Every morning I’d come down the stairs and turn off the outdoor porch light from the switch next to the front door. Then, I’d turn in the direction of the family room to see my dog — my old, graying chocolate lab — watching me with happy anticipation, ears perked, tail wagging.
“Is that the puppy?” I would ask in the voice I reserved only for him, as the velocity of his tail-wagging increased. I’d walk across the foyer into the family room, take a seat at the end of the couch and we’d begin what my husband would eventually call our daily “love fest.”
Spike wasn’t a particularly affectionate dog. That is, he loved getting affection, but giving it wasn’t his forte. But in the early mornings, he’d rub up against my legs, dash across the room to bring me one of his well-worn toys, and generally give me doggie hugs until I’d say, “Wanna go outside?” And then we would.
I called him my puppy, even though he was nearly thirteen and a half when we made the heartbreaking decision to put him to sleep a few short days ago. In a way, he was still a puppy to me as I had only had the pleasure of having him in my life for the last three and a half years. Let me ‘splain.
Almost four years ago, my husband’s ex-wife died rather suddenly. She was young and it was shocking. And she left behind two sons and three pets, one of whom was Spike. And my husband decided his boys needed to keep Spike with them. (Relatives kindly took the other dog and the cat.)
In what turned out not to be my proudest moment, I fought his decision. I didn’t want Spike. I didn’t even like dogs that much. Go ahead and judge me — I’m sure you already have. But, to say less than the least, there were also about a bazillion other things going on in our lives at the time and adding a dog to the mix didn’t seem like the greatest idea.
But, frankly, my husband’s argument was the sympathetic one. Of course the boys needed their dog — their mother’s adored dog — in their grief. Of course. I got it. I’m not a monster. And so, on a sunny July day, Spike came to live with us.
My mother always laughs at this story: The day Spike arrived, I came home from work and he greeted me at the door, tail wagging. With only my outstretched pointer finger, I half-heartedly touched the top of his head and perfunctorily said, “Hi, dog.” And then I promptly walked away. I could be cordial, but that was as far as this thing was going to go.
It might have been as early as the first week he was there, but I quickly realized no one was paying much attention to the dog. They had other, bigger things to manage like overwhelming grief. Spike was getting fed and let outside, but not much else.
My mothering instincts quickly kicked in and I decided he needed to be walked. I remember thinking I didn’t really know how to walk a dog, which I know sounds weird. Walking Spike was complicated by the fact that he was never leash-trained so he basically led me instead of the other way around. But what did I know? (I wish I could tell you this improved with time. It didn’t.)
My husband recalls how depressed Spike was when he first came to our house. I wouldn’t have known because I’d never known a dog before and I’d never known Spike. But, in recent days, when I look at pictures from his first month here, I can see the sadness in his face. Of course he was sad. His human mommy had left home one day and never returned. He was brokenhearted.
And so was I. For different reasons.
Because after my first marriage ended, my life kind of spun out. I worried about my kids and money 24/7. I worried about his kids and their sorrow. I worried whether I should marry my fiancé/husband. Later, I worried about blending families with my now-husband. I worried about buying an old house in a new town. I worried about turning that old house into a place we could live comfortably. I worried and worried and worried. To say it was an unsettling time would be the masterpiece of understatements.
And, then, in walked Spike. It probably took us about a month to fall fully and completely in love. But once I was in, I was in.
Spike became my dog and remained my dog until the end. And the end came much too quickly.
For anyone who’s lost a beloved pet, I don’t need to explain how my heart is broken in a million pieces. How I’m looking around for him as if he might be sitting on his bed in the corner. How I don’t want to come downstairs in the morning because I don’t know what to do without the happy routine we’d established over the years.
I often told my husband that Spike was in my soul group. By that I meant he was one of the few creatures — human and otherwise — who find their way into our lives because they actually belong in it. Because our souls were meant to find each other.
The night after the night he died at home, we had a social engagement. When we returned to our Spike-less house, I found myself sobbing to my husband, “I just don’t want him to be dead!” — which was as true a statement as I will ever make. I was a portrait in true, raw doggie grief.
I’ve been told by people in the know that it will get better. That, over time, my heart will heal to the point where I’ll consider getting another dog whom, I will tell you right now with absolute certainty, I won’t ever love as much as I loved Spike. (Famous last words, I’m well aware.)
Perspective, happily, is not lost on me. A dear friend of mine lost her son ten years ago and losing Spike will never be that. Never. And I wouldn’t deign to compare. Not in a million years. But grief is grief and it’s my turn to have a big helping of it.
The day after Spike died, I was home alone. My younger stepson drives what once was his deceased mother’s car. It was parked in our driveway and, without warning or precedent, the car alarm started blaring — a deafening horn-honking — the kind you hear, yes, when a car is being violated, but also in times of joy like at parades or weddings. Call me crazy, but I like to think it was a joyful sign from Spike (and his mom) that they’d been reunited at the rainbow bridge and they wanted me to know.
I will miss Spike’s eternal puppy face. I will miss the way he’d wake up from a snooze and his face would be smushed up on one side. I will miss the way he barked only at me because he wanted my attention or, yes, because he wanted the treats he knew I’d amply supply. I will miss the carpet runners we lined up because he hated wood floors. I will miss his loud snoring. I will miss looking into his eyes, both of us knowing we had healed each other from too much loss.
I will miss him terribly and completely.