A tale of two dogs

My dog Carlie was my soul mate.  Sounds dramatic, but in many ways it was true. She was my companion when the rest of the world turned their back. I could count on her love and loyalty through all the great and not so great moments in life.

We were both outgoing and affectionate at times and at other times cold and aloof. We were friendly with everyone, but friends with a select few.  Both of us had a unique look that came from mixed backgrounds and though we took pride in our appearance, were very low maintenance. We loved playing on the beach or being absolute couch potatoes. Plus we were much happier in the company of one another than anyone else.

We were, quite literally, best friends.

We traveled a long difficult and joyous path together that began when I was 27 and ended when I was 41.

It ended on a dog bed on the floor of our Veterinarian’s office on a warm and sunny June evening.  My body draped across hers. “I love you so much. I love you so much.” I just repeated through tears until she was gone. I swear I knew the moment her soul left. I did not need the Vet to confirm.  I knew because a piece of my soul was gone forever.

I was prepared for the heartache I would feel losing my girl Carlie forever.  I knew she had a tumor on her spleen and I knew it was just a matter of time before it shut her down.  It happened quickly.  Within two weeks she went from the dog still strong enough to pull me when I walked her to a feeble baby who eventually could not hold down food or walk without pain. I slept on the floor with her the night before, petting her and cringing every time she moaned. “I love you sweet girl,” I whispered.  “Taking you home was the best decision I ever made.”

What I was not prepared for was the emptiness.  Walking into a house without her and knowing she was never coming back.  I would wake up each night and walk from room to room remembering her face the silly dance she always did for me.  I would pet the cat and curl up with my husband, but nothing could take away the cloak of silence and sadness Carlie’s departure left in her wake. It was me and her, long before my husband and the cat. It was me and her for the last 14 years.  I could never replace her and what she meant in my life.

I also had no purpose in my days.  I was responsible for her for 14 years and then nothing.  Instead of reveling in the freedom and being able to sleep late, I felt lost. Like a chunk of who I am was gone. That is why 11 days later I am crying on the way to work. I am crying because I a racked with guilt.  I will be adopting a new dog that evening. 

I am crying because I don’t want to replace Carlie and I haven’t even finished mourning her.  I am crying because this dog, although wonderful, could never be her.  I am crying because in a year filled with health issues, job changes, and broken trusts - the loss of Carlie was unbearable. Then I see it. A faded bumper sticker on the Jeep in front of me Save a life. Adopt a shelter dog. I pull myself together and say yes Barney, who will be renamed Buddy, will be coming home with us.  What better honor could I pay to Carlie then to rescue another dog?

I decided it was time to take another dog in the night I received Carlie’s ashes.  I held them and cried for a long time. Then I stood up and decided that our home needed a dog.  I had been looking at the dogs people sent to me all along, but felt like it wasn’t time. It hadn’t been long enough. But, in reality, it would never be long enough.  I would always miss Carlie and what she meant to me. 

Aside being another Shepherd mix, Buddy is different from Carlie in every way. He is long and goofy where she was more compact and dignified.  Buddy gallops from situation to situation (knocking over whatever is in his path). Carlie walked into a room with a purpose, even at nine months old. Buddy loves everyone. Well Carlie, uhm not so much. Buddy plays with toys and Carlie could never be bothered, preferring to sit with me quietly chewing a bone. 

To be fair, Carlie was also abused as a puppy and dumped at a kill shelter. A loud, over-crowded and dirty kill shelter. Buddy was relinquished from a family to a high kill shelter in Georgia (with no signs of abuse), but soon transferred to the Animal Welfare Organization in New Jersey, a wonderful non-kill shelter with a loving and dedicated staff. Where he was bathed and walked and loved. Maybe if Carlie hadn’t experienced the beginning that she did. She too would have been a goofy dog instead of a selective old soul.

There are similarities as well. Their eyes are so much alike that I find myself calling Buddy Car Car, my nickname for Carlie. They both hate it when I work on a computer (see photos) and absolutely adore my dad. They both train easily, love car rides and outdoor adventures and both would do just about any trick for a treat.

 

The biggest thing they have in common is being by my side through heartache. For Buddy is there every day to help grieve Carlie, while still enjoying life.

And grieve Carlie I still do. I am making a shadow box for my office in her memory. I have her ashes on out mantle and a piece of her fur in my bedroom. I also still automatically wake up around 3 am every night to check on her. It also still feels so unreal that I will never pet her again. Like a piece of reality that my heart cannot comprehend. 

Last week I came home at lunch to walk Buddy. I walked in the door and before I even realized it yelled “Carlie, where are you?” I started to cry. I let Buddy out of his crate and snapped his leash on. While we walked outside, I felt something. I can’t explain or describe it, but I knew Carlie was there and she was happy. I watched Buddy jump around and play with all his puppy energy and realized that Carlie is in a good place, a better place. A place where she can jump and run again without pain. A place where her fur is long and shiny again and her eyes are not blurred with cataracts. I know that without a doubt she would want me to be happy and love another unwanted dog. A feeling of peace washes over me as I have been suddenly given permission to love Buddy as much as I do.  “Come on Buddy,” I say. “It’s time to go home.”

An open letter to my husband...

     It is so easy to love each other most of the time. We have a calm home, a similar sense of humor and a large group of friends and family to keep us smiling. It is also easy to grow restless. To question what we have. To realize our family of two is so small and oh so fragile and that there is nothing but our loyalty and love keeping us together. Yet we choose to keep on this path together. Sharing ups and downs, but more often than not sharing the happy, simple life we have built.
      Then the fates change quickly and I am laying in an E.R. hearing words like pulmonary embolism and obstructed airways being thrown. Feeling like a specimen or subject matter not a human being scared and struggling to breathe. But, there is you. Your hand clasped in mine. Your eyes silently telling me “it will all be okay”. You stay there ~never leaving for more than an hour or so. Making sure I eat and drink. You keep me calm, through every needle stuck in my skin and every procedure done too quickly and without much explanation. Not leaving any time open for doubt and fear to creep in and hinder me from getting well.
      Our friends and family rally to call and visit. Brush my hair and bring me flowers. But, they all leave. Go back to their homes and families. Not you. Never you. You sleep on a makeshift hospital bed. You wake up every time I stir. Make me laugh at silly jokes and reassure me though my lifestyle forever changed by this series of events, will go on.
      Then there is me. I watch you through a haze of tubes and medicine, and worry about you. Worry about your back and sleeping on that makeshift hospital bed. Worry about the exhaustion etched into your face. Urging you to take a day to yourself or at least go home and sleep. Although I am scared to be alone, I am more worried about you. I feel sad, because you feel sad. But you will not leave me. Rather, I go through testing and pain, not as a single entity, but as one half of a pair.
     I think of our happier times like our wedding and numerous vacations. I always thought that I could never love you like I did then. How wrong I was. That last night in the hospital when my one of my stressed veins collapsed and there was blood squirting everywhere. Most of the blood was on you. Because, without hesitating, each time the vein burst you clasped your hands around my arm and stopped the blood. How I couldn’t sleep that night for fear it would happen again and I would bleed out. Every single time my eyes snapped open. There you were. Watching over me. In those moments I experienced a love that I did not even know existed outside of parental love. An unconditional love that I will spend the rest of my days trying happily to return.
     When I am finally released and able to go home, you are still beside me. Never critical of the tears I can’t seem to stop whether they are of the happy or fearful variety. My best friend and parents shepherd me home as well, but they aren’t there late at night. Because it is at night, that I am too scared to sleep. Entrenched in a fear that my oxygen supply will dip again or another vein will collapse. It is you again. Rubbing my forehead and promising that nothing will happen to me under your watch. Looking at me like I am the most beautiful woman on earth, not like the bruised and greasy shadow of a person that I know I look like.
      I can never thank you enough for your love. I can never thank God enough for bring us together. What I can do is love you with my whole heart and continue to forage into this world together. Our relationship may be calm and easy, but life is not. And we are strong enough to get through it all together.