Gotcha Day.

The anticipation, the excitement, the giddiness…

The joy.

This is the beginning of a brand new being, for the puppy or rescued or re-homed dog… and the family.

We fall in love with them even as they muddy our floors or chew on our sofas or steal food off the counters (or all that and more) because no one ever taught them not to, or they are just that dang dawg.

We teach them how to be with us, live with us.

And we learn how to be with them, live with them. 

They take up too much room on the sofa with us (or on us). They wiggle up against us in bed so we only have a sliver of space on the edge. They jump right through the screen door…

Or maybe they do none of that.

Blaze was the latter… neither a super snuggler, nor a destroyer of things.

Each would have been beneath her.

She even played only when she deemed it appropriate. It was so rare that such times would send us into fits of laughter, and we couldn’t help but join in (tag was her game of choice).

It was for these traits, and so many others, we loved her… and perhaps loved her just a little bit more.

Blaze came to us… well, to Gabe… as a twelve week old puppy.

She took over the household immediately, including a teenager of a German ShepHerd, a harbor seal of a Lab, and a 130 lb. Bernese Mountain Dog with the heart of a puppy but the soul of a grumpy old man.

They all bent the knee.

Her very first collar was purple.

A coincidence then, the color of royalty. But we now know it was simply a nod to her lineage, a portent of our future with the Princess. She was all about service to the crown.

We were her subjects, her charges.

Anyone who came to visit was greeted, assessed and categorized (via her nose), and then became part of her royal household. In her heyday, it was as important that she saw you out, as saw you in. How else would she know how many she was responsible for?

She adopted us – all of us, including Granny and Grampa.

She saw Gabe through high school, and off to college.

She was overjoyed every time he came home on break, and every visit from Mac, Sam, and Jack.

She welcomed brand new practice grandchildren into the fold.

She was with Grampa – the Old Yankee Man – in his hospital room, during his last days.

And she was here one morning when Granny and I left for a doctor’s appointment… and here when I walked back through the same door alone – dazed and devastated – an hour after Granny died.

She was an ambassador for her breed, winning over even the most wary and skittish when it came to big German ShepHerds.

In her last years, she taught a silly and stubborn hownd, who came to us from Oklahoma, how to trust that this is her home.

And she gently greeted Mac’s and Jack’s first baby, whom we referred to as a ‘puppy’, late last year.

And now.

If Gotcha Day lies on one end of a beautiful, crazy, funny, joy-filled timeline… then I suppose Give-ya Day lies on the other.

It is that day we have to hand the leash back to the cosmos.

That day when we will no longer whisper our loving words into their furry ruffs or foreheads, but into air… hoping they will be carried to their intendeds.

We are here, at that other end… and heartbroken.

I know that if we are lucky – very, very lucky – we welcome our dogs in with all the love in the world… and we are also there to ease and comfort them gently into The Next.

Give-ya Day is not easy, it is not joyfully anticipated.

It is dreaded and challenged and questioned and all the things that… well… if you know, you know.

But.

Being with them, giving them over…

It’s a gift to us… the chance to show them and tell them and cry into them the love and appreciation they deserve. They’ve earned that, for every moment of laughter, love, and wonder they have given us during the all-too-brief time we get to have them in our world, our families.

It’s why we always stay through the end.

We hold them, we whisper to them. We comfort them and calm them.

It is a privilege.

It is leveling.

Last night, we thought today would be Blaze’s Give-ya Day.

Sure enough, this morning, having gotten weaker, and not showing interest in food for a couple of days, she actually refused a lick of vanilla ice cream – her favorite treat in the world.

I always knew that would be her ‘tell’, and it was.

Looking into her cloudy eyes, it was crystal clear.

Even so… oh… it hurt.

It hurts.

It shreds and tears and breaks wide open all that is inside, until we leak pain.

But also gratitude.

And awe.

At all that we feel…

For having shared a life with, and loved, a great dog.

 

Thanks for readin’.

You can comment below, or join fellow ponderers on Just Ponderin’s Facebook page, or Instagram feed or all three! You have all the power :))