I don't pretend that Sweetie and I got a dog for any other reason than to soothe our broken hearts. Early in our marriage, we were the victims in a horrible case of parental alienation, losing contact with a beloved young girl who was bullied, browbeaten and bribed into hating us, particularly me.
I couldn't stand the thought of my sweet man suffering through Christmas without his child, especially after we discovered that the rest of her family had moved, leaving no forwarding address.
We had talked about a dog, fought about what breed would be best (Lab versus Poodle: is there really a question?) and December 4th, 2004, a darling little Weimaraner chose us as we sat cross-legged, surrounded by nine other puppies at a home in Coldwater. She curled up in our respective laps and generally let us know that we were the ones she was prepared to love.
Sweetie said, "Honey, they're all so cute!"
"This one's nice...." I said as I stroked the grey-nose beauty whose drain chain collar had a bead in the shape of a purple flower. Purple Flower it was, and we brought her home that very day, forgetting that we had committed to attend not one, but two Christmas parties that night. We didn't have a bowl, leash or food, a nest or even a plan except an edict from me that there would be, "No dogs in the bed!"
Well, 'no dogs on the bed' lasted about four sleeps, and for the last ten and a half years, Emma Doodles would curl up on top of the covers until I would turn out my light, whereupon she would rise, circle, and we would lift the sheets for her to slip underneath. Most nights, she would rest her chin on my ankles or waist as we drifted off. Many mornings, I would find her tucked along the length of my sweetie's back, her toes touching his and her head on the pillow.
Tuesday afternoon, in our living room, surrounded by her favourite stuffed bunnies and covered in my tears, our friend slipped away after losing the battle with Wobbler's Syndrome, a degenerative disease more common in horses than dogs.
Starting about two years ago, she started to lose her grip on the floor. She was like Bambi on that frozen river with Thumper, feet splaying on the hardwood. We put carpet down the front stairs, got dozens of throw rugs to help keep her feet beneath her and found her a chiropractor. Anti-inflammatories also helped, but did not stop the progression of the dysfunction. We took apart our bed and moved our mattress to the floor when she could no longer jump up onto it.
Wobbler's robbed Emma of her mobility, but not her gentle, sweet spirit. Even the day she left us, she was still rubbing her head against me in a loving greeting when I came home and rushed over to nuzzle her neck. But she could no longer walk or stand after a fall while trying to climb into her favourite chair last Thursday. For five days, we lugged her 70-pound failing body to the backyard a dozen times a day, but she got weaker and weaker and we finally let her go.
Today, all those throw rugs are in a heap in the laundry room, we've taken our mattress back upstairs, the toys are put away and I can leave my tights on the bedroom floor if I want to with no fear they will be chewed up and barfed out. We will reassemble the bed sometime in the days to come. I can now leave the lid up on the toilet and food on the counter and Sweetie doesn't have to put puppy pads at the front door.
I also realize I no longer have an excuse for talking to myself, "I'm really talking to the dog, you know..." Sweetie and I are cuddling each other instead of the doggie and we burst spontaneously into ugly-cry tears more often than we would like to admit. I will need a new running partner and I will never change our answering machine message which features our lovely Emma's voice.
I will have to cut down on the amount of popcorn I pop and Sweetie will have to reduce his morning toast, since we have no one to 'share' it with. Sweetie's shirtsleeves will remain dry at the dining table, and there will once again be room for both of us on the couch.
Emma survived two pounds of dark chocolate, two cancerous tumours, a bowel obstruction caused by a pair of my apparently delicious tights, blue water from the toilet and a cross-town solo adventure when a contractor accidentally left the back gate open.
We feel as though we might not survive her death. We were fools for her.
We pampered and loved her and tried to teach her good manners, just like we would have done for another little girl who was also ripped from us at about 11 years of age.
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Thank you so much to everyone who has sent notes and flowers and been kind and generally awesome through this ordeal. Thanks also, to those friends and relatives who held their tongue about how much we spoiled our girl and made our lives revolve around her; we had a lot of pent-up love to give.
