Tribute to a Lost Friend
I’ve always considered myself a “cat person.” I’ve had cats during most of my 71 years. I even had a cat in nursing school — a bit of disaster when it jumped out of the closet at one of the maids. I never asked why a maid was in my locked closet.
Anyway, cats were always around me, cuddling or, the ones who thought they were above sitting on anyone’s lap, enthroned on the best seat in the house.
Oh, there were a few dogs. I had one when I was a single mother but I had to give her away when my fiancé was in the hospital often and I had no one to care for her. As I was growing up the dogs were mostly my father’s and one was my grandfather’s
My grandfather would live at our house in Maryland in the fall and winter and then drive his old car to the farmhouse in West Virginia, Spike sitting up front. Granddad would live in the heat-less farmhouse in the warmer seasons. He had a companion, Spike, an old, irascible Beagle mix that my father had picked up abandoned along a road. Spike was Granddad’s best friend and Spike loved Grandad, no one else. He was not friendly when Granddad wasn’t around. They were very much alike. My grandfather was not the most loving person, an “alien,” he’d come to America in 1913 and maintained his alien status, even though he’d married my grandmother and produced my father.
Granddad and Spike were a match — maybe not made in heaven but they were good for each other. “I hope I die before Spike,” was one of my grandfather’s favorite sayings. He got his wish and because Spike was old and a dangerous terror without his master, he had to be euthanized.
I’d never really understood Granddad’s feelings…until we got Beauty.
My husband and I had been married only a few months (he was 70 and I was 64) when we saw a sign for a Greyhound Adoption meet at the local fairgrounds. “My nephew had a lovely greyhound,” I said. “Let’s go look at them.” Famous last words. I really didn’t want a dog. I was just getting used to living in a different house in a different place and living with a man for the first time in thirty years. But there is no harm in looking. Like I said, famous last words.
Morgan was not taken with a greyhound but with a different type of hound, a Black and Tan, Beagle mix with soulful eyes. She was there with the Buddy Rescue Foundation, a local rescue that pulls dogs from kill-shelters and fosters them out.
Her name was Bernice — Bernie at first because no one sensible at the shelter could see she was a female who’d had a litter. In fact that was her story. She’d been a hunting dog who was afraid of the sound of gunshots so her owner bred her with the idea that after one litter she would be put down. Barb and Kevin Smith of Buddy Rescue did just that, they rescued her and after a vet check placed her in a foster home.
Morgan was in love. “I can walk her. It will be good exercise for me.” Famous last words — again. We completed the paper work and gave them references that we were of good moral character. And then we went on our “honeymoon” — with stepdaughter, her husband, and grandson — to await Buddy Rescue’s approval.
We were approved; Bernice came to us in August of 2012 and was renamed Beauty — Morgan’s idea so when people saw him walking her, they could say “There goes Beauty and the Beast.” That September Morgan had a slight stroke and I became, I thought briefly, Beauty’s caregiver. I walked her, I sat with her, I fed her, I managed her vet visits. I fell in love. I fell in love because she was loving. She loved our new kitten, Pumpkin, and they became fast friends.
And then Morgan had several other health issues over three years and I figured, I was Beauty’s and she was mine. Morgan would pet her often and sneak treats to her from the dinner table but I figured she was “my” dog. We took walks all over our land, her nose to the ground, and I told her to find Bigfoot so I could get a picture and make us lots of money. She’d get up on the couch with me when I read or watched General Hospital. When I was writing, she would come over to the computer and bump my arm with her nose — “I need to go out” or “I need a head rub.” For two years she didn’t bark and then suddenly…Woof! My daughter was so surprised when I texted her that I had to send her a video. We took her on rides, ending up at the ice cream parlor or MickeyD’s. Sometimes we would park by a lake, listen to an audiobook (one that she liked), and eat snacks.
She was goofy at times, like when she looked into the cat house and couldn’t get her head out. Or when she ate an entire ear of corn — all of it
The beginning of summer I noticed a change in her behavior. We went to the vet. She had x-rays, blood work, and even an ultrasound with nothing definite. So she was okay. Maybe not.
She’d had a small growth on her belly that we’d had removed when we first got her and then over the years two more appeared, one on her ear and one on an eyelid. We took her to the vet to schedule the removal of both. But our vet, Dr. Collins, found enlarge lymph glands around her neck and legs. Lymphoma. Old nurse knew what that was. My mother had died of it. And now my friend. Dr. Collins said six months. We didn’t have six months. We had two weeks.
During those two weeks, we took her on rides and got her burgers. I fed her ice cream — anything that she would eat. She was used to walking upstairs to sleep with her pack. She was too big to jump on our bed but she’d sleep on the floor. Finally I knew she couldn’t make the stairs so I slept downstairs with her — on the floor next to her crate where she was most comfortable. I spent the night listening to her breathing.
It was the next morning we made the decision to call for her last vet visit. She could only walk a few steps and would lie down next to the water bowl — no food — no ice cream — just water.
We made the appointment. I knew she could not get up in the Escape, so I would have to drive her in the back of the Cruiser and Heather would drive Morgan. I talked to her all the way to the vet’s.
I told her where she was going and who she would see. I told her about Granddad and Spike and Mom and Dad and Murray and Huusker and Motley and Twinkie and Miss Shitty and even Six-toed Lenny. I told her about the two Richs who I loved and who both had died of heart issues. I told her to be sure to give John and George big sloppy doggie kisses and tell them I still love them and listen to their music. I told her I was sending her to the Goddess and that she should wait for me. In Goddess-time, I won’t be long.
I told her that I loved her.
And then too soon, she was gone.
I saw a question on Facebook: What’s the hardest thing about owning a dog? The answer: Saying good-bye.
This is how I will remember my friend while I wait to see her again.
