I awoke with a start. In the midnight darkness, I felt two large, liquid eyes boring into me from beside the bed. For the first time, I had not helped/lifted our aging labradoodle, Hewey, into the bed; he didn't know how to sleep unless he was beside me with his head on my pillow. I was his private duty nurse, helping him change position every few hours, when his deteriorating back legs would stiffen from arthritis. Sometimes he would need an extra pain pill during the night. Recently I had heard his attempts to get up the stairs: he would pull himself up with his front legs, sometimes falling back a few steps. It was heart rending, but he had to be with us where he belonged. I had steeled myself and said that I had to let him go; he would just have to sleep downstairs. But here were those eyes at midnight. I helped him up to the couch at the foot of our bed and then lifted him up onto our bed. He flopped down on his spot beside me and exhaled deeply, exhausted. I wrapped my body around him and we had a final, tear-filled, hour-long, wordless conversation, while my hands ran through his soft, curly fur. It was time to visit the vet.
I know what you're thinking: what was a dog doing in the bed?! I am familiar with the dog-training books' philosophy, because I have ingested many of them. Dogs belong in a crate at night. It's their own cave-like space and it makes them feel secure. The well mannered dog knows the boundary lines between human and canine. As stated by women the world over, the blame for this faux pas rests squarely on my husband's shoulders. Let me back up and say that I did not want a dog. I did not like dogs: they were annoyingly in need of constant attention, they created messes indoors and out, and what was up with all that licking?! I was a cat lover, Siamese cats in particular. I even had our guest bathroom walls hand painted with scenes of Siamese cats, as a tribute to our beloved cat, Teddy. The towels were appropriately monogrammed, HISS and PURRS.
Larry and our three growing children pined for a dog, but I held my ground. No matter what promises were made, I knew where the responsibility for dog care would rest. I was safe inside my cat-only house until we moved. Our new place had a huge yard; it was only a matter of time until Fido was a reality. Preemptively, I gritted my teeth and began reading about dog breeds. I would will myself to accept a dog, even if I didn't want or like him. Being the micromanager that I am, I had a large dog kennel built in the backyard, in preparation. The only place in the house that the dog would be allowed would be the basement.
Our friends, Marian and Betsy, stopped by one evening, with a large, mixed breed puppy. He had wandered up to the tennis club without a collar, and was in need of a home. They had him bathed, and tied a kerchief around his neck, hoping to entice me into dog ownership. I was appalled when they brought him into my house; I kept following him around, hoping he wouldn't pee. I was repulsed rather than drawn to this dog. They left with him in tow, and found another home for him. I told Larry the next day that I could still smell that dog in our house!!
And then there was this puppy, whose mother was a standard poodle and whose father was an Australian labradoodle: non-shedding, energetic, smart, social, and quirky sense of humor are general descriptions of these dogs. Hewitt lived up to the whole description. The first night our two month old pup was at our house, I was awakened in the wee hours by pitiful howls from the garage, where we had put the dog crate. Reluctantly I went to check on him. I looked into the eyes of my lonely puppy and my stony heart softened. I spent the rest of the night on the hardwood, kitchen floor, with little Hewey curled up beside me.
We moved his crate into the kitchen and he became the center of our family. We all were crazy about him! He was house-trained in no time and became fast friends with our old Siamese, Teddy. He took a special liking to our swimming pool. The kids thought it was so sweet to have this twenty pound pup jump from the edge of the pool into their waiting arms. It wasn't nearly as cute the next summer when Hewey was a fifty pound dog, who thought swimming meant that you jumped into the water, on top of the kids. We spent so many hot summer hours in the pool with that dog. Derek even taught him to jump off the diving board.
The day of our friend, Raz's wedding, was one of Hewey's best days ever. He got to swim with all these energetic young men; he was one of the boys.
The dog crate migrated upstairs to our bedroom, since we were sure that our beloved pet missed us while we slept. One night, before Hewey's first birthday, Larry said, "I wonder what he would do if we let him out of his crate just once." You know the rest of that story. He never went back into the crate, but rather, slept on our bed throughout his twelve years of life. Yes, that was Larry's fault, and I didn't mind one little bit.
We added a second labradoodle, Wilson, because of course, social Hewitt needed a playmate.
Thankfully we had a large bed.
Hewey was a high energy dog who adored jumping. I should have enrolled him in canine agility classes. One of his favorite games with Derek, was to jump over a broom stick stretched across the doorway into the kitchen. He would sit on one side until given the cue, and then leap over the stick. Derek would start out low and keep increasing the height until it was quite high; Hewey loved the challenge and would sail across. Wilson, on the other hand, would slide on his belly underneath the bar, rather than jump over.
These dogs have kept us so active. According to Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, a tired dog is a well behaved dog. They were walked for an hour most days, often downtown and across our Chattanooga bridges. I discovered that I was known as the lady who walked the two big fluffy dogs. One of the saddest things with old Hewitt's torn ACLs, was his inability to walk with us. I would try to distract him with a treat and then Wilson and I would sneak out the back door. Inevitably, if I turned and looked as we made our way out the drive, there would be two large, sad eyes peering out the dining room window. For the last few months of his life, I would lift him into the back seat of my car, and drive him to the park or into neighborhoods where we used to walk together. I would lift him out and let him smell every blade of grass and pee on every bush, and then pick him back up and drive us home.
We live in a part of the country filled with wonderful mountain hikes within an hour of our city. We hiked a lot with "our boys", as we affectionately referred to them. They did great off leash; they would run ahead on the trail, but stop when we were out of sight and wait for us to catch up. I appreciated that they kept the path clear of critters and crawling things. They felt free in the woods and smiled as they ran about exploring. And mountain streams were heaven to them.
As I look back over family photos from the past dozen years, Hewitt was the constant: he and Wilson were always nearby at mealtime, beside us on the couch, and greeting guests when we entertained. Hewey especially loved people, whether he knew them or not. He would often welcome guests by pushing his head between their legs; depending on the guest's height, this could be rather disconcerting. He wasn't a crotch sniffer, but rather, he wanted to lean in on you and let you know that he liked you. Of course he skyped with our kids, when they went away to college. He would stand by the computer with a toy in his mouth, and his customary greeting, not of a wagging tail, but of a wagging whole backside.
Twice we have driven nearly 4,000 miles with our dogs, to be able to enjoy their presence at our Montana home. Four years ago, Derek drove with us and we spent the holidays together in the snow. Lauren and a few college friends joined us the second week. A highlight for Larry and I was a magical afternoon of snow shoeing with our boys. They sprinted ahead of us like they had been winter dogs all their lives.
With his declining mobility in both back legs, I knew this would be our last Christmas with Hewey, and pushed for us to make the long trek to Montana again. We stopped every four hours to let the dogs stretch, lifting Hewey into and out of the vehicle. We gave him extra pain medicine, and did all that we could to keep him comfortable. What he really wanted was to be with us. We have such wonderful memories of our two weeks in that winterwonderland, with our boys. Our human boys, Derek and Chris, were there too, as well as our daughter-in-law, Tiffany, and her brother, Teddy. I was glad they got to spend time with Hewey once more.
Wednesday after I took Hewey to the vet and returned home alone, I drove to the inner city elementary school for my weekly, hour long visit with J, the 7 year old girl whom I've been privileged to mentor the past two years. Four years ago, she and her family, immigrated from an African country. Last year they were living in a local homeless shelter. J is smart as a whip with incredible powers of observation. I bring books to read to her while she eats her cafeteria lunch and she notices things on the pages that I have never seen, even though I read these books to my own children years ago. She drinks in information, but is self conscious about looking different and wearing ragged clothes and being made fun of.
This week, I took along a plastic baggy with blooms clipped from my yard. J's eyes lit up as I pulled them out. We talked about each of them, named the flowers' names, the parts of a flower, and she lined them up in order of how much she liked each one. The hyacinth was our mutual favorite. And then I pulled out the sprig of rosemary. With closed eyes, she pulled it to her nose with both hands and breathed in deeply: "It smells like tea. Can I take this home to my mom?" Yes, Sweetheart, you surely can take all the flowers to your mom. How I wish I could make things better for J! All I can do is be her friend.
I wonder if smart, disadvantaged J will ever have the privilege of loving a dog, like I have loved my Hewey Dewey Lewey? If you don't have enough money for food and clothes, surely a dog would be viewed as a frivolity. I wonder, as I do every week, why the sun shone on me and my family, and not on this talented, bright, struggling, at risk, little girl? Having a dog steal your heart so completely for a dozen years, that you cry and mourn as if he were human, is a first world issue. Yes, Hewey, my sweet, sweet boy, you have changed my heart and for that, I will be forever grateful.
How will I do what I love, creating food, without my Hewey watching my every move? My heart is broken. Imagine what I would have missed if I hadn't opened my life to this dog?!