For the love of dogs

In the mornings I wake to low whimperings and deep breathes. Bella, our 5-month old boxer, is on the other side of the closed bedroom door. Carl usually gets up before me and takes Bella from her crate to the backyard to "be quick". After she's inside the living room and he's at the computer, she runs upstairs to find me. I get dressed to the sounds of her sniffing and whimpering at the cracks in the door. When I open it, there she is----almost-40 pounds of her leaping toward me. Before I take a step from the bedroom into the hallway, she is a ball of wiggling energy. She has learned not to jump on my legs. I make a fuss over her, reaching down to cradle her head. "Good morning, sweet girl." On a whim, Carl and I drove over 1,000 miles to Tennessee and back for this brown and white furry creation. From the moment I saw her photo on the computer screen in the ad on Craigslist, I knew that she and I were going to be friends.

The reason I knew I could bond with this puppy was not because of my inherent love for dogs or because I have always been a dog owner. The ability to get close to this puppy and let her lick my ears and climb into my lap was because of a different dog. The kids named another boxer, our mahogany and white Levi.

Levi entered our lives as a puppy over ten years ago. Carl is a lover of boxer dogs and wanted one. I had barely agreed. We already had a dog----the kids' beagle named Dixie. Why did we need another? I had plans that when Dixie went over the Rainbow Bridge, that would end my dog responsibilities. No more puppy chow to purchase, no more dog hair to sweep, no more vet bills. But something unexpected occurred. Levi did something to my heart. He wormed his way in with his expressions, his love of ice cubes, his soulful "singing" when Carl played the harmonica and the way he'd rest his head against my thigh when we'd watch TV. He gave me confidence in how to train a dog and how to enjoy dog antics. He was stubborn, he was handsome, he barked too loudly at any UPS truck, he smudged windows with his nose, he pressed against my side when I cried over things that hurt my spirit. The dance he performed whenever he saw kibbles being poured into his bowl was enough to show me that while he made us happy, we could make him happy, too. The simple things in life are worth rejoicing over. Every night he twirled around until his bowl was filled and dinner was served.

And when he was gray and suffering from seizures brought on by a brain tumor (the tumor was an educated guess by our vet; we did not get an MRI done), I told him to rest and if his resting took him to the Rainbow Bridge to cross it, by all means, cross it. When he died an hour after I'd whispered those words into his ear, I sobbed.

Bella and I walk down the carpeted stairs to the landing where the staircase turns. There's enough room for both of us to sit. Bella sits beside me and when I put my face by hers, she licks my neck. I feel a connection to Levi at this spot. I tell Bella that this landing is where Levi liked to lay and watch the world through the smudged-by-his-nose window below. In the late mornings the sun makes its way through the window and warms the carpet. I suppose the older boxer liked the way it warmed his fur.

Bella and I sit together for a few minutes even though the sun has yet to reach us. We see a young woman in a florescent hat jogging on the street. Next, we watch a boy on a bike. The bike's front wheel hits something in the road and the bike halts. The boy calls for his mama. A woman rushes toward the boy. We can't hear what she says, but the boy nods and starts pedaling again. Bella moves closer to me. I don't know how much longer she will put up with my ritual of sitting, but I'm grateful for her company. She waits until I stand and then together we continue down the last steps---me, slowly, she, scampering----into the hallway and living room.

We are ready to face the world and all the challenges it offers.