This morning as I was cleaning and applying medicine to my dog’s Speedo area that has been irritated for the past week, I was struck by the things I’m willing to do for love. Massaging ointment onto Best’s privates certainly wasn’t an activity I envisioned for myself, not unlike cleaning up the warm, chunky piles of vomit during the night when he got sick or suffering his occasionally aggressive flatulence. More surprising than my fixation on things such as Best’s oral health or digestive pyrotechnics is just how much I don’t mind any of it. In fact, I’m honored to be the one to care for him in these ways because I know the level of trust that must exist for Best to allow me to brush his teeth weekly and for him to hobble to me on three legs, head down and tail tucked, when he has a prickly burr stuck to his paw and needs me to remove it, painful as that might be. In short, it requires enormous courage and faith for us to pull back the curtain on our lives to reveal that the “great wizard of Oz” is really an imperfect and vulnerable individual who’d sure love to be accepted and cared for.
I waited well into my adulthood before I adopted my first dog, which then led to my adopting my second dog (a littermate to the first who also needed a forever home) soon after. A lover of all animals and someone who truly needs to have a dog in her life, I knew I wanted to wait until my life settled down enough for me to provide a stable, happy home for my dog. I’ve always believed God’s timing is perfect even if it’s not apparent to us, and this was never clearer to me than when, at the exact point that I began seriously investigating rescue groups to begin the adoption process, a new friend introduced me to her dog, with whom I promptly became smitten. Sarah’s dog Dolce was a beautiful rescue Dutch Shepherd who worked as a therapy dog with Sarah’s students, and it was through Sarah that I met the two Dutches, Remo and Rico, that I would go on to adopt when they were three years old. I had over a decade with those brindled goofs, time that included a whole lot of ups and some occasional downs. Never, though, did I regret my decision to bring them into my life, and never did I believe that I could love a dog more than I did them.
What I learned in their final years was how much love manifests itself in the difficult times and the difficult choices that emerge from those times. When Remo’s osteosarcoma caused his vertebrae to begin breaking down and his specialist told me that the pain associated with the cancer progression would only intensify, I made the most difficult decision to euthanize my precious boy. I bought him a steak, rice, and sweet potatoes, along with a cup of vanilla gelato. I took him to a beautiful field under a shade tree where he was able to enjoy this meal, his last, while a veterinarian friend drove to meet us there. As the injections were administered, I held Remo’s head in my lap and stroked his diminished body while I recalled the adventures we’d shared and all that I owed him for the gift of his friendship. When he had taken his final breath, I carried him to my car, wrapped him in a blanket, and drove him to the clinic where his veterinarian would prepare him for cremation. His brother’s death three years later was no less shocking—a hemangiosarcoma diagnosis that occurred only a day after Rico became symptomatic and his passing just 24 hours after that—but again I was able to hold him during his final moments to let him know he was loved and that no dog would ever be missed more than he.
Love shows itself in the moments when it would hurt less to flee the scene. It reveals itself in our willingness to override our own wishes to consider what is best for the one we love. It is being able to watch someone utterly broken, experiencing the worst moments of their life, and being present to hold space or to hold them up when they are unable to do it for themselves.
It seems that we tend to elevate the intoxicating, heart-pounding, rainbows-and-unicorns stage of new relationships, and to be clear, that kind of infatuation grounded not in reality but love-drunkenness is delicious; however, what I believe should be championed is the enduring, you’re-my-emergency-contact, you’ve-seen-my-ugliest-sides-and-still-love-me-most stage of relationships.
My husband came into my life in whirlwind fashion. When I say that I have never been wooed, I mean it. Never have I been courted, doted on, and treasured until he and I met. Goodnight texts, hours of conversation, beautiful missives awaiting me in my inbox each morning, unexpected gifts—all of these took my breath away. If waiting until my mid-forties to find this kind of love had earned me such attention and devotion, it was a small price to pay! I loved every minute of that romance; I don’t believe anyone could tell me they wouldn’t. As much as those expressions of love still feed my soul, I know that the moment Rico died in the living room one evening only months after my husband and I married, and he lifted Rico in his arms to carry him to the truck because I was unable to, and when I was so consumed by the grief of that unexpected loss that I was unable to wipe my eyes or nose to clear away great rivers of tears and mucus, or to attempt to hide the ugly sobs from him, he stayed. He didn’t try to make any of it okay because it wasn’t. But he shared one of my worst moments, offering me his strength and reassurance that we were in it together.
Hallmark movies depict the romance we might secretly wish to experience, and never should we feel embarrassed of that desire to be pursued and treasured by the right person. I contend, though, that what can evolve from those early moments of adoration and preoccupation with our beloved is something resolute, enduring, and unwaveringly accepting. Whether that relationship is with our canine friend or our human partner, things only get sweeter when we show up, bear witness, and hold space during the times that are anything but lovely and easy.
PartWolf 