SAM
Where did she go?
I look outside. I hear a dog bark. I catch myself searching for her.
I had anticipated her death for so long. She fell asleep, with her head on my hand. That’s how it began.
Turning off Highway 80 in Nevada. John, my then boyfriend, asked if I wanted to explore where the road went. Forty miles later the pavement turned to dirt and ended. I parked and wandered around a historic site where Mark Twain had tried his hand at silver mining.
“Does anyone want a dog? Tim’s going to shoot that Border Collie.” The woman calling to us was delivering mail and an opportunity that began our seventeen-year love affair.
Tim lived in a run-down trailer. Tragically widowed months before when his wife died in an off-road vehicle accident. He already had two Border Collies when his stepdaughter abandoned another. Tim’s work took him away for days at a time. His dogs were used to the freedom, but the one-year old pup was more than an inconvenience, and it was clear that arranging a rescue was beyond this grieving man.
Another dog was the last thing on my mind. Back home, I had only Karl, a Shepherd-Pitt Bull mix. I was in no hurry to fill the emptiness left by Pumpkin, a goofy, willful Labrador who had died months earlier.
“You need to look at this dog,” John said.
I can’t be responsible for every dog in trouble, I told myself as I reluctantly made my way across the dirt road, biscuit in hand. I was prepared to resist. After all, not all dogs are a match.
Approaching the chain-linked enclosure I noticed her nose was bloody. Tim explained, somewhat annoyed, that the doomed dog had just gotten into the garbage. I concluded she had found the trash preferable to the contents of her food bowl, a combination of unnatural shades.
Classically beautiful, her brown eyes made intense contact that I was later to learn was natural for the breed. I spoke quietly to her, offering the treat through the fence. She showed no interest.
Her gaze remained strong, but she offered no response to my overtures. Taken by her elegance but torn by reluctance, hers and mine, I reached my fingers between the metal fence. I wanted to touch her, to reassure her that though I might not be her liberator, I was at least friendly.
As I did, she moved close to my outstretched hand, resting her neck contentedly against my welcoming caress.
Oh no. I have a dog, I thought.
“I can’t take her now. I’ll come back for her. I promise.”
Tim, in turn, promised not shoot her.
All the way to Cheyenne to John’s father’s birthday celebration, anxious thoughts filled my brain. At the first opportunity, I called Tim. “Is she still there? I am coming back for her.”
Tears of relief filled my eyes as I heard his monotone reply.
“She’s here.”
A week later, on the deserted road toward Unionville, I felt jumpy. What if Tim hadn’t kept his promise? What if…?
The what-ifs still echo. What if I hadn’t decided to explore Samuel Clemens’ historical site? What if I had arrived a few hours later? What if the postal woman hadn’t been delivering her mail at that exact moment? What if Sam hadn’t been there at the end of the road, wagging her tail, joyfully greeting me on my return?
Now, she is on the table at the vet. I’ve been anticipating this moment that is often called our last gift. I make the decision. “Yes, It’s time. And I want to be there.” I sit on a stool, close to her head. Sam and I make eye. Her gaze is intense, but the sparkle is gone. She knows it’s me, and she rests her head on my hand, as we wait for the technicians to put in the I.V. They do, and she barely moves.
Tears are right below the surface, as I take in our last time together. Was it the years of my life that we shared? The first dog after my divorce? Seeing me through my cancer? Being there during the pandemic? Or was it just the intense connection that was ours? She wouldn’t listen to anyone but me. I was her shepherd. This working breed had given me a companion whose loyalty was more intense and longer lasting than most marriages.
When people die, we quickly start talking about who they were. But dogs are different. Who they are is present and a reminder that life is lived moment by moment. Our time on this earth becomes synchronized – human and canine. Patterns become part of every day. Routines ground us. They impart the sense that we can always count on being treated exactly the same. Dogs don’t have bad days. They have bad moments, and then they remember to be.
The grandchildren didn’t have a chance to really bond with her. The next will be more a part of their lives. I will see to it that they learn how to train a dog, think like a dog. Behaved dogs are still spontaneous and loving, but nice to be around. They still play and connect, but they understand who they are and where they fit in the pack.
The vet enters, and I mouth the words, “she’s asleep.”
We’re ready. The sedation causes her to lift her head for a moment. I have watched her at home, waiting for the next breath, hoping she would die in her sleep, be released from her pain. She is so peaceful. “Is she gone?” I whisper.
“No,”
The vet hadn’t even given her the medication that would stop her heart. No need to hold back the tears that are welling. She was asleep, and then she died. Just as I’d wished.
Now my yard seems empty. I’ve stopped listening or watching. My room is empty. But my heart is filled with gratitude that we’d met. I’d been at the right place at the right time.
Her long life was her gift to me.
Where did she go?
I look outside. I hear a dog bark. I catch myself searching for her.
I had anticipated her death for so long. She fell asleep, with her head on my hand. That’s how it began.
Turning off Highway 80 in Nevada. John, my then boyfriend, asked if I wanted to explore where the road went. Forty miles later the pavement turned to dirt and ended. I parked and wandered around a historic site where Mark Twain had tried his hand at silver mining.
“Does anyone want a dog? Tim’s going to shoot that Border Collie.” The woman calling to us was delivering mail and an opportunity that began our seventeen-year love affair.
Tim lived in a run-down trailer. Tragically widowed months before when his wife died in an off-road vehicle accident. He already had two Border Collies when his stepdaughter abandoned another. Tim’s work took him away for days at a time. His dogs were used to the freedom, but the one-year old pup was more than an inconvenience, and it was clear that arranging a rescue was beyond this grieving man.
Another dog was the last thing on my mind. Back home, I had only Karl, a Shepherd-Pitt Bull mix. I was in no hurry to fill the emptiness left by Pumpkin, a goofy, willful Labrador who had died months earlier.
“You need to look at this dog,” John said.
I can’t be responsible for every dog in trouble, I told myself as I reluctantly made my way across the dirt road, biscuit in hand. I was prepared to resist. After all, not all dogs are a match.
Approaching the chain-linked enclosure I noticed her nose was bloody. Tim explained, somewhat annoyed, that the doomed dog had just gotten into the garbage. I concluded she had found the trash preferable to the contents of her food bowl, a combination of unnatural shades.
Classically beautiful, her brown eyes made intense contact that I was later to learn was natural for the breed. I spoke quietly to her, offering the treat through the fence. She showed no interest.
Her gaze remained strong, but she offered no response to my overtures. Taken by her elegance but torn by reluctance, hers and mine, I reached my fingers between the metal fence. I wanted to touch her, to reassure her that though I might not be her liberator, I was at least friendly.
As I did, she moved close to my outstretched hand, resting her neck contentedly against my welcoming caress.
Oh no. I have a dog, I thought.
“I can’t take her now. I’ll come back for her. I promise.”
Tim, in turn, promised not shoot her.
All the way to Cheyenne to John’s father’s birthday celebration, anxious thoughts filled my brain. At the first opportunity, I called Tim. “Is she still there? I am coming back for her.”
Tears of relief filled my eyes as I heard his monotone reply.
“She’s here.”
A week later, on the deserted road toward Unionville, I felt jumpy. What if Tim hadn’t kept his promise? What if…?
The what-ifs still echo. What if I hadn’t decided to explore Samuel Clemens’ historical site? What if I had arrived a few hours later? What if the postal woman hadn’t been delivering her mail at that exact moment? What if Sam hadn’t been there at the end of the road, wagging her tail, joyfully greeting me on my return?
Now, she is on the table at the vet. I’ve been anticipating this moment that is often called our last gift. I make the decision. “Yes, It’s time. And I want to be there.” I sit on a stool, close to her head. Sam and I make eye. Her gaze is intense, but the sparkle is gone. She knows it’s me, and she rests her head on my hand, as we wait for the technicians to put in the I.V. They do, and she barely moves.
Tears are right below the surface, as I take in our last time together. Was it the years of my life that we shared? The first dog after my divorce? Seeing me through my cancer? Being there during the pandemic? Or was it just the intense connection that was ours? She wouldn’t listen to anyone but me. I was her shepherd. This working breed had given me a companion whose loyalty was more intense and longer lasting than most marriages.
When people die, we quickly start talking about who they were. But dogs are different. Who they are is present and a reminder that life is lived moment by moment. Our time on this earth becomes synchronized – human and canine. Patterns become part of every day. Routines ground us. They impart the sense that we can always count on being treated exactly the same. Dogs don’t have bad days. They have bad moments, and then they remember to be.
The grandchildren didn’t have a chance to really bond with her. The next will be more a part of their lives. I will see to it that they learn how to train a dog, think like a dog. Behaved dogs are still spontaneous and loving, but nice to be around. They still play and connect, but they understand who they are and where they fit in the pack.
The vet enters, and I mouth the words, “she’s asleep.”
We’re ready. The sedation causes her to lift her head for a moment. I have watched her at home, waiting for the next breath, hoping she would die in her sleep, be released from her pain. She is so peaceful. “Is she gone?” I whisper.
“No,”
The vet hadn’t even given her the medication that would stop her heart. No need to hold back the tears that are welling. She was asleep, and then she died. Just as I’d wished.
Now my yard seems empty. I’ve stopped listening or watching. My room is empty. But my heart is filled with gratitude that we’d met. I’d been at the right place at the right time.
Her long life was her gift to me.
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