The Thing About Dogs

Those of you on Facebook know I said goodbye yesterday to my faithful companion of 12 years, Harley Joe Cocker -- an affectionate, emotionally needy, loyal, playful Cocker Spaniel who taught me so much about life, about myself.

I wasn't a dog person. I mean, I had dogs in the past -- once as a child and once as an adult -- and I liked dogs. I thought they were cool. I thought they were fun. But I didn't necessarily want one for myself.

Thank God for thoughtless ex-boyfriends.

I was dating someone in 2002, who out of the blue called me one Saturday and said he bought me a present. A dog. Specifically, a Cocker Spaniel puppy. Talk about an odd gift for someone. We lived 20 minutes apart. We had no plans of the future at that point. I had never, ever, not once mentioned I wanted a dog. We had never even been around dogs together.

But as he was running around on that Saturday, he came across someone selling Cocker Spaniel puppies, and bought one. On a whim. For me.

I'm pretty sure my reaction wasn't what he expected. It was something along the lines of, "Are you INSANE?"

He said if I didn't want it, it was fine, he'd keep it at his house, and I could visit, but could I please come over and at least meet the dog?

Well, anyone who has ever seen an 8-week-old Cocker Spaniel puppy understands why I came home that night a proud dog owner. He was the cutest little ball of blond fur I've ever laid eyes on.

I bought him a crate to sleep in, because of course I was not sharing my bed with a dog. The crate stayed in the living room for maybe a week. Then it moved into my bedroom. Then I made up a little dog bed in my room for him.

And within a few weeks, he was sleeping on a pillow next to me, where he more or less stayed until I got married -- and even then, he only moved to his own dog bed when it was too difficult for him to get up on our bed, and in his old age, incontinence became a problem.

Harley saw me through many, many, many hard times. When my mom was diagnosed in 2004 with a brain tumor, I made multiple trips back and forth to Pennsylvania. He soon figured out that if the suitcase came out, I was getting ready to leave, so he'd climb in the suitcase and stare at me, as if to say, "You're not putting clothes in here."

He was the best medicine after she passed away. He was a great listener, and happily let me spend hours stroking his fur and talking his ear off. Somehow, he knew I was sad, and he tempered his exuberance for me, and was content to just sit on my lap.

For a few years, after my Mom died, I took him with me when I drove to PA (she was allergic to dogs). It occurred to me the first time I put him in the car to drive the 800 miles, that he had never ridden in the car for more than a few minutes at a time. But he laid in the front seat like he belonged there, and would contentedly ride the 12 hours, occasionally moving to rest his head on my lap. He loved car rides, loved to travel, and loved to visit other people's houses. All we had to do was start gathering up his stuff, and he'd run around in circles, barely able to contain his excitement.

He was not at all interested in sharing me. Once, I left him with a sitter while I went camping with some friends. When I returned home, I walked in, after being gone for 3 days, with two other dogs I was dog-sitting for a few days. Harley was not all happy with this, and promptly climbed up onto my bed and left me a big, um, 'present' on my pillow.

As he got older, he began to become plagued by physical problems. In addition to a chronic ear infection, which after way too much money spent, was determined incurable, he lost most of his eyesight, and had arthritis in his back legs. But still, even as age began to take its toll, he was a loyal and faithful friend. People warned us about bringing a baby into the house, after he had been my 'baby' for so many years, but he took it in stride. Babies, and toddlers, are not easy on dogs, but Harley handled it surprisingly well.

He got less attention, of course, as our child got more, but he'd still nudge his way over to us, trying to find a hand to give him a quick stroke on the head. He'd sometimes roll over when I walked into the room, silently begging for a tummy rub.

Sometimes I wasn't the greatest person to him. I'd get annoyed when he licked himself incessantly, and I'd yell at him to stop. I'd ignore him, and those ridiculously adorable puppy dog eyes, because Reagan needed something. I'd move Harley from his resting spot, so Reagan wouldn't accidentally torment him. I'd go several hours barely acknowledging his existence.

But here's the thing about dogs: they are the most forgiving and loyal creatures on earth. I could yell at him, and walk out of the room, and 30 seconds later when I'd walk back in, his whole butt would be wiggling because he was so excited to see me. Earlier transgressions, forgiven. We could learn a lot from dogs. Especially from Harley.

Ultimately, Harley's physical problems from his age became too much. He hurt a lot, and that pain caused him to react to Reagan. It's impossible to teach a one-year-old that touching the dog in this place will cause him to lash out in pain.  He had to take a couple tries just to jump on our couch, which sits low to begin with. He had already outlived the projected age for Cocker Spaniels. He was suffering, and it was becoming harder and harder to ignore that his quality of life was greatly diminished.

I made the appointment. It's amazing the person on the phone understood a word I said, because I cried through the entire conversation. (Side note: Southside Animal Hospital is filled with compassionate, amazing, talented staff).  She, whoever she was, assured me I was doing the right thing.

I called my Dad. He reminded me that I was preventing something potentially worse happening. He reminded me that Harley couldn't tell us how much pain he was in, but it was probably a lot. He reminded me that saying good-bye was the most humane thing I could do.

But the hour and a half between when I made the appointment and he had to leave, was both the shortest and the longest time of my life. Harley got lots of hugs. He got a plethora of treats usually reserved for special occasions. And he was reminded, over and over again, how much he was loved, and what a great dog he was. I gave him specific instructions to look for my mother when he got to the other side (yes, dogs DO go to Heaven), and to look for his cousin Milo, a cat.

And then he happily, with complete trust, got into my husband's car. I couldn't take him. I have vacillated between regret and relief that I didn't take him, but in my heart of hearts, I knew if I took him, I wouldn't be able to go through with it. Even as my husband drove off with him, I was holding on to hope that he'd return with him. That the vet would say we could try this or that or something -- anything -- that would buy us a few months.

The vet assured my husband, over and over, that we were doing the right thing. She reminded him that this was really the most humane thing to do, that his suffering would only get worse, that he had already had a good, long life. And then they sat on the floor together -- my husband, the vet, and Harley -- and peacefully let him go to the other side (YES, dogs DO go to Heaven).

I asked my husband to remove his things while I was at the store yesterday. But I still see reminders. I still listen for his feet on our hardwood floors. I still look for signs of mischief, after being out of the room for awhile. We kept his food during the day in our downstairs bathroom, and yesterday I kept opening the door to that room so he could get to his food. This morning I gingerly walked in the bedroom so I wouldn't step on him while he was asleep.

It's going to take awhile. Eventually, we will get another dog. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. But we're now dog people, so we'll get another one sooner or later. But there will only be one Harley Joe Cocker.

RIP Harley. You taught me so many important life lessons, about love, about selflessness, about forgiveness. I wish I would have been a better Mommy to you. I will remember you, always. I will love you, always.

See you on the other side.