I’ve been trying to figure out how in the world a five-month-old puppy who weighed barely eight pounds, who sometimes peed on the carpet, who would dig up the marigolds on our patio and scatter dirt all over the living room as she scampered through the apartment with them in her mouth, who tee-peed our bedroom by snatching the end of the toilet paper roll and running full speed ahead, who kept us from staying out for more than four hours at a time, who racked up huge veterinary bills because of a severe but treatable inflammation on her spinal cord, who kept us from taking not one but two trips during this past summer had so completely stolen our hearts.

WTF?

We got our first Bichon more than a quarter of a century ago. He was a fluff ball who the kids named Sam. We had surprised them on the first night of Chanukah one year by having a friend drop him off at our front door, ring the doorbell and take off. We asked the kids to see who was at the door. They could hardly believe their eyes.
 

Sam lived to be 17. He saw us through the daily stuff of our lives. He made us laugh, he comforted us, he cuddled us, he protected us, he loved us fully and without question. He went with us on trips, he was around for the kids’ Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, our daughter’s wedding, the birth of our first grandchild, the deaths of both of Eddie’s parents and one of mine. The day Eddie and I put him down, long after the kids were gone, we held him in our arms and asked a stranger to take a picture of the three of us as we sat on a park bench saying our goodbyes. He had chosen to stop eating, and he was ready to go. He was thin and frail but still held his head in a regal sort of way.

I didn’t know it was possible to shed so many tears over a dog.  Eddie and I sat with Sam as he died and sat with him for a long time afterward, too. Our hearts broke, and it seemed like we were sad forever.

So it took us eight years to get another dog.

The kids hadn’t even met Rosie (whose full AKC name was “I’m Really Rosie”) when her short life ended, nor had the grandkids. They all live too far away. They’d been subjected to countless photos and videos and FaceTime sessions to be sure, but this time the dog was our dog. The parent’s dog, the grandparent’s dog.  She was a fluff ball, just like Sammy, with dark round eyes and a smiley face.  Eddie wasn’t too sure about getting a puppy at our age. If she lived to be as old as Sam, he posited, he’d be 87 years old and still walking a dog. That sounded pretty good to me.

Rosie made friends wherever she went. On our walks, she stopped to greet everyone, dogs and humans alike. She loved running around with her pals at the dog park. She was usually the instigator of the games they played, and she made sure everyone was included.  The humans standing around at the park fell in love with her joyful spirit, laughed at her boundless energy, admired her bravery around the bigger dogs, commented on how smart and well behaved she was. Little kids always wanted to stop and pet her, and bigger kids too. On more than one occasion, someone on the street would stop for a quick interaction with Rosie, then thank us profusely for making their day better. Strangers took pictures of her. (One time a girl having her senior pictures taken asked if she could hold Rosie in a few of them.) It was clear our puppy would make a perfect therapy dog, and we were well into our second series of classes at puppy school to help her become certified.

Eddie may not have thought he wanted a puppy, but it only took a minute for Rosie to wiggle her way into his heart. Before he knew what had hit him, he was wearing a DOG DAD t-shirt, doling out training treats from a doggie treat fannie pack, sneaking her whipped cream between meals, brushing her teeth every single morning in the “groomery” he set up in our laundry room, and singing her silly made-up songs in a high pitched voice. When she was very dirty, he’d take her into the shower with him.

Meanwhile, I became the dog owner I swore I’d never be. I bought a front pack to carry her in, and I could be seen carrying her around the streets of Portland. I got her a raincoat and rain booties. I took her to the dog salon for bang trims in between visits to the groomer.

We took Rosie everywhere. Portland is a dog-loving town, and we took full advantage of that. She sat with us at outdoor restaurants, she went hiking with us, she came with me to my studio, she went on long walks with us through the neighborhood and along the river front, she was a big attraction at the art fairs we did over the summer. Everyone wanted to pet or hold her. I probably did more business because of her.

She and I spent endless hours in the hallway playing fetch. I’d toss one of her favorite plush toys, either the green dinosaur or Lambchop – both of which squeaked – and she’d tear down the straightaway at 100 miles an hour to get it.  For some reason, she wouldn’t do that outside, but on the day she died, she finally did. She returned a stick to me as we played fetch on the beach.

The beach. That was her happy place. Rosie loved to dig in the sand, and she loved to gallop at full speed along the smooth, packed sand at low tide. She was amazingly athletic and a thing of beauty to watch as her thick white fur unfurled in the wind when she ran. We were in awe of the ease with which she found her stride.

Rosie turned five months old this past Friday while we were at Cannon Beach staying with friends. The next morning, we took her out during low tide to play Bocce Ball (she chased every rolled ball) and then run along the shoreline. She was so happy.

As we returned to the house, Rosie on her leash prancing happily alongside Eddie, we spotted a large black dog running loose. It was being followed by a green SUV that caught our attention because it had lights on top and a very scary sounding horn (that seemed to be directed to the dog). I remember thinking it might be the dogcatcher or maybe the dog’s owner. We continued along our walk, and the black dog continued to move away from the SUV.

Three or four minutes later, as my friend and I were walking ahead of Eddie and Rosie and we rounded the corner to head up to her house, I heard a horrible screech and then I turned around and then I saw Eddie hoisting Rosie into the air on her leash and then I saw Eddie’s face twist in horror and then I saw him kicking the big black dog and then I saw my friend run to join him and begin kicking too. The scene froze for a second or a minute or a lifetime before I realized the dog had Rosie in his jaw and was not letting go of her. I threw my metal water bottle at the dog and then ran to join the others and we kicked that dog and screamed at that dog and I saw Rosie locked in his large teeth and I saw blood on her white fur. The three of us yelled and kicked and screamed and then watched helplessly and breathlessly as the dog ran off with Rosie still lodged in his jaw.

Being a parent to a dog these days is very different than it was back when we had Sam. Today there are play dates and probiotics and Prozac. There are mind games to tire them out before bed, there is food that is organic and raw and grain free and more expensive than a lot of human food. Dogs go to “daycare” and come home with daily report cards. There’s a dog hotel not far from where we live that offers (for more money) rooms with views and (for even more money) a penthouse suite.  Plush toys are a must and so are kongs and dental chewies and soft fleece beds.  People carry their dogs in over-the-shoulder slings and push them in strollers.  It’s easier to consider yourself a “parent” to your pooch.

I watched helplessly as the black dog got away and trotted down the street with our little girl in his mouth. I fell to the ground and began to wail. After a few minutes, Eddie took it upon himself to go find Rosie. I didn’t join him, because I wasn’t sure I could move and also because I didn’t want to see what I imagined were the mangled remains of our sweet Rosie. I knew she was dead. And that wasn’t the forever image I wanted to carry with me. Eddie was able to find her. When he did he dropped to his knees and began to cry out. He gently picked her up and carried her back to the house, where he wrapped her in a towel and placed her in her comfy bed. From there we drove her back to Portland and delivered her to the animal hospital (where we were greeted by two crying receptionists and one crying veterinarian) for cremation. Eddie had laid Rosie’s stuffed puppy with the heartbeat (for sleeping) in the bed next to her and had covered them both.

It’s weird, but when a tragic event occurs, you find yourself going back over the minutes leading up to it. Over and over again. I remember I called the grandkids while we were playing with Rosie on the beach just an hour or so before she was killed. Rosie had just fallen into Ecola Creek. She had been standing on a ledge of sand and begun playing with another dog, when she slipped and fell. One second we saw her, then the next second we saw a splash. Then we saw her climb back up the sand ledge. I told my youngest grandchild, Lucy, about it and about how she was usually so white and now she was half white and half a muddy gray. Lucy asked, “Is she as white as paper?” “She is. And she’s as white as snow and as white as the clouds,” I answered.

I laid down in the back seat of our friend’s car, my head on Eddie’s lap, as we drove Rosie back to Portland. Every now and then I opened my eyes and saw above me and out the window an endless parade of puffy white clouds set against a very blue sky. They were passing by at 60 miles per hour, and I am certain I saw in the shapes of those clouds many different versions of Rosie running. She looked playful and joyful and full of life, running like the wind.

I think that’s where she’ll always be for me. And how she’ll always be, too.