Fourteen Years and All the Dogs

Let's see if I can remember the whole list....

When we were very young, in the days before and the earliest days of going to school, Erin, Jenny, and I lived in a house filled with corgis. We each had our "own," even though our ages ranged between zero and seven during these years. Jenny had Misty. Mine, for reasons of which I remain unaware, was named Dingo Fritz. Erin's was Barky. Even at such a young age, Erin felt such a bond with the dogs that more than once she would be caught snacking on handfuls of their food. (She was barely old enough to walk though, so we're not taking about large hands.)

We moved a few years later, and sold off all the corgis except Lady, the original. Even though she had been kind of scary when we were little kids because she did not suffer foolishness from any of the other dogs lightly, she became the friendly family dog once the competition for attention had been removed. We had her for a good number of years. 

When Erin was at the upper end of elementary school, our dad brought Arthur home one day. A complete surprise for everyone but him, and suddenly we had a westie puppy exploring our house and settling into our lives. He was our family dog and we all loved him dearly, but Erin, who never in her life met a dog she didn't become friends with, had feelings beyond that. One of my enduring memories of her is how hard she cried the day we moved her up to college, because it had been so hard for her to leave him behind. 

The three of us were adults by the time Arthur's days were finished. Jenny's family had brought in their own gigantic bundle of golden retriever, Molly, and not long after her came Erin's Jack Russell, Milo, who was brought in to the family to immediately fill the hole that Arthur's passing had left behind. About a year after that, I brought my boy Spencer home. The day I picked him up, Erin drove me there so I could hold him in my lap on the drive home and start bonding with him. Erin was also partially responsible for his name: When I told her the short list of names I was considering and got to Spencer (saving it for last, since that's the one I was already leaning toward) she said, "Well, it doesn't matter what you name him now because that's what I'm going to call him!" Decision made. 

The years sped up, as they tend to do when you and your siblings advance through adulthood. Spencer and Milo became the best of friends, since Milo was a regular dog sitting guest at my house. Molly grew old and passed on, and was eventually replaced with Willow -- once the puppy of the family and now the old man. It's been enough years that I can't say with certainty whether or not Erin ever had the chance to know Willow, but of course if she hadn't she would have loved his quiet little unassuming self as much as they rest of us. Mac came in not long after and became the other half of Willow's pack -- Mac was definitely in charge of things, mostly because Willow didn't care much. 

Milo was living with our parents until his time came. Tiny puppies Shamus and Butch came to their house next; Butch the little black and white Swiffer pad, and Shamus the furry potato with legs. They got along with all the other dogs well enough, and we had a general sense of truce between the five dogs in the family for many years. Erin didn't know them all, but it was impossible to imagine them not loving her back as much as she would have loved them. 

Then it was Spencer's time. He died such a slow and horrifying death that it broke me, and scared me away from getting a new dog for seven years. The day I brought him to the vet to put him to sleep, his doctor let me have the exam room to myself after his quick and peaceful end. While I stood there trying to wrap my head around how hopelessly lonely I was going to be, I remembered something I had heard at a book reading once, about how some people believed that sometimes the spirits or energies of dogs will remain with their masters after the pass. I didn't exactly believe that to be true but in that heightened emotional state I knew I didn't want that for him, so I looked at his body and at the floor by my feet, and, just in case, repeated over and over and over: "Go find Erin. Go find Erin. It's okay. Go find Erin now."

Years later Toby came to Jenny's family, sixty pounds of muscle and enthusiasm stuffed into the body of a boxer. Not long ago little Mac reached his end, and in less than a year equally little Riley moved in with Toby and Willow, and, in his own mind, took over the house. 

Then there was Freddie.

The shy and frightened little boy coming off a mysteriously hard life, who spent a summer's worth of days and reruns of The Office playing in the background to learn how to accept and welcome and eventually embrace his new home. Literally nobody in the world can understand how happy he is here except me, since he's still shy around other people. He's getting so much better, though. Every day he opens up a little more is a small triumph. 

But maybe, if she's ever able in whatever existence she's found now, maybe Erin's able to check in on us and see what we're doing. If so, I know she'd be so interested in everything Freddie has been up to. For all I know, she could have had a hand in steering him back into the arms of his foster mom on the day he came to live here and immediately ran away. She'd see his naps, she'd laugh with delight when he grabs his chicken or his fox out of his crate in the morning and trot into the sun room with them, and she'd smile when he curls up like a little football as he's getting ready to sleep. 

There are so many things I don't know about what life would be like with Erin now if she had been with us all this time. One thing I do know though, with absolute surety, is exactly how desperately she would love my little boy. Knowing that makes me happy and sad at the same time.