"Puppy, Puppy"

Blog #27 -- Monica Rae

October 7th, 2023

Some years ago, I published a book. It was written as letters to my daughter, who is now closer to adulthood than childhood. I wrote about what I knew, what I have learned and what I hoped she would come to know.

Recently, I started writing a letter to my second daughter, who is now a toddler. I found myself telling her in my mind, and then put pen to paper—about a life she knew but would never remember. This is my letter.

Hello Love,

The other day, I kissed you and your sister and went out the front door—tears running down my face.

My dearest companion was with me, taking our last ride in the car together. I looked straight ahead, while reaching out my hand to the life that had rested his paw on my lap more times than I could count.

His name is Harlee.

And I was taking him to die.

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When we are young our perceptions of love and our ability to make sense of the world is formed by our parents, family members, environment, and culture.

As we age, we may repeat the behaviors we learned to feel accepted or loved. In turn, we might also realize there was so much we didn’t know.

This happened to me. Somewhere in my 30’s. I began to uncover that I had never fully known what it felt to live safe and accepted.

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I met him on an autumn day over 12 years ago. But I loved him weeks later when he woke me in the middle of the night, crying after he had an accident in his crate.

What I didn’t know then was that, like me, he didn’t like being confined to small spaces. The crying continued until I let him out. Holding the rolls and puppy fluff that defined him I showed him where to relieve himself outside (Yes! the grass by driveway, No! not the neighbor's yard). After months of this routine which mimicked that of a newborn’s arrival, I was tired, longing for a full night’s rest. So, by the time he was 6 months I had let him sleep in the kitchen, feet away from my bedroom.

He stopped crying.

He chewed the kitchen table, eventually ate loaves of bread and bananas whole that were within his reach on counter tops and removed the tags from all my kitchen rags.

But for the remainder of his life, he would be only feet from my bed or bedroom when I fell asleep.

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As a child I was more interested in daydreaming with my dog as the sun turned down, than going to the mall to shop for the latest trends. In my experience with numerous pets including birds, cats, dogs, ducks, chickens, and bunnies, I discovered my passion for animals. I’ve read until late into the night about my favorite primates, the intelligence of elephants, and the best diet for ducks and I have spent more money on the care of animals than my wardrobe.

When I graduated college, my first purchase was not a car, but a calico cat (who shares your nickname of Sammy). Five years later ‘kitty’ became your sister’s first word and Sammy became her first animal friend.

I thought I knew what it meant to be a responsible pet owner. That it consisted of some combination of making sure they were fed, bathed, hugged, kept updated on their vaccines and provided with a wide assortment of toys and means of comfort.

But then.

There was Harlee.

I would care for him as I had the others, but he, in turn, would give me something I had never known.

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“What do you want him for?” my cousin asked me. He and his wife raised Labrador retrievers in the middle of our state, and I was there to pick up the largest of the litter.

I looked at him confused. What do I want him for?

My cousin clarified.

“Do you want a hunting dog, a family pet, someone to exercise or travel with, or a companion?”

I looked at him without hesitation.

“I want a friend.” I said.

My cousin smiled and said, ”He will be this for you.”

What my cousin didn’t know. What we both couldn’t know as we looked at his puppy wrinkles and anxious tail wagging in anticipation, was that he would be so much more.

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When we fall in love with a child, lover, partner, animal, or friend it comes all at once and then grows over time. What we experience with dogs is this growth magnified---living 6-7 years in a 12-month span.

Harlee was a pup, then teenager and in my mid 30’s for a time we were near the same age. And it was somewhere around then that I began to stop apologizing to people who didn’t like his habit of obsessively cleaning bowls belonging to all animals (and sometimes humans), removing crumbs that may or may not have landed on the floor just yet, and wiping salt from tears or sweat from dirty feet. I stopped trying to train it out of him—his instinct to run when off leash, or that he peed in enthusiasm when he greeted me upon my return from traveling. I learned to put tortillas in the cupboard, leftovers in the fridge and toilet paper under the bathroom sink (until he was about 5 years old). I understood he would bark if he didn’t know who was entering the space he believed was his to protect. And I cherished watching him care for other animals and children like he was one part ‘jungle gym’ and another part ‘good uncle’. His favorite were kittens, which he licked from head to toe, leaving them covered in his slobber as they eagerly chased the built-in toy he wagged back and forth in excitement.

I learned who he was and he in turn never wavered in his protection of me.

When I was sick, he would lay as close to my bed as possible. Imprints of his claws on the nearby wall scratching as he drifted further on into his dreams. When I planted my garden or washed my car, when I arrived home one evening after being assaulted, when I cleaned before guests arrived, when your sister and I had to move, when I cooked or showered, he always stood prepared.

And when I was pregnant with you, he laid beside the couch, lifting his head to check on me as I fought the nausea, headaches and intense contractions that began earlier than they should have.

Harlee seemed to stay the same age for much of his life—a stoic unrelenting keeper of me. Even in his teenage angst or his middle-aged routine he never complained. While he didn’t care for car rides and had panic attacks near a hose, he wasn’t afraid of being alone and never showed me his pain. When his paws split open from the hours we spent together digging snow trenches in winter he did not complain. When he was sick from eating too many pencils or polly pockets or cookies he stole from the counter, he never winced or wined.

So, when he began to reach the point where he could not jump up to clean the sink after I brushed my teeth, I realized that we were decades apart. When bones began to show where once his broad stature stood towering his niece (your sister’s dog Hazel) I knew I would no longer be teaching him anything new.

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It’s day five of the tears. And you, my baby, have wiped them using my shirt and kissing them with your slobbery toddler lips.

I think as adults we assume that we have all that is necessary to provide, instruct, heal, and manage what life throws at us. We act like we know more than we do, and we get uncomfortable with vulnerability. You will learn, as your sister has, that I do not pretend to have all the answers.

I will, however, share with you what I have learned.

That the teachers in your life don’t all come at the beginning and sometimes they have fur!

That when you least expect it the fears you carry can be shared by a friend.

That love will not last forever, but when it’s a place you feel safe, it will heal you over and over again.

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I don’t know life without him yet.

How to feel in the kitchen without him under my feet. Or how to enter our apartment without hearing his bark. (He started when I was 20 feet way because somehow, he knew I was close by).

I woke last night at 4am, waiting to hear his shuffling outside my bedroom—he had a sense when I couldn’t sleep and knowing he was always there would calm me—but all I heard was silence. You grabbed for his leash today, where it sat on the window seal next to your chair. But it was gone. (Recently you were learning to put it on him.) And this afternoon, you saw his picture on my phone.

“Puppy, Puppy.” You said when you saw him. It was one of your first words. A tear falls from my eye. You see it and lay your nest of hair on my shoulder.

You won’t remember him, my sweet child.

But I will. And I will tell you of his funny habits, his daring neighborhood adventures and the way he gave me the safety and unconditional love I pray you always know!!

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He was asleep from the anesthesia; he was feeling no pain and would never wake again to lick my face. I laid beside him, covered in his fur, stroking his elderly body.

All I could think to say was,

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

DEDICATION: To my Harlee, who filled my life with a richness that makes me full.