I used to say that I have never been a “dog person”. I don’t try to pat every dog that crosses my path and I never sit on a park bench and idly chat about dog stuff with the stranger sitting next to me. I have never purchased a dog sweater or raincoat, although I did invest in four little boots one frigid winter. I have never carried my miniature sheltie in a backpack or pushed her in a stroller. Privately, I have smirked to myself about these people.
Sophie would have turned fifteen in July. For years, I resisted getting a dog. I frequently told my children and my husband that three kids were enough for me, that my life had plenty of chaos. (And there was the lagging fear in the back of my mind, that if fish could not survive in our household, what would become of a four-legged friend?) My daughter jokingly claims that I replaced her with another girl when she left for college. The truth is that I relented and agreed to get a dog when my youngest child turned ten. But at that point, between the end of the year school festivities and our family vacation, it didn’t make sense to get a puppy until the fall when I could be home and focus on the training that I knew would be intense.
My husband answered a classified in the Sunday Globe. A couple from Fall River had a few shelties for sale. Our family took a ride that weekend, and right away fell in love with the runt of the litter. She was multi-colored with a shock of white fur on her chest. She cried all the way home to Cambridge, but quickly learned to run around our backyard and chase our two sons. When we brought her to meet our daughter at college, she could still fit inside my jacket pocket. She was the size of a gerbil. We named her Sophia Josephine, just because we liked the sound of it.
As the months passed, she grew and learned to obey simple commands. Our sons added jumps to her running repertoire. Her largest weight was eighteen pounds, so she was always portable. Whenever any of us came home, she was faithfully waiting on the other side of the door, wagging her tail and purring like a cat. Never a fan of playing with toys, she would chase a ball but otherwise she would contentedly curl up wherever she found a comfortable, warm spot.
For years, Sophie barked when the doorbell rang, just to be our early warning system. She barked when we used our blow dryers, spread out sheets of aluminum foil, and filled our glasses with ice cubes from the freezer. We figured that certain sounds just bothered her. As her hearing declined, and she stopped reacting to these noises, we felt increasingly wistful but understood that she was getting on in years and we wouldn’t have her forever. Her vision disappeared to the point where she was just noticing shadows and had to be coaxed or carried downstairs.
Last weekend, when we were in Memphis, Sophie became very ill while she was staying with our friend, Rose, who promptly took her to Angell Animal Medical Center. There the veterinarian in the emergency room ascertained that like many shelties, Sophie had a gall bladder in deep distress. The choice from a distance was either to operate or put her to sleep because she was in such pain and danger. Not ready to part with her from a distance, we authorized surgery.
Now I realize that I am that person. I squished myself into a cage in the critical care unit, stroking Sophie’s head and reassuring her that she would be okay, that I loved her. As weak as she was, she still looked good. She has always had shiny, thick, soft fur. I stayed for the allotted visiting hour, and conferred with the nurses and doctors. I made friends with the woman talking with her dog, Debo, in the cage next door. She was uncertain about Debo’s future since he had just had a biopsy. She told Debo that he should be strong, that he needed to get better. Her mother was with her as well as her male friend. She told me that I was very brave.
Sophie snuggled in my lap. My husband and son arrived. Even in their business clothes, they took turns squeezing themselves into Sophie’s cage. My husband whistled, and Sophie’s ear shot up. With tubes coming out of her and her belly bandaged, she attempted to stand. They brought both a turkey sandwich and egg salad with them. These had once been her favorite treats, but she was refusing solid food. If she could only start eating on her own, I kept thinking that she had a chance.
During the night, I couldn’t sleep. At 1:30 a.m., I was pacing around our house. Before 7:00 a.m., my cell phone was ringing. One of Sophie’s vets was calling with the grim news that she had become septic overnight, and her possibility of recovering was slim. Sadly, the time had come to let her go. I was tearful that day and could barely speak with those closest to me. Sophie and I had an emotional connection. I guess I must have sensed that she was failing that night. I never realized how much I would miss seeing her resting under our kitchen table, walking with her every afternoon, scratching her neck between her ears, and finding her on the other side of the threshold every time I came home.
