And Now For Something Completely Difficult…
According to my dog Strudel, the elevator exists solely to trap humans into devoting all their attention to her. Those who dared resist faced an unrelenting staring contest—her superpower for winning affection and bending people to her will. She even won over one of the handymen in our building, a devout no-fan of dogs.
On one particular day in December, a man followed us in, casually pressed the button for his floor, leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Strudel went into action. She took her four-legged stance, tail wagging, her big blue eyes fixed on his face. I didn’t recognize the man; he might have been new to the building or a visitor. But he was new to Strudel, and therein lies the fun: watching and waiting to see how long before a co-passenger melts to her sweetness. Though she successfully caught his attention, the stranger’s posture didn’t change. He observed her and said, “I used to have a dog. Never again.” His eyes met mine before he continued. “She died. Why bring them into your life when you know it will end in pain?”
Surprisingly, this snarky, big mouth held her tongue and didn’t smack him in the face with words. There was no way he could have known Strudel had been diagnosed with terminal cancer just a week before. I was in severe pain from the heartbreak. What good would it do to make him feel bad? He stepped off the elevator on his designated floor before I could share how fulfilling life with a dog is, even if it isn’t forever. That our dogs have profoundly impacted me and taught my family valuable lessons.
My kids were in their tweens when we got our first puppy, Whimsie. (What? You expected a common name from me?) We got her on a whim—get it? The kids were terrified of dogs, a rational fear based on very real traumatic experiences. When nothing else helped, the only alternative left was to get a calm puppy (she was for a minute).
Remarkably, it worked. But Whimsie brought us so much more. She brought our family together; teaching us a new level of generosity, compassion, and unconditional love. For that, she rewarded us with licks and cuddles, laughter and joy.
When she got sick with cancer, to her, chemo and radiation was a party, and she lapped up the attention and treats. She refused to slow down until her body said, enough. She was a lover of life who taught us resilience, positivity in the face of adversity. Her loss was unbearable. Loving her was a gift.
I told my family and friends they had to stop me from getting another dog for six months to a year. Time to myself was a rarity, and I wanted to experience it.
Here’s a little life lesson—if you are in this emotional state, don’t go scrolling through pictures of puppies because you are bound to see a face like this:
A good friend reminded me of my directive (three times over the next couple of weeks) until finally I turned to fate. “If this baby is still available, she’s meant to be mine.”
Baby Strudel came home in December 2016. It was a rare day when she didn’t look like a grumpy grandpa, but her facial expressions belied her inexhaustible energy and speed. She took delight in being with her dog friends, had her favorite squeak toys, and knew how to use her exotic good looks to her benefit. We made the most of Covid quarantine by building obstacle courses in the apartment and chasing each other through them. The isolation would have been torture without her cuddles and sweet nature.
Strudel had never been a destructive puppy, and if she found herself alone, she just sort of shrugged it off, found a comfy spot and waited patiently (thank you, baby-cam). Then, when she turned eight, she changed. I’d come home and find papers and cardboard boxes shredded. One vet suggested she was mad because my life had gotten busier. True, I’d just launched my debut novel and was traveling more than usual. I devoted more attention and spent more quality time with her. But Destructo-Dog got worse. Another vet said she needed more fiber. Bitch-please, cardboard is fiber. I did what they said with no change whatsoever.
Months of this Sweet Strudel by day Asshole by night game was impossible to bear. If I left one thing out by accident and she ravaged it, she’d tell on herself as soon as I got home. Her shame left me crushed for her. In my gut, I knew something wasn’t right. There were imperceptible signs that I recognized from Whimsie’s illness, but no one else saw them. Until they did.
Strudel was diagnosed with an aggressive form of bladder cancer. A vet with a brusque bedside manner called to tell me. She added: “two to three months if you don’t treat, maybe 4-6 if you do.” An oncologist confirmed it with more compassion. Long shot, but maybe with chemo and radiation we could get a year. No matter what the treatment, this aggressive thing was coming back.
From birth, Strudel was a dog who easily got traumatized and never forgot the source. Since her first round of puppy shots, I couldn’t even walk with her on the block where the vet’s office is, from any direction. She was too smart to be fooled. Believe me, I tried. She wasn’t like Whimsie. There was no way she would handle the treatment gracefully. I couldn’t do it to her.
When I doubted my decision, that same good friend did what the best of friends do—she threw my words back at me, reminding me that when Whimsie’s body started failing, I said, I’d never go through that, ever again. I didn’t remember saying it, but I believed I had. This time I listened to my friend. I had to do what was best for Strudel.
Strudel’s zest for life won out, for a while. She gave us way more time to love her up than anyone expected. I am so grateful she spent time in my life and for letting me love her, even if she shredded my manuscripts. She, like all dogs, was a cherished member of our family from the day we brought her home and always will be. We had no choice but to say goodbye at the end of June. She was only 9.
Yes, our devotion to our pets risks ending in heartbreak. The stranger in the elevator guarded his heart by closing it. Not me. I will always choose unconditional love for as long as I can have it.
If there is a Rainbow Bridge…
I’d like to believe that Whimsie is watching out for Strudel now, and I imagine them running through gorgeous fields, eating endless treats, and getting into wonderful mischief together.
Last Licks
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Beautifully written tribute to Strudel--and Whimsie--and you! You gave your all to your pups, and they returned the favor. I'm now on my tenth dog, and each one has a piece of my heart and soul. I've been through cancer, poisonings, diabetes, spinal neuropathy, strokes, broken bones (mine and theirs), destruction, accidents, and more, and I wouldn't trade a single second. I could tell Strudel was special from your earlier posts, and I'm sending big hugs to you.
Good morning, I am so very sorry for your loss. Pups are so good and so very loving. It is so very hard when we lose one as they love us unconditionally. Pups are good for the soul and for our well being and they ask for nothing in return. We do the Best we can for them and know that we love them and see that they are happy. I lost a pup 13 years ago he was 7 years old and such a good boy, less then a month after my husband got me a 6 week old puppy, he surprised me, I felt that I was not ready for a pup , but as soon as I saw him I knew I loved him. He is now 13 years old and he makes me smile and laugh every day, he is a very good boy also. I do believe our pups go to Heaven and one day we will see them again. There are pups out there that need our love and attention, and we need them also. Take Care. Sincerely, Alicia Haney