I am because my little dog knew me

The exquisite pain.

Once upon a time, I was home sick with a bad cold. I was sitting on my living room floor, chatting by phone with my friend, waiting for my beloved to come home from work. It was cold out--December—-a few weeks before Christmas. The door opened and in came D. Something--or someone--was peeking out of his work jacket. I looked. I stared. I started being giddy and nonsensical. Phone forgotten, hacking cough and stuffed-up nose a dream, I melted into a puddle of supreme joy, joy most-high. I think I felt what we hope the resurrection day is like.

A tiny puppy. A tiny little guy with a perfectly temperatured, cuddly and curious body. A black and brown and white puppy who climbed into my lap and made me happier than I have ever been before or since, really. I knew in an instant, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was my beagle and this was true love at first sight.

I have had a lot of happiness in my life. I hope to have a great deal more before this mortal coil ends. But this puppy brought me an ecstasy of loving I have never known before or since. I never knew it was possible to love that much. I adored this dog without question, without reservation, without limits, from the moment I laid eyes on his tiny head with its big nose. I thought about him incessantly. In those first days—months—years--I was terrified of how much I loved him--so much that I would probably die instantly if anything happened to him. I couldn’t imagine life without him—how had there been one? How would there ever be a suitable one again? I thought I could probably never have a baby, because I would probably always love this dog more than any human child—or that I would love a human child more, and could not handle that notion on either end!

So here he was, my guy—our guy back then--and he was here to stay. We debated what to name him for days. We agreed that we were not the sort of folk who went in for names like Spot or Socks or the dreaded Fido. We also felt compelled to make a nod to his AKC-registered parents with their long-ass bizarre names. We finally decided on Charles BeGaulle, a French-inspired moniker that befitted a noble canine with a
blue-blooded lineage such as himself. But we came up with that one based on his true name, the one that he would have been called no matter where he hung his hat, because it just was his name—we called him Charlie.

Those first few months were a blur, at least so they seem now. I do remember feeling every day like it was Christmas morning and I was 7 years old and Santa was bringing me a bike--every morning when I woke up I was that excited to see him. Even if he had kept us awake half the night with lots of crying because he hated—HATED—being in his crate.

Ah the crate days. We did everything you were supposed to do according to the beagle book. But this guy wanted no parts of his crate. No matter what tasty morsels went in as a reward, no matter what cozy blankets we piled within, no matter how den-like we tried to make it, Charlie would have none of it. When as exasperated as two first-time beagle parents can be brought this up to the vet, he laughed and said “he just wants to be with you all of the time.”

What a concept. And how true it was. This was a beagle after all—knowers of the breed understand that these pups are rarely the loyal “I can’t go anywhere alone” types like a retriever, say. But he did want to be where we were all the time, pretty much. We were his people, he was as sure of that from his crated puppy days to his last one, and he did not care to be left out of the fun. He didn’t like to eat alone, be in the yard alone, be downstairs in a crate at night alone. He was a strict lover of the three’s-a-crowd axiom. But to him, that seemed paradise.

Little he realized, he was always with me. I carried his picture around in my waitressing book and somehow the sight if his big expectant eyes and jaunty ears made it a breeze to deal with cranky elderly ladies who insisted on grilled cheeses (which were not on the menu) and ill-behaved monsters-cum-children who threw crayons (and up their dinners) at me and dirtballs who left pennies on the table (by generous way of supplementing my $2.05/hour salary.) At night if the weather was bad, D. would come to pick me up because I hated driving in any kind of snow, and the sight of that boy and our beagle in the window made me out of my mind with a feeling of being all-good, all-adored and adoring, utterly beloved.

Charlie was one smart guy. He learned to ring a bell on the back door whenever he needed to go outside to take care of bizness. After a short time, he realized that if he rang the bell we would help out a brother who lacked opposable thumbs. A fact he used to his advantage when we would go out and open the door, and instead of bounding out into the evening, he would look up at us and with as much dignity as a floppy-eared sir could, walk evenly around us and over to his kibble so he could dine with a companion.

But that was his dog-food mode. His people-food mode was sorely lacking in dignity. At parties, he was not known for couth. Charming anecdotes include the time he sprung five feet in the air to snatch an entire Buffalo chicken wing from the mouth-bound hand of a guest, the growling and snapping when he determined that a bit of nacho chip (or floor fuzz) on the floor was his birthright, and the time he neatly reared his head, shark-like, at the dining room table and snatched and subsequently gobbled a slice of pizza—despite the fact that he was very ill that time and not one with much of an appetite.

There were foods he did not find interesting enough to eat. Desserts, soups, pastas usually could be shared without a peep from him. One evening I was settled in with a slice of cake and a tall glass of milk, Charlie uninterested soldered to my side. I ate the cake and took one sip of the milk and then ran upstairs to get something. When I came down 30 seconds later, there was a very guilty-looking beagle refusing to catch my eye. I looked around to see what he could have done, and saw no evidence of anything bad. I ventured into the kitchen as well—all was in apple pie order. I even asked him “what did you do?” But he wouldn’t tell me. I assumed it was some odd quirk and sat back down again and reached for my milk, to discover that he had neatly drunk it all, from the glass, without spilling a drop. He was no dummy, after back surgery the year prior he knew that strong bones were essential to the life of Riley. And boy oh boy, did he have that life.

By day, he slept, presumably. Sometimes, especially when winter came, he would need to be roused from his doggie dreams when we came home from work. Sometimes, we had to actually find him, since Charlie’s idea of napping nirvana was to build a fort of pillows and blankets and pretend to be hibernating for the winter. He never minded being awoken for us though, and would wind his way out from the tangle of blankets and even sometimes ending with an undignified drop to the floor would simply bound back up, tail wagging at the speed of light, ready to give hugs and accept kisses and pats on the head and gamely suffer our witty “so what did you do all day” comments.

Other days he was on the alert at the 6 o’clock hour, waiting like a little sentry by the window or atop the back of the couch. These reunions were as joyous as if we were all prodigals returned home. If there were fatted calfs lying about Charlie would have slain them all just for us. As is the case with many dogs, he knew what time we came home nightly, and recognized the sound of the cars from what had to be a few miles away even if we were off our schedule.

He had a kissing spot above each ear. He did not like to swim but he liked snowdrifts and to play a game we liked to call "mountain dogs." He was the most faithful friend imaginable. Today is Charlie's birthday, he would be 10 years old if he had lived past the too-young age of seven. He was the best friend a girl like me could have. It is not an exaggeration to say that without him I would not have survived the worst year of my life--I simply would not have. He was the greatest gift ever. He died five years ago and mine was the last face he ever saw. He knew he had to go, and with dignity he settled his affairs. He said his goodbyes to his favorite people in the world. And suddenly he was just gone, and my heart broke into so many pieces that some of them are still scattered to the winds.

I am eternally grateful to have known that guy. He made me a better person than I ever thought I could be. His short happy life gave mine more meaning than words could ever express, and I miss him more than words could ever say.