Before Jasper crashed into my life, I was privileged to share myself with Junior, a liver and white Brittany. I got him when he was 6 weeks old. We moved across the country three times. He loved, loved, loved to ride in the car. After we were ‘really’ on the road (doing highway speed) he would curl up into the smallest ball possible on the floor behind the passenger seat and wouldn’t move until the car slowed down, which, for him, meant the window would come down, he could put his head out and that a walk was in his near future.
He had a wanton disregard for any authority, most especially mine. I turned him over to a professional trainer who took him into her home for a week. Thereafter, Junior and I would meet her in a field for an hour each week where she taught me to train Junior. Two beautiful relationships came out of that experience - mine and Junior’s and mine and Peggy’s. Dogs truly bring blessings from the most unexpected places.
Junior died at the age of 13. The last year of his life was difficult for us both, but most especially for him. He had a kidney disorder, he had become blind, arthritic, senile. I struggled with the issue of ‘humanely euthanizing’ him, but just could not do it.
The day after Christmas 2002 I woke up and walked into a flooded bathroom. I mention this because I’m sure many of you have experienced similar upheavals and their effect on familial peace and well-being. Because plumbers cease to exist on 12/26, we went about figuring out how to manage living without running water. Around 6 PM that night Junior began gasping for air and choking. I called the vet who agreed to wait for us.
The vet confirmed what I already knew. He could ease Junior’s discomfort, help him to go on, but the quality of his life should be considered. That night I made the decision I had been unable to make until that moment. Junior was clearly suffering. Michael and I said goodbye to this dear soul, thanked him for being such a good companion for so long. We sat on the floor holding him for what seemed like only moments, but in looking back the vet and his staff had let us stay with him for about half an hour before coming back in. The injection was quickly effective. It was a relief to see Junior relax. The vet tech started to take off his collar and I slapped her hand away. I didn’t want anyone else to touch him. I took his collar and started to cry. Hard, heavy sobs that can only come from deep within one’s soul.
My mother sent me a plant with a note of condolence. Friends sent cards and email and called me. After those first few days of his passing, no one ever mentioned him or dogs to me again. For years. My sorrow was more apparent to them than it was to me. I didn’t realize that until a friend gave me a battery-operated dog for Christmas in 2004. I took the toy to our family gathering and commented how odd it was that none of them had thought of giving me something similar. Their response was that they would never have brought up another dog because of my grief over Junior. Until that day I hadn’t appreciated the depth of their sensitivity for the loss of my pal.
A few months after that I began looking at dogs on PetFinder.com and other rescue sites. I read the pet section of Penny Saver every week. Just looking, you understand. I wasn’t ready to bring another one into my life yet, but I enjoyed looking at them, reading about them, wondering if we’d ‘fit’.
Late summer of 2005 I decided that I would begin to search for a new companion. I decided I wanted an adult female, A rescue dog, of course. Beyond that, nothing was definite. I couldn’t decide whether to look at the breed rescues or the ‘generic’ rescues. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I looked at them all. Small dogs, medium dogs - I wasn’t set on size either. All I knew was that I wanted an adult female, preferably one that wasn’t too needy, not too aloof, preferrably with some manners and housebroken. Just right, you know?
There is a Great Pyrenees rescue kennel a few miles from my home. I researched the breed and thought we might be a match. I arranged with the owner to visit the kennel on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.
Of all the dogs there, a female named Allie was the one who captured me. She was 10 years old. As much as I liked her, I could not put myself into the position of likely going through a loss again in a year or two. The kennel owner, Dottie, and I stood there and we both cried as I told her about Junior and then she told me about her loss of a treasured dog. I wish I’d been strong enough to take Allie in, to love her for however long we had together. But I wasn’t. As it turned out, the universe had other plans for me.
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