My Shao - saying goodbye to my best friend

In 1999 I was lucky enough to get my very first puppy. I had dogs before; well, my parents and friends had dogs before – but I had never had one all my own. My (then) husband took me to a house in the middle of nowhere that was selling husky puppies. We wandered into the backyard where the owner was standing and saw a bundle of fluffy, adorable puppies that were all flopping about and being incredibly cute.  There were several other people there looking over the pups. I squatted down, scanning them over – I loved them all. But, as it often happens, one chose me. This tiny ball of grey and white fluff with sparkling blue eyes wandered over to me and nuzzled my hand. I picked her up and instantly she was mine – or rather, I was hers.

We had a long ride home, but she sat timidly in the palm of my hand. She gnawed gently at my
fingers, her short tail wagged constantly. She was beautiful, loving, and was bursting with personality. I think that we tried out several names before settling on “Shaolin.” It was more my husband’s choice than mine – I wanted to name her something pretty. I spent a lot of time with her and grew to love her so much that it ached sometimes.

I quickly learned that she was incredibly hyper, as most puppies are. She would be sleeping soundly, then suddenly jump up and begin tearing through the house. She would run from the living room to the dining room and then to the kitchen, her paws slipping violently on the linoleum. She would stop herself by slamming into the kitchen door. She would then Scooby-doo scramble and run back to the living room only to bounce off of the couch and start all over again. Her tongue would be hanging out wildly to the side; her eyes wide and bright.

At some point, my (then) husband decided that Shao should be kept outside. I did not agree, but really did not have a choice at that time. So, out she went. I quickly learned that she had a knack for escaping the back yard. She could leap the chain length fence in a single big bound. She made a game out of having people chase her, often at her own peril as she ran into traffic. Somehow, she never got hurt; somehow I always got her back. Years later, after I was divorced and in an apartment with my (then) new boyfriend (and now husband), I decided that she should be brought along to live indoors with me where she belonged. We took her to obedience classes, in which she excelled.  Everyone loved her; she howled and seemed to speak in short “woos” and whimpers. She loved other dogs and other people. She was funny, mischievous, and very smart.

She did great inside with me and my boyfriend. We had a two story townhouse that she loved bounding up and down the stairs of. She never really barked; not unless she was really suspicious of someone. She loved laying on the couch with me while I watched a movie or laying on the floor of the dining room staring into the kitchen longingly as I cooked. Much to the dismay of my boyfriend she loved giving kisses right on the lips. She would sneak them when you did not expect it and then gently wag her tail as you groaned and wiped your mouth off.

The maddest I have ever been at her was when she killed a baby sparrow. I had found one outside of
our apartment, no nest in sight; no parents in sight. I decided to hand- feed it until I could release it. I went to the pet store and bought formula and droppers and carefully fed the chick many times a day. It was getting strong and healthy and I was really proud of myself. All of this feeding and caring for took quite a bit of my time and I could see Shao glaring up at it, and me as I fed it. One day I left the nest I had made it (with it in it) on my bed as I went to change out laundry. Shao struck quickly. I was devastated when I came back to my room to find her proudly standing over the dead bird in my bed.

I forgave her in time; I realized that this was an act of instinct and not one of malice (or so I told myself!). Shao and I bonded so closely. When my grandmother got sick and eventually died, she was there snuggling with me; gently licking away my tears. When my mother died she was there, nuzzling under my arm and forcing me to concentrate on something other than despair. When my depression was so bad that I could hardly get out of bed for even the bathroom she was there, loving me unconditionally and without end.

And now she’s gone.

No longer can I wake up to look into those icy blue eyes. No longer can I reach out and rub the velveteen fur on her ears. No longer can I bury my face in the fur on her back, forget the world, and fall asleep. What will I do without her? I don’t know. But will remember her. I will honor her as someone who was not “just a dog” but an important part of my life. She was not a pet, but a true friend. She was an animal, but more human than many people I have known. She was light and sunshine and joy. And now she’s gone. And my life has this… huge hole. I still walk around the place on the carpet she loved to lay. I still wake up and reach down to pet her head. I am still so crushed by this, and I don’t know how I will recover.

I’ve had enough loss to know that this will somehow heal with time. The scab over the wound will remain, being bumped and scratched at now and again when I’m reminded of her. Eventually I’ll be able to think of how lucky we were – how lucky I was. Sixteen years is a long time for a big dog to live. There was so much laughter and fun and love in those sixteen years! But for now all I can think of is my loss; of not having her. But I’m glad that I was by her side in the end. I’m glad the last words she heard were, “I love you” and “you are such a good girl”. I’m glad I got to gently wrap my arms around her and hug one last time.

Goodbye Shao. I’ll never, ever forget you. Thank you. And I hope that one day I’m worthy and lucky enough to see you again. 

Shaolin

1999 - 2015

Always in my Heart