Well, Hello Again. This is the second little essay (blog/diary) I'm trying to publish this morning.
It was the first thing I had written after nothing for fifteen years. I thought I was sharing, but then I realized it was also a way to heal. Then I thought it might help someone else....
Puppy Love
One September morning I carried 18 year old Ben, my Mini Schnauzer, to the car and headed for the vet’s, where he went to sleep in my arms, as I whispered “our” song—“Benjamin! Benjamin! I got the best dog and his name is Benjamin.”
The vet put his arm around me and with tears in his eyes said, “You’ll be all right, Dru.” I walked to the parking lot, smoked a cigarette and was surprised to feel so much anger! I was furious. Losing that little deaf and blind guy left a hole in my life so big it damn near consumed me.
The details of the next days and weeks are no longer with me, but I do recall one evening as I sat on my porch sipping wine, I asked Ben through tears to please, please just let me know if he was really all right. Later, I woke from a sound sleep and was compelled to go outside. I have never seen such a brightly lit night sky, the starriest night I have ever seen, and I knew Ben was just fine.
So, that was it-- or so I thought. I would never put myself though that kind of pain again. Now I am free, I thought. I can travel, come and go without the responsibility of a dog… or so I thought. Thus it went for several months.
I was sitting out on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, in early November when a voice gently spoke to me from above. “You need a dog, Dru.”
Yep.
I decided to find a Mini Schnauzer Rescue and spent several frustrating weeks dealing with Rescue groups, run by volunteers who have wonderful hearts, but are totally disorganized. I was really discouraged, when two friends who didn’t know one another sent me emails within 5 minutes of one another suggesting I try the Humane Society about an hour away..
I contacted them and was offered a pair of Pekes. “Pekes are adorable, but I am not a Peke Person,” I told them. I filled out forms. I spoke directly with the Director. Then she emails to say they have my dog-- a Wire Haired Doxie. Dauchaund ? Me? I don’t think so. My stairs are very steep, for one thing. How would a little short legged sausage dog climb them?
I decided to go over there on the pretense of looking at “Sinatra,” but more to let these people get a look at what I am made of, so grabbed a pal and drove to the shelter.
They took us to a large empty room and within minutes this bundle of furry energy came racing towards me, jumped into my arms and began covering my face with kisses. I cried. My friend cried.
It took about a week for the shelter to check my references. When, finally, we were taking our first walk together, I told him that I thought Sinatra was a stupid name for a dog and that I was going to call him Kobi. He didn’t seem to mind. Later, when I read thru the pile of papers they had given me, I saw that the name given to him by his original family in N. Carolina was Coby! I also learned that in his first 1 ½ years of life, including foster care on his trip north, mine was the fifth place he had slept in. One of his foster moms had written that she almost lost her standing because, of all the dogs she had cared for, she really didn’t want to let this one go.
We go to the dog park every day (weather permitting) where we both can socialize. It is fenced in so he can run free. (His nose rules and even though he knows “Come,” the scent of the tiniest critter would set him off to who knows where in pursuit.) Up there his first order of business is to sniff out who has been there and what they had for breakfast, which can take some time as there are (I heard) about 70 dogs who visit regularly.
Sometimes there is no one else there, so we play ball. Other times it is like a circus of pure joy. The sight of five or six dogs playing, running in circles, weaving in and out, reversing directions and looping here there and everywhere makes my heart sing.
I assume you are getting the picture. Kobi and I have a great time together. He is pretty much my constant companion. When we come home after an adventure, he runs to the top of the stairs and waits to give me kisses when I catch up. He is a real buddy, who listens and doesn’t argue or sass back-- except when I am dead wrong. He reads my moods, sleeps at my feet when I am down, not feeling well preoccupied.
Like most who have a Rescue Dog in their life, I feel so lucky to have found this little guy. I tell him that each night as he tucks me into bed. Then he kisses my nose and all but sighs, reminding me of his long journey from North Carolina, sleeping in all those strange places, hours and hours riding in the back of vans, spending over two weeks in that kennel until, finally, that nice lady brought him to the big room where he knew I would be waiting for him.