Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Elegy for a Dog



I used to say that I loved Heidi so much because no one else would. She wasn’t the typical golden retriever; she was high-strung, neurotic, loud, bossy, at time cantankerous. She had a penchant for rolling around in the lush green lawns of our neighbors and for leaping into puddles. She was obsessed with Frisbees and tennis balls, although she had a peculiar idea of what fetch meant—she was convinced it involved her chasing after the tossed object and then dropping it at her own feet, demanding one of her humans to pick it up and launch it again. She also had a peculiar habit of climbing on my head during thunderstorms. She spent exactly one night in the veterinarian-recommended dog crate, because she cried so pathetically that I couldn’t stand the idea of locking her in a cage—from then on, she roamed the house freely. She was kicked out of obedience school for talking back; every command the instructor gave her, Heidi responded with yips, barks, and yowls.




I was always happy that she never became obedient.




Heidi had personality. She was spunky, feisty, bossy, recalcitrant.




She was sweet and incredibly attuned to our emotions. I remember the morning my grandmother died. I came downstairs to eat breakfast before school, and I immediately noticed my mom’s red eyes, her tear-stained face. I asked what was wrong and she choked out, “Grammy died.” She started crying again, and Heidi, an anxious look on her face, ran over to my mom, jumped up to put her paws on her hips, and stretched her neck in an attempt to lick my mom’s face. Heidi did provide some comfort that morning, making us all laugh.




She was my golden girl, my Heidi dog, my goofball.




She didn’t know when to stop. She would swim at the lake until she was absolutely exhausted and slept for three hours when we got home. When she was two years old, my dad and I took her out in the back yard to run around in the snow. She played fetched for well over an hour, tossed herself into snow banks, and her reddish gold fur looked like lambskin by the time we dragged her inside. At some point during the outing, she tore a ligament in her leg. I have no idea when, because she would have continued playing if we hadn’t called her in. She had surgery, and that entire spring, I walked her up and down the steep cemetery hill to make her spindly leg strong. She often resisted and was afraid to go into the cemetery too near dusk, but twice a day, every day, for months, I walked her and for years, I couldn’t tell which leg she injured.




She seemed to think that I wouldn’t notice her trying to climb up on the couch if she moved very, very slowly. One paw on the cushion—sideways glance at me—the other paw up—quick, nervous glance at me—lean forward, not too fast, no one will ever notice. Within five minutes, she’d be sprawled across my lap.




She didn’t try to sneak her way onto the couch when I was sick. Heidi was sure she could cure me by staying by my side every second. Scratching those curly ears did make me feel better. I wish I could have been there for her at the end, to give her some comfort.




Heidi minded it when I left her. She was five years old when I left for college. She stared at my piles of bags and blankets with a despairing look: “How can you leave me?”
I came home a week later, just for the weekend, but Heidi greeted me with such joy that suggested she thought she would never see me again. I’m afraid I broke her heart every Sunday for four years, though.




Heidi, do you know how you’ve broken mine now?




I will miss her greetings and her unrestrained exuberance. Thump-thump-thump: tail spinning against her dog bed as I came in the door at midnight after dropping Jarrod off at the train station. The clicking toes, and sometimes sliding paws, as she ran to me when I came home for the first time after almost two months in Buffalo. The slower greeting I received this Easter, the last time I saw her, when I first realized just how sick she was. She was too tired to jump up, and had been sleeping in my parents’ room for most of the day, but when I said her name, “Where’s my Heidi?” her tail still rotated around and around, thumping against the dog bed. She still seemed to know when I was leaving that Sunday.




I didn’t know that would be our last goodbye. So I want to give you a better goodbye now, Heidi.




I’ll miss you, my friend—your antics, the way you never got used to Jarrod’s sneeze, your firm belief that offering your paw would make amends for any wrongdoing and instantly grant you the treat you were seeking, your perseverance. You always were one to defy the odds, from the allergic reaction to your first vaccine to these last months of hanging on well beyond what the vet expected and what I dreaded. That dreaded time has come now, and neither of us would ever be ready for it. I’ll say goodbye the way I always did. You be a good girl, Heidi. You always were.

2 comments:

  1. Beautiful post Jen! It's so hard to say goodbye to our furry friends and you've captured those emotions quite perfectly.

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