Eight Years with Bear

I wasn’t prepared for how hard my life was going to be. None of us are. Unexpected hills and valleys, illnesses, loss, broken hearts, and then even more loss in different forms. There are so many things I have now that I thought I would never have: love, marriage, a sweet husband, a good, well-paying job, and relatively good health (aside from chronic migraines). 

But I am healthy enough to get up and go, to work, and to take care of myself and my family.

I am guilty of making decisions in the hope that this “one thing” would make everything better. If I move here- to this place- my life will get better. If I get this job—my life will completely change and everything will work out. None of it is absolute. So many pieces have to fit together. I learn new lessons every day—some infinitely more painful than others.

Last year, as it came time for my annual post about Bear—my 7^th, celebrating his 7^th year as my sweet boy, I struggled to write it. I try to post on January 17 every year, the date I adopted him. It has always been fun to revisit the previous year of his antics and stories. The last few years have been harder for me to write, because I see time already affecting him and slowing him down. Mind you, he is now only 8, and he has an activity level now that probably represents a normal dog. When he was younger, he had the energy of 10 dogs, and I remember thinking I couldn’t wait until he slowed down.

And now he has.

As I have written before, he truly was a part of saving my life. In a low point—my lowest—I felt there wasn’t much to live for. I had battled depression for most all of my life, and I was losing the battle, the war, and my very desire to try.

Bear wasn’t one of those decisions where I thought—if I get this dog, it will make everything better. Deciding to adopt Bear was an out of the blue, completely unplanned, and not-thought-through, snap decision. Something in me knew he was mine-- and I was his--the very second I saw him. It wasn’t a choice, or a hopeful decision. I just knew he was supposed to come home with me, even though it made no sense at the time to bring a dog into my life.

I have no idea what he went through before he came to me, but I know it probably wasn’t good. He was only 12 weeks old, and for the first few days I had him, he was calm, and seemed sad. He perked up quickly, though, once he seemed to realize that he was staying and not being taken anywhere else.

He was stubborn, demanding, hilarious, and a big cuddle bug.

He is still all of those things today.

The biggest difference between now and even a few years ago is the stomach issues he has. This was a dog that could eat anything—and I mean anything—and would leave the vet scratching his head as to how he ingested a myriad of things, including: matchbooks, lightbulbs, packets of shampoo, Christmas ornaments, and large amounts of chocolate (just to name a few) without so much as a whimper, any sickness, or any damage, or need for surgery.

Now, if we give him too many treats in one day, his stomach gurgles and moans, and he feels awful. Not so awful that he doesn’t continue to beg for more, but he doesn’t have his cast-iron puppy tummy anymore.

We also no longer have to brace ourselves and guard the front door in acrobatic fashion—as he doesn’t dart out the second he sees an opening. This activity consumed our lives the first three years we had him—and I cannot count how many times I ran through several neighborhoods in hot pursuit of my 110 pound dog who had once again Houdini-ed his way out the door and down the street.

But, oh how lucky we are to share every moment.

I know everyone believes their dog is special (and as the saying goes, they would be right). But there are a few dogs—I see this in other dogs I meet at the dog park or other places—that hold some special quality that makes you believe there is something deeper lurking behind those big round eyes staring back at you.

Bear has that quality. He seems so aware of the world around him—in an almost human way. He senses when my husband or I are struggling and comes to us in ways and with gestures that take our breath away. I have a connection with Bear that is hard to explain, and yet, I love to tell people about. The bond he shares with my husband Shea is almost magical to watch. Bear loves Shea – adores him—and has from the second he met him. He hangs on Shea’s every word.

Bear is different with me, more subtle. Cuddling next to me on the couch, wiggling like crazy when I get home from a trip, and wanting me all to himself when he is sick. More than anything, Bear knows when I am off--not feeling well, or depressed or stressed--and he comes and finds me. He comforts me—silently, but not silently. With his big, brown, soulful eyes, he does communicate with me.

I adopted Bear in Charlotte, NC, and then we moved to Myrtle Beach, and then traveled across the country with Bear in the car to move to the San Francisco Bay Area. As Shea and I have had our ups and downs with our careers, family stresses, financial worries, and other issues, Bear was always our constant—the rock that made us laugh in the middle of tension-- and pulled us closer when we needed each other.

I love and hate marking this anniversary—eight years with Bear. I want time to stop. I don’t want to ever think about not having Bear in our lives. It’s silly, I know, to worry like this already. Bear likely has many more years with us, and is far from being old. But I also want this awareness of the fleeting time I have with him, because it makes me and my husband appreciate every second. We absolutely do. This boy has been loved beyond measure from the time he became mine, and every single day he knows it. He is spoiled, given more kisses on his furry head than we could ever count, and gets away with getting in the garbage and eating too much fruit in the backyard because we want every moment for him to be happy.

He does generally get scolded for chasing our cat, or trying to steal treats from his little brother Boone, but other than that, he has a pretty stress-free existence.

He LOVES stuffed toys, but doesn’t tear them apart like other dogs do--along with his brother Boone. He just loves them and carries them around. And every night, when he comes to bed, he chooses one toy to bring with him to sleep. Every night, I think my heart will burst when he does this.

He is hilariously impatient. He knows what we are asking for when we tell him “be patient” as we have to open a wrapper with a bone, treat, or toy, and he barks in defiance of the mere notion that he should be patient for that. He also wants to be let outside and back in the very second he requests both activities, even if that means they are only a minute apart. Once we let him outside and he comes to the door to be let in, he will bark once—urgently and loudly. If you don’t run to open the door, his barking becomes more insistent –and you can hear the annoyance in it. It makes us laugh, especially when he can see us walking to towards the door, but feels the pace isn’t quick enough and barks in rapid-fire fashion to let us know it.

A few months ago, I had the scare of a lifetime. It was very early, around 7:00am, and I was still sleeping after a late night of work. I was woken suddenly by an incredibly loud banging sound. I was sure that a generator had exploded in our neighborhood. The house was dead silent. Even the dogs were so shocked- they didn’t bark, which is unusual--they looked around as I did, confused.

I turned over to see that Shea wasn’t in bed with me. I called out to him. Silence. I got up and walked through the house, still thinking it was a generator that had exploded, not noticing that the lights were on and ceiling fans were running—all the while calling out for Shea. Not in the den, not in the kitchen. I had left my cell phone on the kitchen table and was hoping to see a text from him “gone to the gym”—his usual note to me if I was sleeping when he leaves to run. 

No text.

Then, I turned to look down the hallway. In a moment I will never forget, I saw that Shea’s bathroom door was closed. That door is never closed unless he is in there. I started running down the hall, now screaming his name. Then, the dogs started barking. I pushed against the door and it wouldn’t open. To my horror, I realized Shea had collapsed and fallen against the door. The loud bang had been his body hitting the door. I pushed against the door, terrified—Shea was unconscious--and I was panicked. I was afraid of not being able to get to him, and also afraid of hurting him further as I pressed the door against his limp body on the other side.

Then, I noticed Bear next to me, pushing against the door with his head, scratching wildly at the floor, crying. He was panicked, too. But the miraculous thing was that the very high dog gate I had the boys blocked into the bedroom with was still in the same place, completely blocking the bedroom door, with no opening for escape. It’s too high for Bear to have jumped. I will never know how he got out in the hallway. All I know is that he had to try and get to his beloved dad, and he was trying to help me.

Thankfully, as I started dialing 911, Shea came around, groaning, the sweetest sound I have ever heard. He ended up spending the night in the hospital for observation, but was totally fine, and the whole thing boiled down to him passing out from extreme pain in his knee.

The night he spent in the hospital, Bear was inconsolable. He sat staring at the front door, whining, jumping at every sound outside to see if it was Shea coming home. Bear never likes it when Shea is gone, but this was different. This was worry. I had to force him into the bedroom that night, and he stood at the gate for most of it, staring down the hallway, whining.

Since Shea came home, he can’t shut the bathroom door without Bear scratching, or managing to open it. He sometimes stands in the bathroom while Shea showers. He is keeping an eye on him, and his worrying is so human, so real. We both talk to him and assure him. But, it’s in those eyes of his. He understands what happened, and he is worried.

As much as I try and explain it, I can’t. The special being this dog is. His sixth sense of knowing so many things that he shouldn’t be able to understand. The way he cocks his head when we talk to him. The way he comes to me when I am too deep in thought about things I can’t change, and no one but me knows my heart is hurting, and I am in the bedroom alone. I hear the soft click-click of his claws as he enters the bedroom and comes to me, quietly, slowly, and puts his head against mine, and then lays down next to me.

When I first brought him home, Bear literally saved me. 

He still does, every single day.

It’s funny, I have made so many (what I considered to be) well-thought-out decisions in my life, in the hopes of that one small, insignificant thing changing my whole life for the better. But the one decision I made without thinking, without weighing the pros and cons, and without putting the weight of all my happiness on the outcome, turned out to be the one decision that did all those things and more.

Thank you, sweet Bear, for eight years with us. 

You are so loved. 

We are so lucky.

All of my Bear posts, year by year:

 

Six Years with Bear
Five Years with Bear

Four Years with Bear

Three Years with Bear

Two Years with Bear

Rescued

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One Less Heartbeat: Losing Lilly

I don’t know why the thought came to me, four nights ago, the night we lost Lilly. I was getting ready for bed, hardly able to think straight, and the thought ran through my mind: There is one less heartbeat in our house tonight. I felt a pain in my own heart knowing that was true. I burst into tears, as I had so many times during that day, in public, in my car, in the ophthalmologist surgeon’s office as I went in to get my right eye checked—after having a cataract removed just the day before. I had to let Lilly go, watch her fall asleep for the last time as my husband and I held her and wept and whispered our goodbyes, then somehow get myself to the appointment. I did. I sobbed the entire drive home.

After getting home from the appointment, I sat in my car in the driveway, not wanting to enter the house where she wasn’t any longer. Lilly had become a tentative, quiet presence in our house for some years; so different from her younger days. She was a wild spitfire from the moment I brought her tiny little self home.

But almost unlike any cat I have seen with as much fire and attitude, Lilly was one of the most affectionate cats I have ever encountered. She loved to sleep curled up with Lucy--her sister from the same litter--or with me or Shea. She would head butt your hand, or burrow for a head scratch, or sweetly touch her head to your forehead to ask for love. Her motor was loud and deep, and I am so thankful that my husband managed to capture it on video so I can hear it again and again.

In 2001, on the day I set out to adopt a kitten, I planned on getting two so they would have company when I traveled for work. I had gone to a local rescue on a Saturday when they had adoptable kittens at the pet store. I found Lucy first, but none of the other kittens made a connection. The rescue employee told me there was one more from the same litter- a solid white kitten just recovering from a respiratory infection. She handed me a carrier and I looked inside, and no lie, I said, “Hello my Lilly.” I hadn’t picked out the name before, she just was my Lilly.

Lilly was hilariously naughty. She would hiss at me if I said “No” or gave her a cross word. She hid outside the litter box when Lucy was inside and waited for her to come out to pounce on her and scare her. If Lilly was scolded, she took it out on Lucy, or knocked something off a shelf, and looked at me as if she had most certainly had the last word.

I constantly had no idea what page I was on in any book I was reading, as Lilly adored bookmarks, and slipped them out from between the pages and eventually destroyed them.

The absolute best stories were always hard for people to believe until they witnessed them. A veterinarian once wanted to put her on a prescription diet—as she was having urinary tract infections and had only one working kidney. For whatever reason, Lilly did not like the food. After my first few attempts of feeding it to her, she would take one sniff and knock the bowl and the food across the kitchen floor. She didn’t eat for 4 days. I called the vet and he told me should would eat if she got hungry. Another few days went by and there was no change and he asked me to bring in Lilly, the dish, and the food. He clearly didn’t believe what I was telling him.

We went to his office, food, dish, and white feline, furry stubbornness, and I set all of it on the high counter as he came in to check her out. I put the food in the dish, she took a sniff, and smacked the dish and the food so hard that it flew off the exam table and hit the floor, food going everywhere. The vet laughed, a big, huge belly laugh, and made me set it up again for some of the vet techs to see. We all laughed, while Lilly stared at us as if she had had enough. He tried a few other foods out until one seemed to meet her standards. He reminded me to prepare myself. Lilly only had one working kidney, she would be lucky to live to be ten years old.

From the time I brought Lilly home, we moved over 10 times. Two of those moves were cross country. She was my constant companion as a single person, and comforted me over job layoffs, broken hearts, and unfortunately, a battle with depression that has been with me most of my adult life. There were few things over the years that could help me through my darkest times more than sweet Lilly’s motor running next to my heart.

She was always a challenge. I had to baby-proof my kitchen cabinets to keep her from scaling to the top cabinets, and knocking whatever dishes were in her way to the floor. She hated having her nails clipped, and somehow stole the little clippers I had for the job, over and over. Once, when I moved, I found four pairs of the clippers under the couch, deep in the back, her little stash of control.

Lilly is the only cat I have ever known who truly loved a good belly rub.

She is also the only animal I know that has wiggled her way into my mother’s heart. My mom is not an animal person, or a pet person, and is absolutely baffled how I live outnumbered by them. But my mother adored Lilly, and has called me crying several times over the last few days.

When my husband and I started dating in 2009, he was entering a relationship with three cats, one dog, and me—who needed anyone I was going to be with to love all of us. We were lucky. All the animals love Shea, and I say that once he came along, he was number one to all of them. Lilly was no different. She adored him and snuggled up whenever she got the chance. At this point, her wild days were behind her, so Shea had a hard time believing my tales of her naughty adventures.

We lost Lucy in December of 2014, and while we were devastated, we worried about Lilly so much. She had spent every day of her life with her sister and most days and nights, I would find them intertwined together, sleeping, and motors running. The first week after Lucy died, at night, Lilly would roam the halls and cry, looking for her, and Shea and I took turns sleeping in the den with her to give her one-on-one attention.

Since that time, Lilly was glued to Shea almost 24/7. It has given me great comfort that during some of my craziest work hours and not being home as much at that time, Shea was with her constantly. We didn’t know how little time we had left. I am thankful that I left my terribly stressful job earlier this year, and was so fortunate to find one where I can work from home. I was able to be with her more, and spend time with her, and get her little heart against my heart, her motor running all the while.

I have left the most beautiful Lilly story for last.

Many times over the years, after countless hours of therapy, different medications, more medications, and just, well, life, I found myself feeling so hopeless. I have shared openly that I have contemplated and attempted suicide multiple times, and it is some kind of miracle that I am here writing these words tonight. I didn’t really get the right help and get well until I was 39, so there were many, many years of battle.

 

One of my lowest points was when I was living in Washington DC in 2003, and personally and professionally, everything seemed to take a dive at once. I had been at this low point so many times before, but this time felt so different. Many nights, I would sit in the floor, holding Lilly, sobbing, staring at bottles of pills, and finally calling for help. This one night, I just didn’t have it in me anymore.

This night, I wrote letters. I called the pet sitter and asked her to come the next day, giving no indication that this was different than any other business trip. I called and asked for the apartment janitor to come early and fix something the next day, but left him a note on the door in an envelope to call the police instead. I had left a notes for the pet sitter, and anyone else who might read them to please make sure my cats were taken care of. I had people in mind who I thought would take them. I worried and fretted over them the most.

I was sobbing, trying to think of a way out, trying to convince myself differently. I swallowed pills and more pills, until I lost count, but knew it was enough. I laid in the bed, sobbing, and Lilly jumped up next to me, pushing herself against me, loving me with all her might. I apologized to her and to Lucy, and in a few moments, I was out.

Although Lilly had always been a firecracker, she was scared of a few things: a loud phone ringing, my hairdryer, and anyone knocking at the door or ringing the doorbell. Any of those noises sent her flying under the bed.

But on this day, at this particular time, there were noises louder than that. Policemen were breaking down the door. It took me so long to realize and half-stumble to the door and open it. One of the policemen leaned on the door frame in relief, seeing me alive. I, still, in a daze, crawled back to bed. And there, where she had been for all those hours, that whole time, was Lilly. Hammers hitting the door, the doorbell ringing incessantly, nothing had made her move. She stayed by my side. Her motor next to my heart, doing all she could to help me. To love me. To be there for me, no matter what.

The policemen had called an ambulance, I asked one of them to please call my pet sitter, he said he would make sure Lilly and Lucy would be ok while I was gone. He did. I was checked into a hospital into ICU that day.

That whole experience has been on my mind so much.

On the morning of August 17, Shea and I were leaving the house for my cataract surgery, and I looked at Lilly in the kitchen and knew something wasn’t right. We made sure she would eat and drink water, and gave her treats, and then we left. I worried the whole time. Shea and I both were really concerned, and once we got home, we went back and forth, hoping she was perking up one moment, then realizing the next that she wasn’t. My sweet husband was up with her a great deal during the night, and I will always be so thankful to him for that.

By the next morning, we knew. Even though she had beaten the odds and lived 15 years, she was fading. I laid in front of her and looked at her, and for one second she gave me this look, just a knowing, lost look, and then she seemed to look through me. She tried to walk and wobbled. Shea and I were both crying, and bundled her up in a blanket and headed to the vet.

Once the vet came in, it didn’t take long for everyone to realize. Lilly had gone blind overnight, she was in obvious discomfort. We would not let her suffer. Shea and I waited for them to bring her to us in a special room so we could hold her as we let her go from this life.

We both whispered in her ear how much we loved her and that she was safe, and how much we would miss her. She purred, loudly, until her very last breath, which gave me comfort. In her last moments, I told her I never forgot that dark night and how she stayed by my side.

I am so thankful that in her last moments, she knew I loved her enough to be there for her, too.

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