The last time I saw my brother’s dog — 14.5 years old, scruffy fur, splayed hips, milky eyes — I cupped her muzzle in my hand and told her she was a Good Girl. I had a feeling it might be the last time I would scratch her head. She stared into my eyes.
Wrigley seemed fine, though old. On that day, a couple weeks ago, we all sang “Happy Half Birthday” to her. Then she climbed up onto my nephew’s chair and ate his hot dog, the entire thing, while he was up getting himself a drink. She’d been doing that since her puppyhood. How many meals did she swipe from tables and countertops? I’m sure my sister-in-law lost count.
The tragedy of loving a nonhuman creature is the knowledge that you will (you pray) outlive them. Not only that, but you will almost certainly choose the time, place and manner of your furry loved one’s passing. There is no guidebook for this, no preparation for such an enormous responsibility.
My brother’s family’s heartbreak is not mine and I don’t want to speak out of turn, or get out of my skis, or some other metaphor. But I loved Wrigley, too. And losing her made me think about the stories I love in my memory of my two dearly departed dogs, Lucy and Sadie. After 11 years without Lucy (how?) and nearly four without Sadie, I remember the sweet and funny stories most. I try to focus on those, rather than the ones that make me feel guilt, shame and sadness, although those memories live in my heart just as deeply. I like to think the warm memories make it all worth it, although every loss decimates you. I mean that in the mathematical way. It takes away a tenth of you.
Here are some of the funny memories, in honor of Wrigley.
Lucy
We’d had her about a year, and went for a long hike to a lake that is fed by a glacier. It’s a popular trail and we weren’t sure what to expect, because Lucy did not like other dogs. She was an Australian cattle dog, also called a blue heeler—although she was more red than blue merle—and that made her a working dog. She pulled us up that steep trail like it was the most important job in the world. She completely ignored every other dog and person, toiling the entire time. When we reached the lake, we thought she was thirsty so we let her pull us to the water. Instead of splashing around or taking a drink, she just lay down, at exactly the right depth to cover everything but her head.
Sadie
We got her two weeks after we lost Lucy. I read a book and many essays by the writer Jon Katz, who owned border collies and wrote beautiful things about them. We went to a senior dog rescue, because I missed my senior dog, and Sadie was there. Seeing a lonely border collie felt like fate. She looked up at me, flapping her tail, and I knew she was my dog.
Lucy
My husband’s sister got a new puppy one year, and around the holidays we all went to my mother-in-law’s house. At one point we were watching a movie, and we all—dogs included—sat peacefully. Totally unprompted and apropos of nothing, Lucy stood up, walked across the room, and peed on my sister-in-law’s Boxer puppy. We apologized profusely, but also found it hilarious.
Sadie
This hyper border collie needed constant stimulation. I knew this about working dogs—we’d already had a herder, Lucy—but I was unprepared for the border collie strain of intelligence, focus, and wit. I know dogs aren’t supposed to be capable of humor, but I don’t care what people say, because Sadie was capable. Sometimes when we would leave the house for a while, she would march back upstairs, jump onto our bed, pull the sheets and pillows down, and go to sleep. She had two couches and approximately four dog beds, mind you. Sometimes she also peed on our bed, just a tiny bit, just to show us who was boss. Sometimes she would steal an entire loaf of ciabatta and make a point to lay down next to the crumbs, to make sure I knew, and could clean up. It was almost like an apology. But I wasn’t mad, just impressed.
Lucy
The peeing on the puppy was funny, but my favorite holiday memory of Lucy is something else. Once on a walk, she noticed that a neighbor had placed a wooden reindeer outside their house. Lucy eyed it suspiciously, then began growling. I wasn’t sure what she was after, so I let her lead me toward the neighbor’s reindeer.
This was not just a wooden reindeer. It was more like a log with four other logs attached as legs, a small log as a head, and twigs for antlers. It was barely suggestive of anything at all. It was probably from the rustic holiday decorations aisle at Home Depot. But Lucy was determined to meet it. She kept a low growl, ears back, chest puffed out. Finally she got close enough to sniff its rear end, then immediately turned tail and walked away quickly, as if she was embarrassed by her mistake. It was a long time before I stopped laughing.
Sadie
My focused border collie, so obsessed with squirrels and rabbits, needed a real outlet for her prey drive and herding abilities. She was a rescue, so I have no idea if she ever worked as a herding dog, but it would not have surprised me at all. Whenever we took her to an area with horses or cattle, she would become very businesslike; her posture changed. Eventually, I signed her up for agility lessons, and drove all the way from St. Louis to rural Illinois every Sunday, over the Mississippi River and through some truly seedy strip-club-laden areas. She never got very good, and we eventually stopped after she broke her paw a year in (long story), but I think she loved it. Especially the tunnel.
Sunshine
My third dog is still here. I raised her from 8 weeks of age. I know what people say about breeders, and I don’t care, because I needed a dog whose life story I knew; I couldn’t bear another shocking loss of a pet of unknown age. At 4, Sunshine is still a puppy a lot of the time, zooming through our woods or our living room when the mood strikes. I come home from an hour at the store and she freaks out. I come home from a three-day trip and she falls down, squirming, crying, peeing, literally unable to contain her emotions upon my return. She is sitting beside me as I write this, with her namesake dappling her face. The tip of her muzzle looks white sometimes, and I pretend it does not.
This dog, who arrived after I lost something, helped save me. This is a true statement. But man, sometimes she can be annoying. I feel bad writing that, but it’s true. My older daughter often admonishes me to be nicer to this creature who worships me. I am never mean to her, though. She sleeps on my lap, basically owns the couch, receives constant attention and frequent treats, gets plenty of walks. But I sometimes wonder, is that enough? Are my walks, greetings and belly rubs filling her cup?
I hope so. I hope I filled Sadie’s, and I hope I filled Lucy’s. They were all beloved, of that I have no doubt. Just like Wrigley.
Rest well, Wrigleypup. We will miss you dearly. May the countertops on the other side of the rainbow be spilling over with chicken breasts and hot dogs.
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Top image credit: CC-By-2.0 Alan Levine via Flickr