The summer that I decided to seriously look into adopting a Greyhound, I was struggling. My last baby was quickly growing up and I was facing a crisis of identity. Who was I without a full uterus or a baby on my hip? I had not cultivated a career to return to after my youngest child entered school and the only other thing that had taken the majority of my time was ending-not unexpectedly, but abruptly. This whole, huge chapter of my life was winding down and I had no material with which to start a new one.
Along with the realization that this was happening much sooner than I had anticipated, I realized that I am not an easy person to love (or tolerate, really). I would expect that people would describe me as prickly at best, snarky and argumentative at worst. I don't deny I am any of those things-they are defense mechanisms built into me from very early childhood. I was a victim of bullying long before "bullying" became a thing. Early elementary school was an excruciating experience for me and unfortunately in adulthood that experience has manifested itself in ways that seem to only put off and offend. And I have ADD, which pretty much puts me on the crappy friend list almost immediately, even without the childhood emotional scars.
Oh, I had plenty of acquaintances who would check in with me every once in a while, but I wasn't the person they called to chat with on a regular basis or drop by to visit with or to invite out to dinner regularly. People tried and I was tolerated, but either my personality or my number of children eventually turned them away and I was abandoned as their project and they moved on to people who were easier to deal with. I was okay with that while I was distracted, busy tending to babies and toddlers, but the thought of being all alone, all day, every day was daunting.
Of course, at the time I didn't understand these things exactly. When I say "realization" I mean that all I knew is that in the very center of me I felt empty and sad. And that sadness often manifested itself as anger and depression. My poor husband. He is such a good man, rarely rising to my level of argumentativeness and negativity, and for much of our marriage I have been nothing but a huge test of patience and self-control for him. That summer it got intensely worse, partly because he had immersed himself in work and Little League duties and I was angry that he wasn't seeing what was happening me. Also partly because I was keenly aware that something wasn't quite right with me, and it scared me.
So what do I do? I decide I need a dog. And not just any dog. A dog that was quite likely as emotionally broken as I was. A dog who was going to be as prickly and distant as I felt inside. I decided we could heal each other.
Either that or I was going to end up in a mental hospital.
That's not an exaggeration.
That's how bad I was struggling.
I announced to my husband that we were going to adopt a Greyhound. That's how I tend to do things. I am probably not the best (or any) example of a meek, deferent wife (or person in general). I decide to do something, I inform my husband and then I take action in a bull-in-a-china-shop way. I reached out to friends on Instagram who had experience with Greys. I read the recommended books. I joined the online forums. I Googled and read and researched until my mind was occupied with nothing but Greyhounds. He of course, wanted to plan it all out, carefully consider and analyze the situation. But to an ADDer who has decided to point her razor-sharp focus on a project, planning didn't interest me and neither did my husband's input.
This was going to be my dog. He didn't really get a say.
So, to say he was surprised when I moved his plan to wait until late fall to start considering candidates to summer, was an understatement. I pored over the Greys that came available in the adoption group I had submitted an application to. Much to my surprise, many of them were adopted quickly, which, of course, drove my intensity higher. I was desperate and I didn't want to wait. I went to Greyhound meet and greets at pet stores. In Maryland.
I bought things for the Grey we didn't yet have. A bed, blankets, toys, a custom made collar. As these things made their way prominently into our living room, I realized I was nesting. Preparing for another dependent. One that would never grow up and not need me. The thought of it was comforting, and I knew that what was making me so sad was the feeling of not being needed or even wanted.
One evening after he arrived home, I passed him on the front stoop as I announced that I was taking Salsa (our very small, agoraphobic mixed breed who was a very good dog, but she didn't need me. And I needed to be needed.) to meet a Grey that was a potential match for our family. He looked at me, alarmed and surprised that this process was moving along so swiftly. Not according to his plan. Not following his analysis. He told me so and half expected me to change my mind about seeing this dog.
I dropped the custom made collar into my pocket and started the car.
That dog ended up not being a match for us. He was a sweet dog, but unfortunately for me, he had a high prey drive, which didn't bode well for little Salsa. He was eventually adopted into a home with a Whippet for a sibling. I was undaunted. I kept searching the adoption website. Obsessively, really. I said I would take any gender, and color and truly I would have. But what I really wished for in my heart was a brindle female.
And then one day, there she was. A small (for a Greyhound) brindle female being fostered in Pennsylvania.
Pennsylvania.
But this was her. I knew it.
This was my dog.
I needed her and she needed me.
So I announced that while the kids were in school, we were going to take a quick drive to Pennsylvania and look at this dog. My husband, resigned to my timeline now, agreed to go with me-probably mostly just in case I had accidentally gotten myself mixed up in some sort of serial killer situation. So we packed up the two younger kids into Big Blue and sped up to southern Pennsylvania.
She was a bit apprehensive when we met her, but she was a happy dog, wagging her tail at me and walking willingly and nicely on the leash as I took her for a quick walk around her foster family's neighborhood. She was so very soft to the touch, especially around her ears and on her throat. She had no problems with being touched and when she leaned on me, I knew for sure that I would not leave that house without that dog.
Papers signed, adoption fee check written, she jumped into the back of Big Blue and we raced the clock to get home in time for the kids to get out of school. Her first introduction to them was in front of their schoolmates, who clambered over each other to touch and love on this alien dog who, in hindsight, was probably scared to death, but she endured the attention with patience.
We got home and the process of getting to know one another began. I named her Cora- it means "maiden"- because I hated her track name. I accessorized her. I tried to get her to wear coats and sweaters when the days got frigid. She politely refused by feigning a limp so drastic that we thought that she'd actually hurt herself.
The children adored her, of course, and my husband warmed to her right away, despite the shortened timeline he had in his mind. But in the end, she was mine, and the process of healing had begun. When she arrived home, she had to learn to deal with stairs. A lot. If you've ever seen a Greyhound climbing stairs, imagine what it might look like for a pregnant giraffe to climb stairs. It's awkward and painful looking and unfortunately for her, it was the only way to get to the outside to pee. We didn't yet have a fenced yard, so those first few months were filled with walks together, which is the best way for dog and owner to get to know one another anyways.
When we weren't walking though, she really didn't care to be touched. She didn't object to being touched (most of the time) but she didn't seek me- or any one of us- out for affection. She rarely left the living room/dining room/kitchen. She didn't attempt to jump into our bed to sleep, or even seem to be the least bit lonely sleeping all by herself in her bed or on the sofa of the living room. I often looked at her and wondered if I had been wrong about her needing me. Nevertheless, I needed her, and when I wasn't caring for my children, I was doting on her. She tolerated me patiently as I carefully stroked the bunny-soft fur on her throat and behind her ears. She never once sighed in aggravation as I ran my hands up and down the 6 inch cowlick on her neck that looked like a mane.
I was her annoyance.
She was my therapy.
It took several months before I saw the day that she reached out to me on her own. The memory of it is seared into my mind-it was a bit redeeming to have been so patient to reach this stage- patience isn't a quality that many ADDers can claim. I was seated on the couch and she was laying head toward me on the other end. Slowly, without my even really realizing it, she scooted her way toward me, eventually touching the top of her head to my thigh. She sighed contentedly and continued her nap.
My waiting was her therapy.
After that, she rarely slept away from me when I was in her presence. If she was sleeping near me, some part of her touched me, whether it was a head or a paw. She knew she could trust me. She never did try to sleep in our bed, despite my encouragement and was quite content to sleep in the living room on her own. She would pad her way down the hall every early morning at around 1 a.m. to rouse my husband to let her outside. Then she'd go back to her own bed to finish the rest of the night in peace.
Eventually, she and I fell into a comfortable friendship, she was something that loved me unconditionally: she would never get angry or upset that I didn't call her, she didn't expect anything but food and affection from me, and if I didn't feel like responding to her, she was quite happy to still be my friend when I was in a better mood. She became my constant- as a mom, you spend a lot of your time adjusting to change as your children grow and slip from stage to stage and in different seasons of life. And over time many people come and go- they drift away naturally or decide they just don't want to be around your crazy anymore and leave.
Dogs are different, they change, but once they're adults they pretty much are who they are. She was who she was and I didn't have to be afraid that she would abandon me when I didn't act how she expected me to act. We were this pair for over four years.
~***~
The illness took her quickly. I guess in the end, that was good. It would have been more painful to have to live out a long, drawn out sickness.
Three weeks before she died, she started eating only one meal a day. I thought she was just tired of her food, so I added an egg to her bowl and she started eating more animatedly. After two weeks of eggs to tempt her appetite, she began refusing all food, even treats. Alarm bells went off. I wanted to rush her to the doctor, but since The Big Thing happened, we have very little discretionary money and we lost all of our food benefit at the end of January so that meant zero extra money. I did everything my training at my former job at an animal hospital taught me to do. I looked for signs, I made her food really appetizing. She ate in small spurts and I became hopeful.
A week after I was able to get her to eat small portions, she ate a large meal one evening feeding. "She's on the mend!" I whispered to myself. Then one of the children who had been playing outside the next morning came inside and announced they'd found "a huge pile of puke" outside. It hit me in the gut. She stopped eating altogether again after that, and I knew that helping her at this point was outside my personal expertise. We didn't have a lot of money, but since she had been eating small meals, I was hopeful that it was an intestinal issue that could be corrected with a little medication. So, I had my husband call to make an appointment for the next day.
When we arrived at the clinic I knew it was bad. She had lost seven pounds over the course of the past few weeks. Seven pounds doesn't sound like a lot, but on a Greyhound it might as well have been 70. She was now one pound over her racing weight, and racing weight is usually quite low. The doctor did a thorough external exam and she was relaxed enough for a dog being examined-until he got to her belly. He said there was something wrong in there, but without further (read: very expensive) tests, he couldn't be sure what it was. I cried and begged him to try something that wouldn't cost the $900 he was estimating a diagnosis to cost. We just didn't have that. And we wouldn't have it any time soon.
Our vet is a kind man, and he was sympathetic to our plight, but unable to waive almost a thousand dollars of tests and work, he sent us home with medication and we both hoped for the best.
The four years we spent with each other caused her to trust me implicitly. So she laid quietly and patiently as I tried to coax her into eating her meds and then later resorted to pilling her directly, hoping desperately that they would change whatever was causing her to not eat. The doctor said that if the medications he had prescribed were going to work, we would see results in three to four days.
By day four, she had lost so much weight we could see the tumor in her belly.
It had been hidden in her chest, protected for probably quite some time by her ribcage, until it grew so large that it made its way down into her belly and blocked her intestines. She wouldn't eat because she couldn't. I was insistent (because I am a selfish human being and could not let her go) that she finish the course of antibiotics and appetite stimulants that the vet had prescribed. The small bowls of Greek yogurt that she ate a couple times a day encouraged me.
I ignored the bulge in her side.
On day seven I went to stroke her familiar soft parts and ran my hand down her back. The bones of her spine bumped along under my hand and I got to her back legs and my fingers sunk into soft, swollen flesh. Her kidneys had failed and she was rapidly drowning in the junk that they usually filtered out. I called my husband, hysterical. I knew what had to happen. My girl was a miserable wreck. Her body was failing her and she needed me to be brave for her and make this decision.
My husband called the vet's office and made his way home from work. While we waited for him, I stroked her and told her how good a girl she was and how much I appreciated what she had done for me. I explained to her how she saved me from myself and how she healed my heart from feeling abandoned. I told her that she was going to be free soon and that I loved her. She groaned and whimpered from pain and laid her head on my lap.
My husband arrived home and the children that were home at the time said their good-byes and he left with her. My good husband was the one who stayed with her on her way out of this world. I could not bear to watch her life drain from her body. To see her there one second and gone the next. My heart would have broken in two to witness it. I knew he was there for her and that was comfort for me.
She died on a Thursday afternoon.
That's all I remember about that day.
When the doctor saw her that day, a week exactly after he had seen her when he prescribed meds and we hoped for the best, he examined her again, and concluded from the location of the tumor that it was likely pancreatic cancer and we would have been able to do nothing for her, regardless of how much money we had. I know he was trying to comfort my husband, but it didn't make me feel any better. I felt like I had failed her.
We couldn't afford to have her ashes returned to us, so this spring I plan to plant a lilac bush in memory of her near our front door. A friend from Instagram, whom I've never met, sent me a lovely bracelet with her name stamped on the inside, and it reminds me that she existed-that she was here and she, though a dog, made a difference in my life.
She healed me in ways that I cannot explain. I'm still a little impulsive and tend to say things before I think, but I like to think that she mellowed me, left me more able to be open to others and not expect a lot from them in order to not be disappointed by them. She made me get out of bed to take care of her on days when not even the call of my children could do that because of depression. She, in her own magical way, showed me that patience is indeed a virtue, and if I would only exercise it a bit more often, I would see great rewards. She taught me that being weird and goofy and a little bit quirky is okay, and someone, somewhere out there would befriend me in spite of those deficits. I think in many ways, God used her to show me that, although I am broken, I can accept love and grace and mercy- that it is okay for me to receive those things and it is okay for me to give those things away- there's never a shortage.
And honestly, if that is all that she had done for me in those four short years, it would have been enough. I am leaving so, so much out of our story because, well, it was four years and I know that many people don't care that I am this emotional about my dog.
I just had to write it. To get it out. To tell people about her and the gift that she gave me.
She gave me myself.
~M~
Along with the realization that this was happening much sooner than I had anticipated, I realized that I am not an easy person to love (or tolerate, really). I would expect that people would describe me as prickly at best, snarky and argumentative at worst. I don't deny I am any of those things-they are defense mechanisms built into me from very early childhood. I was a victim of bullying long before "bullying" became a thing. Early elementary school was an excruciating experience for me and unfortunately in adulthood that experience has manifested itself in ways that seem to only put off and offend. And I have ADD, which pretty much puts me on the crappy friend list almost immediately, even without the childhood emotional scars.
Oh, I had plenty of acquaintances who would check in with me every once in a while, but I wasn't the person they called to chat with on a regular basis or drop by to visit with or to invite out to dinner regularly. People tried and I was tolerated, but either my personality or my number of children eventually turned them away and I was abandoned as their project and they moved on to people who were easier to deal with. I was okay with that while I was distracted, busy tending to babies and toddlers, but the thought of being all alone, all day, every day was daunting.
Of course, at the time I didn't understand these things exactly. When I say "realization" I mean that all I knew is that in the very center of me I felt empty and sad. And that sadness often manifested itself as anger and depression. My poor husband. He is such a good man, rarely rising to my level of argumentativeness and negativity, and for much of our marriage I have been nothing but a huge test of patience and self-control for him. That summer it got intensely worse, partly because he had immersed himself in work and Little League duties and I was angry that he wasn't seeing what was happening me. Also partly because I was keenly aware that something wasn't quite right with me, and it scared me.
So what do I do? I decide I need a dog. And not just any dog. A dog that was quite likely as emotionally broken as I was. A dog who was going to be as prickly and distant as I felt inside. I decided we could heal each other.
Either that or I was going to end up in a mental hospital.
That's not an exaggeration.
That's how bad I was struggling.
I announced to my husband that we were going to adopt a Greyhound. That's how I tend to do things. I am probably not the best (or any) example of a meek, deferent wife (or person in general). I decide to do something, I inform my husband and then I take action in a bull-in-a-china-shop way. I reached out to friends on Instagram who had experience with Greys. I read the recommended books. I joined the online forums. I Googled and read and researched until my mind was occupied with nothing but Greyhounds. He of course, wanted to plan it all out, carefully consider and analyze the situation. But to an ADDer who has decided to point her razor-sharp focus on a project, planning didn't interest me and neither did my husband's input.
This was going to be my dog. He didn't really get a say.
So, to say he was surprised when I moved his plan to wait until late fall to start considering candidates to summer, was an understatement. I pored over the Greys that came available in the adoption group I had submitted an application to. Much to my surprise, many of them were adopted quickly, which, of course, drove my intensity higher. I was desperate and I didn't want to wait. I went to Greyhound meet and greets at pet stores. In Maryland.
I bought things for the Grey we didn't yet have. A bed, blankets, toys, a custom made collar. As these things made their way prominently into our living room, I realized I was nesting. Preparing for another dependent. One that would never grow up and not need me. The thought of it was comforting, and I knew that what was making me so sad was the feeling of not being needed or even wanted.
One evening after he arrived home, I passed him on the front stoop as I announced that I was taking Salsa (our very small, agoraphobic mixed breed who was a very good dog, but she didn't need me. And I needed to be needed.) to meet a Grey that was a potential match for our family. He looked at me, alarmed and surprised that this process was moving along so swiftly. Not according to his plan. Not following his analysis. He told me so and half expected me to change my mind about seeing this dog.
I dropped the custom made collar into my pocket and started the car.
That dog ended up not being a match for us. He was a sweet dog, but unfortunately for me, he had a high prey drive, which didn't bode well for little Salsa. He was eventually adopted into a home with a Whippet for a sibling. I was undaunted. I kept searching the adoption website. Obsessively, really. I said I would take any gender, and color and truly I would have. But what I really wished for in my heart was a brindle female.
And then one day, there she was. A small (for a Greyhound) brindle female being fostered in Pennsylvania.
Pennsylvania.
But this was her. I knew it.
This was my dog.
I needed her and she needed me.
So I announced that while the kids were in school, we were going to take a quick drive to Pennsylvania and look at this dog. My husband, resigned to my timeline now, agreed to go with me-probably mostly just in case I had accidentally gotten myself mixed up in some sort of serial killer situation. So we packed up the two younger kids into Big Blue and sped up to southern Pennsylvania.
She was a bit apprehensive when we met her, but she was a happy dog, wagging her tail at me and walking willingly and nicely on the leash as I took her for a quick walk around her foster family's neighborhood. She was so very soft to the touch, especially around her ears and on her throat. She had no problems with being touched and when she leaned on me, I knew for sure that I would not leave that house without that dog.
Papers signed, adoption fee check written, she jumped into the back of Big Blue and we raced the clock to get home in time for the kids to get out of school. Her first introduction to them was in front of their schoolmates, who clambered over each other to touch and love on this alien dog who, in hindsight, was probably scared to death, but she endured the attention with patience.
We got home and the process of getting to know one another began. I named her Cora- it means "maiden"- because I hated her track name. I accessorized her. I tried to get her to wear coats and sweaters when the days got frigid. She politely refused by feigning a limp so drastic that we thought that she'd actually hurt herself.
The children adored her, of course, and my husband warmed to her right away, despite the shortened timeline he had in his mind. But in the end, she was mine, and the process of healing had begun. When she arrived home, she had to learn to deal with stairs. A lot. If you've ever seen a Greyhound climbing stairs, imagine what it might look like for a pregnant giraffe to climb stairs. It's awkward and painful looking and unfortunately for her, it was the only way to get to the outside to pee. We didn't yet have a fenced yard, so those first few months were filled with walks together, which is the best way for dog and owner to get to know one another anyways.
When we weren't walking though, she really didn't care to be touched. She didn't object to being touched (most of the time) but she didn't seek me- or any one of us- out for affection. She rarely left the living room/dining room/kitchen. She didn't attempt to jump into our bed to sleep, or even seem to be the least bit lonely sleeping all by herself in her bed or on the sofa of the living room. I often looked at her and wondered if I had been wrong about her needing me. Nevertheless, I needed her, and when I wasn't caring for my children, I was doting on her. She tolerated me patiently as I carefully stroked the bunny-soft fur on her throat and behind her ears. She never once sighed in aggravation as I ran my hands up and down the 6 inch cowlick on her neck that looked like a mane.
I was her annoyance.
She was my therapy.
It took several months before I saw the day that she reached out to me on her own. The memory of it is seared into my mind-it was a bit redeeming to have been so patient to reach this stage- patience isn't a quality that many ADDers can claim. I was seated on the couch and she was laying head toward me on the other end. Slowly, without my even really realizing it, she scooted her way toward me, eventually touching the top of her head to my thigh. She sighed contentedly and continued her nap.
My waiting was her therapy.
After that, she rarely slept away from me when I was in her presence. If she was sleeping near me, some part of her touched me, whether it was a head or a paw. She knew she could trust me. She never did try to sleep in our bed, despite my encouragement and was quite content to sleep in the living room on her own. She would pad her way down the hall every early morning at around 1 a.m. to rouse my husband to let her outside. Then she'd go back to her own bed to finish the rest of the night in peace.
Eventually, she and I fell into a comfortable friendship, she was something that loved me unconditionally: she would never get angry or upset that I didn't call her, she didn't expect anything but food and affection from me, and if I didn't feel like responding to her, she was quite happy to still be my friend when I was in a better mood. She became my constant- as a mom, you spend a lot of your time adjusting to change as your children grow and slip from stage to stage and in different seasons of life. And over time many people come and go- they drift away naturally or decide they just don't want to be around your crazy anymore and leave.
Dogs are different, they change, but once they're adults they pretty much are who they are. She was who she was and I didn't have to be afraid that she would abandon me when I didn't act how she expected me to act. We were this pair for over four years.
~***~
The illness took her quickly. I guess in the end, that was good. It would have been more painful to have to live out a long, drawn out sickness.
Three weeks before she died, she started eating only one meal a day. I thought she was just tired of her food, so I added an egg to her bowl and she started eating more animatedly. After two weeks of eggs to tempt her appetite, she began refusing all food, even treats. Alarm bells went off. I wanted to rush her to the doctor, but since The Big Thing happened, we have very little discretionary money and we lost all of our food benefit at the end of January so that meant zero extra money. I did everything my training at my former job at an animal hospital taught me to do. I looked for signs, I made her food really appetizing. She ate in small spurts and I became hopeful.
A week after I was able to get her to eat small portions, she ate a large meal one evening feeding. "She's on the mend!" I whispered to myself. Then one of the children who had been playing outside the next morning came inside and announced they'd found "a huge pile of puke" outside. It hit me in the gut. She stopped eating altogether again after that, and I knew that helping her at this point was outside my personal expertise. We didn't have a lot of money, but since she had been eating small meals, I was hopeful that it was an intestinal issue that could be corrected with a little medication. So, I had my husband call to make an appointment for the next day.
When we arrived at the clinic I knew it was bad. She had lost seven pounds over the course of the past few weeks. Seven pounds doesn't sound like a lot, but on a Greyhound it might as well have been 70. She was now one pound over her racing weight, and racing weight is usually quite low. The doctor did a thorough external exam and she was relaxed enough for a dog being examined-until he got to her belly. He said there was something wrong in there, but without further (read: very expensive) tests, he couldn't be sure what it was. I cried and begged him to try something that wouldn't cost the $900 he was estimating a diagnosis to cost. We just didn't have that. And we wouldn't have it any time soon.
Our vet is a kind man, and he was sympathetic to our plight, but unable to waive almost a thousand dollars of tests and work, he sent us home with medication and we both hoped for the best.
The four years we spent with each other caused her to trust me implicitly. So she laid quietly and patiently as I tried to coax her into eating her meds and then later resorted to pilling her directly, hoping desperately that they would change whatever was causing her to not eat. The doctor said that if the medications he had prescribed were going to work, we would see results in three to four days.
By day four, she had lost so much weight we could see the tumor in her belly.
It had been hidden in her chest, protected for probably quite some time by her ribcage, until it grew so large that it made its way down into her belly and blocked her intestines. She wouldn't eat because she couldn't. I was insistent (because I am a selfish human being and could not let her go) that she finish the course of antibiotics and appetite stimulants that the vet had prescribed. The small bowls of Greek yogurt that she ate a couple times a day encouraged me.
I ignored the bulge in her side.
On day seven I went to stroke her familiar soft parts and ran my hand down her back. The bones of her spine bumped along under my hand and I got to her back legs and my fingers sunk into soft, swollen flesh. Her kidneys had failed and she was rapidly drowning in the junk that they usually filtered out. I called my husband, hysterical. I knew what had to happen. My girl was a miserable wreck. Her body was failing her and she needed me to be brave for her and make this decision.
My husband called the vet's office and made his way home from work. While we waited for him, I stroked her and told her how good a girl she was and how much I appreciated what she had done for me. I explained to her how she saved me from myself and how she healed my heart from feeling abandoned. I told her that she was going to be free soon and that I loved her. She groaned and whimpered from pain and laid her head on my lap.
My husband arrived home and the children that were home at the time said their good-byes and he left with her. My good husband was the one who stayed with her on her way out of this world. I could not bear to watch her life drain from her body. To see her there one second and gone the next. My heart would have broken in two to witness it. I knew he was there for her and that was comfort for me.
She died on a Thursday afternoon.
That's all I remember about that day.
When the doctor saw her that day, a week exactly after he had seen her when he prescribed meds and we hoped for the best, he examined her again, and concluded from the location of the tumor that it was likely pancreatic cancer and we would have been able to do nothing for her, regardless of how much money we had. I know he was trying to comfort my husband, but it didn't make me feel any better. I felt like I had failed her.
We couldn't afford to have her ashes returned to us, so this spring I plan to plant a lilac bush in memory of her near our front door. A friend from Instagram, whom I've never met, sent me a lovely bracelet with her name stamped on the inside, and it reminds me that she existed-that she was here and she, though a dog, made a difference in my life.
She healed me in ways that I cannot explain. I'm still a little impulsive and tend to say things before I think, but I like to think that she mellowed me, left me more able to be open to others and not expect a lot from them in order to not be disappointed by them. She made me get out of bed to take care of her on days when not even the call of my children could do that because of depression. She, in her own magical way, showed me that patience is indeed a virtue, and if I would only exercise it a bit more often, I would see great rewards. She taught me that being weird and goofy and a little bit quirky is okay, and someone, somewhere out there would befriend me in spite of those deficits. I think in many ways, God used her to show me that, although I am broken, I can accept love and grace and mercy- that it is okay for me to receive those things and it is okay for me to give those things away- there's never a shortage.
And honestly, if that is all that she had done for me in those four short years, it would have been enough. I am leaving so, so much out of our story because, well, it was four years and I know that many people don't care that I am this emotional about my dog.
I just had to write it. To get it out. To tell people about her and the gift that she gave me.
She gave me myself.
~M~
