Dear Diesel,
You were such a good boy. The best there ever was. Even some day (and it will come) when I forget my own name, I will never ever, ever forget your sweet, loving and healing soul.
No one could ever in a million years, understand the bond we had. How could they? For it was divine intervention, I have no doubt, that we intersected each other's paths on May 14th, 2016.
For you, it was the time in your life when you were 7 years on this earth and your circumstances left you recovering alone from surgery to remove cancer from your leg, in a strange, loud place (which you hated) confused about where your humans who had once loved and cared for you had gone, and desperately in need of a second chance of living your life with a family who loved you.
For me, as I reflect on how you came into my life, I was in similar circumstances. I was sick (SO sick) with Anorexia, trying desperately to recover but hindered by my continued abuse of alcohol, food restriction and over-exercise, alone and confused about where my humans (one in particular) who had once loved and cared for me had gone, and desperately in need of a second chance of living my life in peace, with a family who loved me.
Neither of us trusting of the unconditional love of another, having been "abandoned" in our own minds, because of something we had done wrong, our quick-forming bond was not only unlikely, but doomed even more given that you were a menacing pitbull, judged harshly by others (including me) who didn't even know you, based solely on your breed.
And me? Why would you be trusting of me? You were brought to a shelter by people you trusted, for some unknown reason that you could never understand, after you loved them all the 7 years of your life until that point. You likely judged me, another human, as untrustworthy, based on my "breed".
Yet from that first night, when you picked us to be your forever home from all the other humans who came to the shelter before us, somehow the bond had already started.
Inherently, without any words either of us could understand, we trusted each other. We had to. It was a leap of faith I'll never understand because my trust meter was pinned on empty.
From the car on that first day we brought you home, I didn't put the lead on you, and you walked behind me to the front door, as if you knew you were home. When we got inside the door, you literally reached up to kiss me, and without fear of what could have happened next, I bent down and you licked my face with the gratitude of a dog who understood he was home. All at once, I trusted that you would never bring harm.
And thus, the beginning of a far-too-short time together, where you never missed an opportunity to love us, to make us laugh and to bring us together in a way that we desperately needed after being fractured for so long.
You spent each day with Maddi, our first summer with you, snuggling her gently all the days that Summer and I were working, when she broke her arm in four places. You knew intuitively that she hurt and you carefully set about helping her mend with your goofy smile, posing for endless snaps and selfies when that was her only way to communicate with the outside world. You snuggled your body up against her gently, and rested your head on her lap when she slept from the pain medication, there for a kiss when she woke.
It was the way you also seemed immediately to understand that I needed to be rescued, and your eagerness to take on the task, that leaves me here on this Earth without you this night, lessons you taught outnumbered only by the tears because you are gone.
Some of them were obvious right away. Some I didn't understand until you had to go away.
Your surgery prior to coming home with us, left you with scars that we could see and understood not to touch, as you gently but firmly "asked" us not to touch you there. There were scars we could not see as well, which wouldn't let you relax enough to enjoy a belly-rub or to be picked up into a car or truck that was challenging to your short and sometimes, pained legs.
And then slowly, you began lying on your side and offering up more and more of your belly, trusting us to give you the joy of a good scratch, without fear of pain. Eventually, you even groaned with delight.
We taught you that there can be joy in trusting others.
(Picking you up however, was another story...)
I too had scars you could see from Anorexia and some that were less visible, but no less deep. You didn't require that I talk about any of the guilt or pain associated with them. You just consistently wormed your way into my heart (and under my covers) from our first day together, by lying still with me while I cried, or fought to stay away from alcohol or purging, lending me your warmth and rhythmic breathing, gently nuzzling your nose under my chin as if to say, "I'm here, you're safe".
In those early days, you helped me endure a life without my partner, who had given all he had to me and my disease but who found it time to set healthy boundaries from me when my deceit to stay sick (and secretly drinking to excess) became bigger than my desire to be honest. I was empty and lonely and completely under water. You gave me a purpose, you needed me to be able to take care of your needs and in return, you gave me unconditional joy and love and taught me that there could be joy in life again.
By day, we went everywhere together. We took endless walks and drives to the sea where you loved to explore the shoreline, hike in the woods or sit quietly on my lap as we drove until my urges to restrict or overexercise or drink passed by me. You never judged me or required me to explain. It never seemed to scare you or phase you if I slipped and had too much to drink before I finally gave it up for good in early August. You simply lent me your warmth and rhythmic breathing, gently nuzzling your nose under my chin as if to say, "I love you, no matter what". You taught me that I was worthy of love, not because I was "perfect" but rather, even because I am not.
When you met Sandy, our other dog friend, you became guarded about your food, always standing in the kitchen, closest to me as I divided out equal amounts into each of your bowls. Once the bowl was down, you devoured it far too quickly to enjoy it, ostensibly to be certain of not having to share. This anxiety faded, as you began to trust that you would always have enough, no matter who else was in the house, and it showed in your willingness to wait to eat and (sometimes) slow down a bit to enjoy the taste.
You met me at the door, every time I came inside (even if I just forgot something and ran back in quickly to grab it) with a wiggly butt that wagged a happy-to-see-you tail and always a gift in your mouth (that you would run about the house looking for so as not to ever greet me empty handed). You greeted us all in this genuine and enthusiastic way, making us always safe and happy to be home. You taught me to trust that no matter what kind of day I had, you would be here waiting, with endless amounts of love and joy that needn't be earned with getting things "right".
So, as the days passed and my recovery continued to start and stop with each passing reason to "begin again tomorrow", I started to learn to take comfort in your being here for me, night after night, as I distracted myself from the meal I had to eat and the booze calling from less than a mile away, working endless crossword puzzles, you curled up beside me, lending me your warmth and rhythmic breathing, gently nuzzling your nose under my chin as if to say, "I've got you".
August 1st, 2016 was two weeks after the last time I purged lunch (at a staff meeting), a week after the pain of meeting with my (then) former partner for a hike in the woods after not seeing each other since May, and just a few days after my ex-husband re-married. It was also within the four days of cold-turkey detoxing (against Dr.s orders) from the anti-anxiety medication I was certain was responsible for numbing joy along with pain. It was the last time I drank alcohol. It was the last day I used eating disorder behaviors like restriction, over-exercising and purging to change the way I felt. And it was in the next morning hours, when I woke up with you snuggled tightly beside me, lending me your warmth and rhythmic breathing, gently nuzzling your nose under my chin as if to say, "you don't need to do this anymore. I'm here".
This was the turning point for me, Diesel. When nothing else that mattered to me could be a reason for sustained, healthy recovery, you walked me across the bridge to peace and health. Without a lead around my neck, I walked behind you as you did to me that first day from the car, and I trusted you, because I knew you were here to bring me home.
Over that next year, there would be real threats to my sobriety and Anorexia recovery that months before would have shaken my resolve and brought me to my knees, using the familiar, self-destructive coping habits that had darkened my life over previous 4 years. But I learned to trust that you would be there, night after night, after night, to crawl under the covers with me, to make me laugh at your goofy noises and antics, to need me to throw a tennis ball for you to chase and make sure you had food and water. In return, I knew you would curl up with me to do whatever I was doing, without judgement, because you loved me, no matter what. And I learned to cry and be vulnerable and trust that you would lick my face and love me anyway, as if I was all that mattered to you.
I cannot tell you, Diesel, when things shifted. Perhaps it was as my body and battered up soul began to heal enough that I could love you back, unconditionally, without conditions or demands or fear that you would hurt me. But a time came, when you needed me to be there for you in the same way you had been for me.
Ironically, it came two weeks prior to my one year anniversary date of abstaining from alcohol and Anorexia behaviors.
You stopped enjoying our walks and would look up at me with your eyes to tell me it was time to turn around, that we had walked far enough. You progressed to the point where you approached food, which had always made you happy, with apathy and disinterest. You looked to me to notice that something wasn't right, with the trust in your eyes, that I would take care of you now.
After countless vet trips and various medications to ease your growing discomfort, it was time to consult a specialist to try and figure out what was causing the symptoms that were slowly stealing the joy from your eyes.
All at once, she confirmed my biggest fear.
An ugly and invasive carcinoma that had invaded your lungs to the point that each breath, even without physical exertion, required extreme effort from you.
I was to take you home and keep you comfortable with medication until we received definitive word from the lab that this was not fixable.
In my initial desire to hang on to hope that there could be a possibility for a rare airway disease that could be miraculously treatable, I decided through tears and denial, to wait for the lab result.
"It will take 24-48 hours for the results", the Vet said.
You rode on the floor in the car all the way home. For the first time ever. You knew that I needed to know from you that the time was nearer than I was willing to accept. For every other trip in the car, including the one this very day to arrive at the clinic, you rode in my lap.
In fact, in the days after you passed, I realized that you had known in your soul, that this day was closer than I knew. For about a week before you died, you began sleeping on the floor next to my bed or on the end of my bed facing away from me. Uncharacteristic of your need to snuggle and be in my lap, even by the campfire in chairs far too small to support us both.
You had been preparing me for life in recovery, without you. You lent me your strength and the warmth of your body and rhythmic breathing, nuzzling me all those times with your nose under my chin saying this time, "you are strong now. You can do this without me".
For the first time ever, you let Ken carry you up the stairs to bed, without complaint, settling into your deep and profound trust for him to care for you.
The lesson of that moment not lost on me, as you modeled for me how to let go of your scariest fear, expose your greatest vulnerability, so that someone could help carry you when you couldn't do it for yourself.
In the night before your passing, you woke me with your labored breathing to signal the kind of urgency that I couldn't deny, that your time was drawing nearer. I curled up beside you at the end of the bed and rubbed your ears the way you like, realizing that you needed me to be unselfish in my love for you in these next hours, easing your pain as you had mine for the last year.
In the morning, I prayed for a definitive sign from you that it was time to let you go, still holding out hope for the Vet clinic to call with the news that this wasn't terminal.
As I was getting ready for whatever might come that morning, Ken called me from the shower that you were looking around with your head up and that I should come in. I kneeled down next to you and for the first time in many hours since you were struggling with breath, you leaned toward my face and kissed me. Exactly as you had May 14th, when I brought you home through the front door, signaling that it was time once again, to bring you home.
In the subsequent moments, you continued to answer my prayer for certainty, by asking to go outside and shitting defiantly in the neighbor's yard (one of the many reasons for loving you). You let out a wail I had never heard before and fell onto your side, looking up at me, begging to be understood and trusted in the way you had grown to understand and trust me. Telling me that there was no need to wait for confirmation of the lab results.
Ken carried you again, with your full weight and trust in his care, back into the house. I gave you some sedative to help ease your breathing, and said some tearful, final good-byes with your girls.
I thanked you, as they said goodbye, for taking care of Maddi when her arm was broken and for being home with your wiggly-butt tail-wag and a gift for Summer each day she came home from school. You kissed each one of them as if to continue trying to make our pain somehow more tolerable, with no regard for your own.
Once at the animal hospital, in your last moments, hugging your favorite (headless) stuffed squirrel, it was my turn to lend you back the strength you had given me, through my warmth and rhythmic breathing, nuzzling my nose under your chin saying, "you don't have to do this anymore, Bubba. I've got you"
