Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love, they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog. It merely expands the heart……… Author Unknown
I became suspicious when the breeder delivered Rory to us accompanied by a bottle of medicine. “He has an eye infection,” Jean said. “Just put in a couple drops twice a day for a while.” Seven years, and many thousands of dollars later, the pooch still gets eye medication every day, as well as another more costly preparation for a different incurable health problem. Nonetheless, I have no regrets. The unimagined joy of the little dog’s affection has no price tag.
Let me back up to 2002—the year I retired. Less than a month after being home alone, I decided I wanted a live-in friend—a furry, four-legged one. My husband, who never grew up with pets, vetoed the idea. However, I won the argument by reminding him of my age seniority and the fact that he would be employed for at least another ten years. He would have little contact with whatever creature I acquired.
I already had Alexia-the-Siamese-cat. However, she refused to accompany me on walks, play fetch, or cuddle with me on the couch. A dog would be more compliant. But, not a puppy! Over the past twenty years, I had trained three puppies. This time, the goal was an older dog, well-acquainted with the basics of polite behaviour. The search produced Sophie, a three-year old Australian Terrier—gentle, intelligent, loving and always ready for an hour of exercise. For eleven years, walks with Sophie provided some of the happiest moments of my day. Then, a fall down a flight of stairs resulted in brain damage and partial paralysis. The vet offered no option except euthanasia.
In the aftermath of Sophie’s death, my husband said, “No more dogs!” I said, “I’ll wait one year.”
Before I met my husband, I made a list of the characteristics I desired in an “ideal” mate. With one failed marriage and a few disastrous liaisons to my dis-credit, I thought I would take a more rational approach this time. Gilles met most of the criteria I’d enumerated. After twenty-two years together, I have discovered a few more assets that I hadn’t anticipated as well as a few flaws. I am certain the same discoveries apply to his assessment of me. This month I turn seventy-four. I am unlikely to need another, “Potential Partner” list. However, if I did, the topmost entry would be, “Must love having a dog!” It sounds simple; but, there is so much more to the statement than its simplicity suggests. A person who loves dogs must be patient, kind, compassionate, spontaneous, sociable, financially stable, fond of exercise, love the outdoors, and live in the moment. Perhaps just that one entry would suffice.
Ten months passed. I wanted a dog. Gilles had retired by this time but we spent little time together. Although we both take daily walks, Gilles’ is a race to the finish line, out and back at a startled-gazelle pace. As for me, I meander, stop to chat with neighbours or strangers, cloud-gaze, echo the chatter of birds, breathe in the scent of ocean air, veer off the road onto red clay lanes or grassy paths. I walk not to reach a destination, but to savour the adventure. Walking with a dog often brings me closer to the moment. Dogs sniff every enticing doggy or dead-animal smell. They stop to pee a dozen times. Once, because of such behaviour, I spotted three partridges roosting on a low tree branch. Another time the pause allowed me a glimpse of a brood of bright pheasants.
Oh, but Gilles and my approach to walking is not our only difference. In separate rooms, we each have our own television because we enjoy different programs. I garden; he plays computer games. I enjoy eating out; he prefers his own cooking. We both read. Once again, different genres in our separate rooms. I prefer a certain amount of socialization; Gilles prefers his own company.
I needed a dog. I needed a dog for all the same reasons I got Sophie—a companion—to walk with, play with, cuddle with.
Without success, I tried the rescue route. I read dog magazines, talked to dog owners, and went to a local dog show. It was the last that brought success. There I found the perfect breed. A Wizard of Oz Toto dog! A Cairn Terrier. The dog show breeder had no “older” dogs for adoption. She referred me to a breeder in Nova Scotia. He put me in touch with a breeder in New Brunswick. Six months later, Rory arrived.
To be continued…