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.”
