Dear Friend - Part 3

Dear Friend,

It is funny, the habits one develops without noticing. It was my habit to talk to you old lady. To talk to you about everything.  And now, without you to talk things through, when I try to write them its just a messy knot of sticky spaghetti noodles.

The words run like a rampant virus in my brain, spreading and infecting everything, yet the moment I go to write them down, it all retreats under a convenient mental blanket.

I stare at the lump on the bed in my head and I try to remember exactly what it was I really needed to have said.... but I am unable to discern the shapeless heap.

For so long I chatted you. I never thought twice about it when you started to talk back to me. My words may not have been all that different from your grunts, woofs, sighs, growls and whines.  One of my favorite memories was when you began to kick the floor when you were impatient with me or someone or something.   You would kick the floor, just like a child would stomp their foot.  Even as an old lady, (when standing for any kind of time was not reasonable), while you were sitting on the floor you would kick your foot against the floor and woof! I am laughing right now just thinking of you!

Last November Sal, that last gorgeous warm sunny day with you... when I needed to be strong for you?  That was the memory I kept replaying to make myself smile and be calm in front of you.

I have put that last day with you on my inner shelf.  The one I keep things on when I don't know what to do with them.  My inner shelf has been relatively uncluttered for a while and that day, sitting up there, nearly all by it's self, that day looks a little daunting.

I, fortunately, have my darling.  A tolerant (although I tend to exasperate him) man, he has watched me mourn, held me close and poked me into finally painting again.  We started going for walks together in the evenings, a habit I sorely missed when you were gone.  I have bonded with our Charlie Cat; Prince Charles to you who are not on intimate terms.

I started walking dogs at the Humane Society in December after work.  I was going every day and I would pick out two and take them for a walk.  Maybe it is because I think of you too much but none measured up.  They were not quite... sassy enough.  Even when we first were together and we were both all jumbled up inside, you were sassy.  Intelligent, sure, gentle, always and comfortably sassy.

Now it is January and earlier this week I met a dog.  Rescued from a pound in New Mexico, she is a stray on an Indian reservation, she is about a year and a half old.  She is sweet and nervous and excited and spooked and curious.... and I hesitated.  I walked her and she did her best even with her fear of the leash and the cars and me and the place.

Afterwards, I talked to her foster human for a few minutes.

Around the 20 minute mark -Which is a terribly long and boring time to stand and wait for humans to do something interesting, this little dog despairing groaned aloud and sunk herself tragically to the ground.  I looked down and found her bright amber eyes looking curiously into mine.

And my heart smiled.  And today I wrote this out.

My sweetheart has adeptly picked the name 'Luna' for this little Muppet.

Dear Friend - Part 1

Dear Sally,

In 2004, before I found you I had been both to the city animal pound and the humane society twice.  That August I made my first visit to the bi-annual ‘Super Pet Adoption’.

The Super Pet Adoption is an event hosted, financed and promoted by various state and local animal organizations.  On the designated weekend hundreds of animals, (literally), although primarily dogs, are delivered to a parking lot volunteered by a Pet Store.

I wandered through make shift temporary kennels stuffed with hay and covered with tarps to protect enclosed padded feet.  Industrial sized containers were constantly refilled with fresh water and there were land mines of poo in every direction.  The stifling smell of urine, hay and hot asphalt greeted numerous human shoppers.  The scalding late summer sunshine was soaked in saliva.

The dogs knew they were in hell.  They knew one of us was the only way out. It was a frenzy of excited barking, long tongues waving and furry bodies lunging at each person making their way through the narrow maze of kennels. 

I took my time at each enclosure, looking over pinned up cards giving each occupant’s information –breed, age, gender and a quick synopsis of the animal’s background and personality.

After a couple of hours in the exhaustive heat my search had proven unsuccessful.  I started down the last line.  Puppies, pit bulls and mutts alike were quieter, worn out by the hot noise and smells. 

At the second to last pen, I was stopped by a card that started with the words ‘Allie -Australian Sheppard-Lab‘. An Aussie mix?  I was raised by an Aussie. I looked down to find myself being eyed by a very thin, mangy black dog wearing a wicked scar on the inner crook of her left eye. 

Your stare was direct but not aggressive.  You’d crammed yourself into the straw in the further most corner. Your card advised your name was Allie, one to three years old, half black lab, half Aussie, crate trained, recently rescued from the pound by a local rescue.  As you stared at me, I couldn't help staring back and I smiled.

Huh.  I asked for a leash and took you out. You were awkward with me; not knowing what to do with my offered hand, or how to walk on a leash.  You did not recognize any commands, you did not respond to your name but you did continue to stare intently into my eyes.

I decided you were too young, too un-trained, had a very scattered background –the care/worker advised your history comprised of three homes and four rescues or impoundments. 

I sadly asked you one more time, “Sit.”  You sat.   I looked at you.  You looked me. 

I was coaxing you up for a repeat when I glanced over and saw a different person working with a different dog.  Upon repeat, this you again copied them.

I decided to walk away, to think it over.  I called my mother and consulted her.  The other hiccup was I couldn't quite afford you; older dogs were half the cost of younger ones.  She encouraged me to follow my instincts, promising she would fund the other half of the adoption fee.

I went back; I brought you home and renamed you Sally.

When I left the east coast, during my last visit, my physiologist had recommended I always have a dog because an animal distracted me from me.  When I had settled in California for a few weeks, I followed her advice and adopted a much much older dog.  I was fond of him, but his already advanced age helped me keep my distance.  Regardless of how that admission sounds, this is where I was in life.  I lived alone, I moved a lot; I was a ‘gypsy’ as my short term friends would joke.  I belonged with nothing and nothing belonged with me.

The violence of my teen years and divorce relentlessly stalked me. Despite miles of separation, I still woke up nearly every night screaming at 3am. 

I had so little trust in myself - I was afraid of everything.  What is really sad? The person I was at this time was a dramatic improvement from the person I was before.  By the time I had decided to head to  Utah, I was at least functioning. I didn't have public anxiety attacks anymore, I could hold a job, laugh; I paid bills and even began painting a little again.

Oh Sal, I was still such a mess when I met you.  I didn't trust you and you certainly did not trust me; it was an uneasy six months, remember? You cautiously learned basic commands and I diligently walked you every morning and night but we didn't bond.  You had your stories and I had my stories and we kept them to ourselves. 

Then we had a break.  One hot summer afternoon, I’d gotten off work and found an eaten pair of favorite shoes in the living room.  I flipped; yelling, I threw the remains of one at you and stormed into the kitchen to take a breath.  A minute later I calmed down and walked back into the now empty living room to stare in horror at the open door.  You were gone.  

Panic hit my chest like a lead ball.  This apartment was by a very busy street… Dashing out, calling your name, I looked out across the ‘streaming-with-cars’ street, and there you were, sitting by a tree on the grass.  You were staring at me; eyebrows low, mouth tightly shut, anxious eyes waiting.  

I shut up, slowly walked over and sat down next to you. 

I was unspeakably relieved to see you.  You were anxiously relieved I was looking for you. 

I sighed and told you I was sorry.  You sighed in reply and we both relaxed and rested, leaning on each other.  After a while we got up and as we crossed the street together, I realized you were looking for traffic too, just like me….

A couple of nights later I had a dreaded 3am.  Unlike the dog before you, who hid because I frightened him, you came and put your head next to my head, whining to wake me up.  Then you let me cry and hug you.  I never faced a 3am alone again.  After time, 3am came less and less until I realized one day I had not had a 3am in years.

We had an unspoken pact between us, I would always have your back and you would always have mine.  You have never been great with words commands but you are amazing with facial and hand signals.  We went everywhere together, to every fair, festival, shop, park, road trip; we were glued at the hip. I began to be braver and make real friendships and real conversations.  Hell you even went on a couple of dates with me. I chuckle now remembering what a suspicious and disapproving chaperon you were.

A few months after our ‘moment’, I met my knight in shining slightly dented armor and eventually I married my hero, a soaring hawk with sharp intelligent grey blue eyes. Together we live a life of adventure and friendship. 

Today, a decade after you and I first met, I am more than a functioning adult.  I am a thriving human being.  And I know it is in part because you trusted me that I learned to trust me too.  You Sally girl, you were a missing link.

You are old now; I think you are as puzzled by this as I am.  Despite being on a fairly intense regiment of pills, natural food and regular walks, age descends on you anyway. You've not lost any of your 'marbles' but you haven’t any of your legendary patience left for small children and dogs.  I don’t care.  I put you behind baby gates when needed and walk you in the evening when the younger dogs are gone. 

This morning was a really tough morning for you.  You fell trying to stand and fell again trying to go up the stairs.  I watched you hunch your shoulders, resigned; you stayed down, eyebrows lowered. 

I put down what I was doing, got out some more painkillers and while I waited the twenty minutes for them to take effect, I laid your quilt out in the back seat of the car and got your leash and collar.  I could tell they hit when you picked your head up to smile at me and wag your tail.  I helped you stand (painkillers, unfortunately, don’t make you stronger) and get into the car. We picked up my sweetheart for a coffee lunch break.  A couple of nice ladies cooed over you at the coffee shop and you happily visited with them while we ordered.  Afterwards you and I made one more quick stop before heading to a favorite park.

How we laughed as we pulled up.  I let you set the pace and direction and was astonished at how far you wanted to go.  When you were tired, you changed course and headed for the shade in a grove of trees. There you laid down and I sat down.  

You smiled and I smiled. 

You were the first to belong with me and me with you.  Our friendship is the foundation for all the ones that have developed since. You are beloved beyond words.  I know you know I love you but the volume of my gratitude is not something I can adequately express. 

But I'll tell you every day anyway, thank you for helping save me.

Part 2: http://acarnamedkatie.blogspot.com/2014/11/dear-friend-part-2.html