Companionship

I don’t remember a time in my life where I haven’t had animals. Except once, and I’m not sure it counts.

My mother proudly declared herself an “animal person.” When she was young, apparently folks called her “Ellie Mae” after the voluptuous blonde on The Beverly Hillbillies because my mother also wanted a pet racoon (be honest: who doesn’t?). So our household always had at least a dog, sometimes a cat or two (but only outdoor cats–my parents could not tolerate the thought of clawed furniture).

I could list off all the animals in my life and tell you stories about each, but I won’t bore you. We’d be here for ages.

But, here’s the thing: I never considered myself a dog person. I had always liked cats. I think it was, in part, because my experience with dogs had been flavored with those of a more idiotic nature. The goldendoodle of my college years was the worst offender.

I did not want a dog. Not ever. Cats only. I had craved since childhood my own INDOOR cat, one who could sleep in my bed with me, sit with me while I watched television or read my books, a constant, purring companion.

And, yet, my husband insisted we get a dog after we moved out of our apartment. I didn’t want a dog. But, gosh darn it, HAVE YOU EVER SEEN PUPPIES???? It’s hard to say no to those things. Just bundles of fluff and big brown eyes and love, all furry and miniaturized. I was hopeless.

And then I GOT one, and, lord have mercy, I spoiled that orange fluffbutt for everything I was worth. There was nothing that sweet canine was denied. We named her Shasta, after one of our favorite book characters and my husband’s favorite soda. Shasta was the goodest girl. And Shasta taught me that I was, in fact, very much a dog person.

The greatest tragedy about pets is that they die before we do. I read a post once where someone theorized that humans must seem like elves to dogs–we seem unaging, immortal, while they grow old. Shasta grew ill very abruptly shortly after her ninth birthday. We came back from vacation, and we thought she’d simply picked up a cold from the boarder, but it grew worse and worse. The vet gave us antibiotics, but they did nothing. We tried another vet, and we discovered her heart was enlarged on one side, failing, and her lungs were filling with fluid. She was struggling to breathe, to function. When I got sick–when my heart raced, my lungs bleeding, filling, drowning–I thought of my poor dog. Of how she stopped eating. How we tried to give her diuretics. How her heart beat so quickly she couldn’t sleep. And I ached again.

I remember holding her, sitting on the floor with my sweet dog and my husband, as the vet gave her the shot. We held her as she died, and I remember a moment of panic, staring at her open eyes. It was so fast. I thought she’d drift off to sleep, that it would be slow and tender, but, no, she was there one moment, struggling to breathe, and then suddenly she was empty. Utterly empty. And a moment of panic came over me. I wanted to shout, “No. Oh no. I take it back. Stop it. I don’t want this. Give me my dog back. I want my dog!” But it was done. She was gone.

My husband hugged her body and cried. I didn’t want to touch it. It wasn’t my dog. My dog was gone. I wanted my dog. Where was my dog?

It was like there was a ghost in the house. I dropped chicken, and no wagging tail came to pick it up. I’d look to her favorite spot beside my bed, and it was empty, the carpet perfectly smooth and vacuumed, not covered in her orange and white hair that once clung to everything. My alarm would go off, and no dog hopped into the bed to claim it. She was just abruptly not there. My constant companion now nothing but a thought.

It was months before I could even think about having another dog. But we did, eventually. The same breed, same coat type, just black, this time. She looked like bear cub, and we were instantly in love. There’s nothing like watching your child with a puppy.

I took an online course on dog training. Shasta had been, in my opinion, a nearly perfect dog, but I would do better with this one, I was certain. I wanted to do so well, so perfectly. So I had daily training sessions with our new girl, whom we named Hatari, after my husband’s favorite John Wayne movie. Technically, her name is “Hatari Ursa Thunderpaw.” She knows her full name, and she knows hearing it means she’s in trouble.

I thought that my husband would be her favorite. Animals are immediately drawn to him. He’s kind, he’s quiet, and he doesn’t demand. Meanwhile, I haven’t met any animal I don’t want to hold … Snakes, frogs, turtles, cats, dogs, all need loving. Chris says I’m the beastie from Looney Tunes who grabs Bugs Bunny and declares, “I will love him and pet him and call him George!”

The man isn’t wrong.

But I have a secret weapon: I am not above using food to buy affection.

In addition, I started working from home shortly before we brought Hatari home, and so she could be with me all day. Food+time = new fluffy shadow. The dog loves us all, but she follows me without fail. I’m her person. I love this. I love having animals who love me back, who want to receive snuggles as much as I want to give them, who can’t let me go into a room alone.

In 2024, I spent nearly three months in the hospital. After the first month, I was sent home for five days before I went back, hemorrhaging again, then back on the ventilator. We all thought I was going to die. I didn’t. One day, I sat, swollen and weak. I looked nothing like myself, felt nothing like myself. I likely hadn’t showered in days except for the “sponge bath” offered by modern hospitals. I spent my days in the hospital recliner, just waiting for my next hospital meal, dozing between watching shows on my phone. And, one day, a woman came by with a therapy dog, a big yellow lab.

She poked her head in the door and saw me looking at her. “Do you want to pet him?”

“Yes.” I was shocked how hard it was to say the word, how my throat tightened. It had been two months since I had pet my dog.

The big dog came over, let me stroke his head, and I began to sob. “I miss my dog.”

I don’t remember what the woman said, but she gave me a little laminated card with her dog’s face and name on it. I think I thanked her.

And I sat in my chair and cried some more, missing my companion with an ache I didn’t know you could feel for animals.

They’re uncomplicated, adoring creatures. They ask for food and love, that’s it. They don’t betray you, don’t judge you, they don’t ask for more than you can give. Just sit with me, here, and let’s be.

I was lonely in that hospital, even surrounded by people. I loved when my husband came to see me. I can not state how valuable visits could be. But you grow numb to it. You’re tired. You’re hurting. People are comfort. People are help. But we were both so exhausted, so homesick, so worn out by hospitals and procedures and meds and how gross it all was. It’s not that I wanted my dog in the hospital.

But I wanted what she represented: home, normality, stability. And there is something so comforting about something covered in fur breathing beneath your hand. Maybe it’s because I’m a tactile person, but there is very little so soothing and reassuring as the weight of an animal on your chest or lap, of feeling something small and heavy breathe against you.

And I sit here and cry again remembering, even with my “puppy” with me.