It has been two years, almost to the week, that Sammie was overtaken by the cancer. I have never stopped missing her, but as the time went by, I stopped hearing the "tink" of her collar tag, expecting her to meet me at the door, or thinking about calling her to point out some minor spill on the floor for her to clean up.
In the last few days, she seems to be everywhere....First a story (and picture)shows up in E's blog---I had completely forgotten that she would refuse to go outside, no matter how much she was desperate to Pee, if S. did not first put on his jeans. The whitey tightys must have signaled some remote chance that he was not going to let her back in, or worse yet, would embarrass her should they get locked out there in the undies. (In her later years, she had her own key, so I doubt that was at the root of her adversion to undies in public!) She also seemed not to care in the least what I was wearing if I was the one to answer the call...
Then, in dusting (a somewhat rare event in my life) I felt compelled to linger over her little box in our bedroom, where her cremated remains sit. It is hard to hug a box--but when I picked it up to dust it, I could almost feel her Sammie fur, Sammie breath, and unique Sammie smell--fleeting, comforting, and disturbing. I still miss her.
Then, last night, we watched the Tom Sellek made for TV movie about the Police Chief in Paradise--episode 2, the pre-quil. In the movie Jessie puts his dog down due to the dogs renal failure. It was touching--not because of Jessie in the movie sitting with the dead dog, but because it reinforced how hard it is to loose a good friend. Those who have never experienced the unconditional love and wisdom of a great dog will not understand.
When we had Sammie put down, she was more than ready. She laid in the back seat, her head in my lap, all the way to the vets. She was calm and resigned--she knew it was time. Her body had been taken over by the enemy, and the enemy had won. She had fought the good fight, but it was over. I was the one who was not ready.
Just like in the Tom Sellek movie, the injection was almost instantaneous--she was calm, and did not move, just slipped away--I felt like someone was ripping out a piece of my heart.
She was a unique "pound puppy"...Shepard? Definitely some border collie, retriever? "mixed breed, large dog"--who turned out not to be all that tall, although she did have a propensity to be a little "plump" in the later years, and the large was mostly her feet. We "rescued" her from the animal shelter, with an estimated age of 3 months. She had "unique" fur, allergies, fears, and a big heart. She was smart, knew how to work the crowd, loved pizza, hated green vegetables, and was the "center" of our household. She was the constant as four teenagers came and when, she was always there, no matter who needed a friend or companion. She got older with them, then after they moved on, got older with us....Except that dogs get their first.
Some day we may get another dog, but it will never by like the Samster. It will be "our" dog--the dog of "the grandparents". Not the rough and tumble dog who raised four teenagers. Not a dog that belongs to 6 people and all their friends. Not a dog who waits up for kids returning from their kid jobs with "pig" on their boots from the meat packing plant, or hamburgers in a bag from their fast food jobs. There will never be another dog like Samster. This is not to say that another dog may not be just as good a friend, but that the circumstances will be different, so the dog will be different. Just like our houses are not longer their home, it will be "the parents dog", not the "family" dog.
So, if there is a dog heaven, I hope that she is happy. I have adjusted to her loss, have stopped automatically stepping over her favorite spots to rest, and know that I must sweep up the crumbs. I still think of her a lot, and am thankful for all that she taught me... About love, and life, and dying. She was a very good friend, even though she was not completely mine.
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