I lost my heart in the very early hours of March 9, 2008, when my dear chocolate lab, Emma, left our world and joined her sissy over the Rainbow Bridge.
I'll say it outright: lesser owners would have given up before her first birthday.
Em wasn’t a typical lab puppy that everyone finds easy to love. She wasn’t cute or cuddly. She smelled funny. She was big, brash, and more than a little mean.
Our precious baby was powerful enough to cause injuries that raised the suspicions of my physician and the family veterinarian. To say that we all merely survived Emma’s puppyhood would not be an overstatement.
We suffered through her first two years, but what followed made it all worthwhile. Adult Emma was a pleasant, eager, fun loving family member. Nothing brought a laugh quicker than Emma bounding toward us with the biggest, longest tongue in the world hanging out of her wide smile. She lived life fully, and her zest for living was contagious.
My girl was the ultimate rule follower; once she learned them, the case was closed. Em lived to please, which definitely made life easier for Mommy. More important, though, it cleared a path for a friendship that would last forever. We could relax and enjoy life’s big and little bonding experiences.
She was my obedience champion, but her inability to play well with others left that a largely private phenomenon. Emma's brilliance could be used equally for good or evil. On the "good" side of the equation was learning the tricky "finish on recall" by simply watching her sissy. (During one of Royko's training sessions, my baby marched right up and did it. Hmph. Piece of cake, she said...) She rang the jingle bells to let us know she needed to go potty on her first night home. Brilliant.
Emma loved every member of her family, but she was Mommy’s girl. If there was activity on my agenda – a ride, a fetching session, a Greenbelt workout -- she was there. If Mommy said it was time to hang, she’d hang. Everything was good, so long as we were together.
Full enjoyment of each other’s company would not come until Emma’s later years. As our relationship (and Emma) matured, her aging sissy’s needs increased in both quantity and intensity. Emma was loved wholeheartedly, but she didn’t always get the quality time she deserved -- tending to Royko’s physical challenges and dementia became increasingly complicated and demanded more of our attention with every passing day.
Eventually, that sad family chapter closed. With Royko’s August 2005 passing came the opportunity to place Emma at the center of our universe. Given her robustness and apparent good health, we assumed that we would have many years as a trio, time to spoil her and appreciate her.
What we would not know until that awful night last year was that inside a silent killer was waiting to take our girl from us. Emma’s quick decline began with an apparent late night stroke. She struggled in the days that followed, her appetite and energy level diminished. She simply wasn’t our Em.
An infuriating Saturday (3/8) morning follow-up with the veterinarian yielded nothing more than the urge on Mommy’s part to punch the creep in the throat and race to the vet school ER in the next state. (I didn't do that, a source of tremendous regret. But I did locate a specialist -- myself -- and made an appointment for further tests.) We returned to the clinic several hours later, in the middle of the night, with Emma in deep physical distress. She made it just inside the reception room door before collapsing. That is where my girl left us.
Our decision to not bring a second dog into the family after Royko passed was the right one for Emma. She needed our undivided attention, and she deserved it. But leaving the clinic in the night’s darkness and returning to an empty house was the most difficult experience so far in my adult life. The one thing that kept us going after Royko’s death was knowing that Emma needed us to be there to tend to her daily needs. When Em died, we had no such helper.
Choosing to bring home a puppy is never an easy one for someone who’s shared her life with many a shelter dog. Ultimately, we made that decision; and it was the right one, because it gave us time to grieve and prepare to welcome our boy to our family. He wasn’t merely a quick fix for the gap in our lives. Discovering a direct link to Emma on Dewey’s pedigree confirmed the rightness of the choice.
Sometime in Emma’s later years, I heard the song, “For Good,” from the Broadway musical, “Wicked,” for the first time and was touched deeply by the lyrics. The phrase “handprint on my heart” became “pawprint on my heart” in my mind, emblematic of the way in which Emma touched me. More to the point were these words:
“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
Because I knew you
I have been changed for good.” *
But because I knew you
Because I knew you
I have been changed for good.” *
Emma changed me for good. I am a different, better person for loving her.
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2 comments:
Oh Deb, what an amazing tribute to Emma. I've become pretty hardened when it comes to sad endings (working with rescue will do that), but here I am crying after reading this. You are a gifted writing and you've made it so clear that Emma was one of those dogs people are lucky to share their lives with, if even for too brief a time.
"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?" - Kahlil Gibran
I really believe that to be loved by a dog is to be taught how to experience joy, and that's why it's so painful when they leave.
Amber, I'm so very touched by your kindness. The day has been incredibly difficult, full of memories that both comforted and saddened. Finding this kind note tonight is a true blessing. Thank you, friend.
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