leaving well enough alone, and then, finally, the truth came out: “I WANT MY DOG BACK, DAMMIT!!” And then, the tears were able to flow.

There’s a post I’ve come across several times, and it strikes me as particularly true right now: “I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me that her real name is grief”. Be gentle with those who are in its throes, especially if it’s your own self.

Saying Goodbye

Everything takes on a special significance- this last day. My dog doesn’t know it’s her final walk down to the waterway, but I do. I let her set the pace- slow and unsteady- patiently waiting as she takes what seems like hours to sniff a particular spot along the fence. As I stand there, watching her dissect the molecules of scent, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The sun is warm. The water in the canal dank. I pull gently on her leash, and we continue on. How many times have we walked down this sidewalk, along this fence, across this street? Although her eyes have clouded over, I know she could navigate this route by smell alone, not even needing to see to know who has walked here before. The pair of pit bulls who lunge and snarl as we walk by. The small yorkie who is lucky to have a mom who lets him take all the time he needs to investigate all the smells. The Jack Russell who needs to be picked up and carried in the opposite direction if we should meet. The Weimaraner who is patient and friendly with an old dog who sniffs her all over.

Many times, I hear people say that if they had only known it was going to be the last time, they would have done things differently- paid more attention to the details, taken more time to do the things, been brave enough to say the words. But today, as I am careful not to waste any of the remaining time we have together, I realize that knowing when the end is coming does not make things easier. If anything, it makes things way, way harder.

After our walk, I put Rhode on the tether in the yard and we sit outside in the bright morning sun, as we’ve done hundreds of times before. I talk to her, reminiscing, saying the words, even though I know she is unable to hear my voice. I run my hands over her back, stopping to scratch the special spot above her tail, and am rewarded with a brief wag. She was never one to be overly demonstrative, so I resist the urge to throw my arms around her solid, warm body and hold her tight. To do so would cause her anxiety, so I try to convey my love through the small back scratches and rubs along her face.

Time passes, and the vet texts me to let me know she is on her way. Suddenly, we are out of time, and I become frantic with the knowledge; unable to do anything to stop the inevitable.

In the end, the transition from life to death is quiet and almost graceful. I murmur reassuring words and rub her neck as I feel her body become heavy against my leg, her head lowering gently to the floor under my hands. The vet leaves us alone while she packs up her things, and only now am I able to fully embrace my dog and sob into her warm fur. She is gone and my heart is breaking.

Sixteen years is a good, long life for a dog, and I don’t have any misgivings. I am absolutely certain it was her time, and the most loving thing I could do for her was to let her go.  A friend wrote to me a couple of days ago that death can be “something quite beautiful and akin to emancipation or even salvation.” He was absolutely right. But oh, it is such a hard thing.