Ode to a Good Girl

Already thought she ran the joint.

  
    One year into dating the woman who would one day become my wife, I did something kind of crazy for an anniversary present. I bought her a dog.

    Some may say that’s more of a commitment than a diamond ring. Oh, hey, let me give you a living creature that now demands we either stay together to care for it or have a really awkward discussion about property ownership when we break up.

    I know some friends and family thought I was a little nuts, but I saved up some cash and took her to a breeder. A Sheltie breeder. My future bride didn’t have many canine ownership experiences in her life, but the brief one that she enjoyed was a Sheltie. I surprised her with the news that she could go pick one out, and she had her heart set on a sable and white male puppy.

    But as she lay on the floor with the litter—all tri-colored, no sables—in the home of the breeder, the boy pups just didn’t seem to take to her. I could see disappointment and doubt mounting on her face. My future wife was very selective (which makes it a miracle I somehow made the cut).

    Then, just a bit out of nowhere, the little runt of the litter—a female—waddled over to my wife, took hold of some my wife’s hair in her mouth, and gave it a playful tug. This little clown, who we would learn from the breeders had to be bottle fed because she was so small and finicky about her eating, instantly won my wife’s heart. This is the one, she said.

    And thus we embarked on that incredible journey that always ends in inevitable heartbreak.

    For us, that adventure of companionship ended 15 and a half years later at two in the morning Wednesday in the emergency vet office in Mount Pleasant as we made the decision—that decision that’s so merciful yet laden with so much pain and guilt—to end the final chapter of Lexie’s life.

    Why do we do it? Why do we bring that little fur ball into our lives, knowing full damn well that the end game usually looks something like this? Why do we live with that denial—that our souls won’t be ripped out of our chests—and plow down this road anyway so we can have that cuddle companion, or that big boy to go running with every day, or that playmate for the kids, or just someone to dote over? Knowing all too well that it is cruelly never—never—enough time, and then once that companion is gone, we do it all over again?

    We, of course, didn’t really consider all that when we brought little puppy Lex home to my wife’s apartment. As time passed, she adopted new monikers along with her actual name—Baby Lex, L’il Butt, Lexicus Bratticus, Baby Shelt, and a few words I won’t print here when she misbehaved. But I usually just took to calling her Baby Girl.

    She was pint-sized for a Sheltie, but she oozed attitude. She’d sass us or do something mischievous, and when I would mildly admonish her, she’d flash that Sheltie grin back at me as if to say, “What the hell are you gonna do about it, Daddy?”

"Wake up, Daddy."

    Within a year, Lexie was my wife’s most prized possession in the history of her life. That’s why, when I proposed to her, I knew I had to get Lex in on the act somehow. With my brother in law’s help, we took a beach day to Isle of Palms. I attached the diamond ring to her collar and held Lex in my lap the whole way to the beach. My future wife, thinking I was probably going to propose later that night at dinner, demanded I give her dog to her and couldn’t understand why I refused. When we got to the beach, I feared she would spot the ring too easily, or that Lexie might shake it off somewhere by accident and lose it in the sand, so I immediately urged my future bride to take a walk with Lex to get some of her energy out.

    Several yards down the beach, I told her that something seemed wrong with Lex’s collar. I dropped to one knee, and with the help of the mischievous little Shelt, we asked her to cement our family.

    After she said yes and we kissed, we locked hands and continued our walk. We only made it about four more feet before Lexie stopped to drop a giant poop on the sand.

    That was Aug. 11, 2007. Exactly 14 years to the day before Lexie took her final breath.

    But over those next 14 years, we savored the antics and attitude of Miss Thing in our homes. She loved to smell—and then roll on—my stinky shoes after I took them off for the day. She mounted a table one time to go after my mother in law’s chicken pot pie when she thought no one was looking. She never backed down from a challenge with another dog, and once tried to have a go with a bulldog well out of her weight class. Lexie was our alarm system, and quite a loud and vocal one at that. And it only took a few key phrases uttered by my wife or me to send her into a playful session of talk-back barking.

    Despite her tiny size, Baby Lex came equipped with a powerful heart; one that knew when to give attitude and knew when to give love. Or comfort in hard times.

Chasing her best friend on the beach.

    She was there for us during the worst. Financial hardships in our early years. The loss of people we loved. Moving across the state to start new jobs. Times we had a falling out with friends. Our continued struggles with fertility.

    You know, I’m not someone who tries to draw a comparison to owning dogs and being a parent. I understand there is a monumental and definitive difference between the two. But for childless couples, sometimes that dog is the only damn thing they have.

    And Lexie was always there. Every damn day of the journey. With that Sheltie grin, as if to say, “C’mon, Mommy and Daddy. Let’s show em how tough we are.”

    I guess she was “our” dog, but really, she was my wife’s. I think my wife may have loved her more than me. To be honest, Lexie deserved it more than I did. She seemed to only enjoy being held for prolong periods in my wife’s arms, even tolerating it for three-hour car rides to see family over the holidays. My wife would blare "Rain King" in the bedroom and dance and sing while Lexie pranced and barked on the bed along with her. Lex could read her mind and her moods, and she always knew how to adjust her behavior to give my wife what she needed. Sometimes, all it really took was Lexie coming over to the couch and giving her gentle licks on her hand with her little tongue.

    She never lost her sass even as she slowed in those final years. She no longer broke into carefree sprints on the beach to chase her other household canine companion. Playtime faded away into constant nap time. She received free rides up and down the stairs. She stopped herding people like Shelties are prone to do, but she would still follow us into the kitchen if we were going to get a snack. But every so often in the back yard, she would catch a smell of another dog or a person from over the fence, and the old watch dog in her would come alive with some hoarse barks and a little buck of her hind legs. In the last year of her life, she just enjoyed golf cart rides around the neighborhood, sticking her head out so she could feel the breeze.

A pupcake for her 15th birthday.

    A month ago, she even tried to chase a soccer ball our niece kicked, just like the old days. Somewhere in her, there was still a little left in the tank.

    Her health faded quickly over the last week. She no longer ate, and she could barely walk. In the last day of her life, she couldn’t stand on her own. Her last meal was the only thing we could get her to take, some baby food. My wife held Lexie and bottle fed her, just the way she had been fed as a newborn puppy. Then she just held her and held her. Lexie rested her head on my wife’s shoulder, her breathing short and labored. We knew it was time.

    But in the room at the vet’s office, I held her after they had sedated her. My wife rubbed her head, kissed her, and gently sang a song to her. I felt Lexie’s little powerful heart beating against my chest in an uneven rhythm. The vet prepared us the best he could, and then he inserted the needle.

    I felt Lexie’s little mighty heart beat one final time.

    My wife left the room as soon as she passed; she didn't want to see her after she was gone. The vet left me alone with her. I held her lifeless body gently to my chest, and tried to take in all of the 15 and a half years’ journey. How just a little hair tug from a pup could alter our trajectory. Our path in life. How just an eight-week-old creature could take hold of a few strands of someone’s hair and say, “You’re mine. So is that balding guy with you. And I’m going to be by your side for 15 years through the good and the bad and give you everything I have and be the best damn dog you’ve ever seen. Go pull the car around, Daddy. I’m coming home.”

    I cradled her body tighter to me and I thanked her. I thanked her for all she did for my wife. I thanked her for being more for my wife than I ever was. I thanked her for all the joy and love and memories she gave us, even though I always knew we would end here. Because sometimes the journey is worth the heartbreak.

    Rest easy, Baby Girl.