Jubilee

Beth Cioffoletti
Jul 24, 2017 · 4 min read

She was like a bit of God, given to us. From the wild, she came into our home and lived with us, as one of us.

Who could say what the source was of her joy? She was a happy dog. Happy to be here. The world intrigued and filled her, the lizards in the bushes, the scent in the air. A stranger at the door. She welcomed it all with joy. She taught me the ecstasy of sitting on the back porch and throwing my nose to the air, totally content, not needing anything else.

She came from nowhere to us. On a plane, actually. John found her on puppies.com, and posted a photo on the refrigerator one morning. “Jubilee is coming”, it said. Who knew that this little red creature in a crate at the airport could wiggle her way into our souls? But she did.

We were empty nesters, not quite knowing what to do with that space between us. Just like with a new baby, we became enthralled with her. We took her everywhere with us. We showed her off. She swam with us ate with us and slept with us. We looked for fun things for her and found new fun for ourselves.

She smelled like everything good on the earth. Like wildflowers and mushrooms. Like dirt and grass. If you buried your nose in her head you knew that it was all good.

We had our special names for her: Jubie Dubie, Crazy Daisy, Silly Dilly, Sweetie Pie. She had a deep voice, a naturally loud bark which she delighted in, but was inherently a rather shy and sweet creature. She would crouch down and then roll over when greeting someone new, whether dog or person. Little children were her favorites — she gravitated toward the 4 year olds. Especially girls, who made a fuss over her. Or women with red hair, who always remarked about what a lovely dog she was.

She didn’t especially like traveling — perhaps the trauma of that early plane ride affected her — but when our traveling years began, she reluctantly but willingly took her place in the backseat and followed the adventure. So many rest stops, cheap motel rooms, and miles upon miles. It was clear that she was part of us and wherever life took us, she was going too.

I think her favorite place in the world is the hill off the back of my sister’s house in Wellsville NY. She could lay in the soft grass up there and look out over the whole town. She never wanted to get back into the car to go back to wherever it was we were going back to. And then there was the elevator in Ooma’s apartment building in New Rochelle. Everyone else got on the elevator and then turned around to face front. She stayed facing the back until we got to the top floor and it was time to get off. Only then did she turn around.

So many memories. More than a decade of them.

Many of these years had health challenges for me, surgeries, chemo, radiation. She never left my side. When I had brain surgery, she hid in the back room under the bed until I came home. How do dogs know these things?

I still can’t believe that she is gone. Where? It is like my when my mother died and I wondered how she had gotten away, where she had gone. In time we learn to live with these things. These not-knowings.

We watched her go. Watched as she laid her head down onto her crossed paws, one last time. I talked to her the whole time. Told her how much happiness she had brought to us, how much we had loved her. In the end all I could say was: well done, sweet dog. Thank you.

Now there is that space, that emptiness. I see it everywhere I turn. I feel it in the ticking of the clock, every minute takes me further away from how I knew her in the flesh. I find myself holding back. I don’t want to go forward into a life without her. I don’t want to forget how she looks and feels and smells.

I told my friend, Sandy, that I realize now that my love for God and my love for Jubilee is the same love. It is a hell of a thing to know.