In Memory of My Lady, Sadie
For nearly thirteen years we loved you in a simple uncomplicated way that maybe you can only love an animal. When you were a puppy, I picked you up at the airport in Fayetteville NC and you were so scared to come out of your crate.
Soon though you found your way into our hearts. I’d never known love quite like that before and I grew to call you “my heart,” along with many other things. In fact, I don’t think a dog has ever had so many nicknames, or as many song lyrics changed so they were about you instead.
Your nicknames just evolved to reflect your current status. You were wrinkle butt when you were a baby – replete with folds of extra skin and fur. Then, by the time you became a senior—according to the actuary tables, though I never believed it—you were diaper girl. Our incontinent lady was still a superhero in our minds.
There were little things we would always say to you, too. Every night I would marvel to John “how did we end up with the two most amazing dogs in the entire universe?” I completely meant it, too. You were so smart that you did what you want, when you wanted, the queen. You’d look at us disdainfully if we said “come” and you were busy eating grass or something. But for some reason when I said the phrase “who wants to go potty?!?” at night—your cue that it was bedtime—you would get up and run to the door like I’d offered you a steak dinner.
You had your first cancer surgery when you were only four years old, the one where we had to get your tail removed. I remember they asked if I wanted them to implant an artificial tail! That was weird. You stuck around nine years after and lived through three different types of cancer. Ever since then I’ve felt like I might lose you at any moment, like I couldn’t stand to be away from you for more than a few hours at a time.
So I just took you everwhere and included you in every activity possible. I used to sneak you into work, then after that job I took you to Energy Lab nearly every day. You were terrified of the bike pump noise but always up for a brick after. I took you to Chick Fil A constantly and I loved telling the cashier the nuggets were “for my dog.” More recently you’d sit with me in my office or on the couch, patiently waiting until I went to the kitchen to get a snack (food was your most favorite thing) or finally offered a walk (your second favorite thing).
Walking and running were some of our favorite times together. You ran tons of races and we were so proud that you were the 5x reigning “Dog Jog” champ. You won a costume contest dressed as a pumpkin. Our favorite place to take you was the beach where we watched you and Bailey run like no other time, truly free. Then when we started taking you to the mountains, it was like you found your true home.
We’re so thankful for all the times we had together there, especially the last few weeks. I was so proud of you every time we ran the mountain. Long trained to run on my right side, you had a sort of side scuttle going even with the leash off and you stayed so close, even unleashed, that sometimes your nose would touch my calf.
Those were some of the happiest times we had together along with a thousand others that would take too long to write and ten thousand additional that we can’t even remember. Every single thing I do reminds me of you and I don’t know how the pain of loss will ever dull.
I simply cannot accept the fact that you’re not there.
You’re not there. You’re not perched on the couch, on the backrest like a cat. In your corner where you had the best view of your yard, making sure no mammal dared to make it’s way in, the cushion is permanently squished.
You’re not in your chair in my office, sleeping away the day, or looking out protectively at the dogs next door. Bailey looks for you there, too. Long conditioned not to enter my office without your “permission” she glances at your chair overtime she comes in, still tiptoeing as if she expects you to pounce.
You’re not there when I get upset. You were always so sensitive to emotion. You would gaze into my eyes when I was sad and “just know.” You would also know if we talked about you. Your eyes would dart nervously from side to side, your ears would perk up. Somehow you would be tipped off even if we never said your name. And you would know if we were going somewhere together. Sometimes the night before I’d ask if you wanted to go to work or to the lake or wherever. Then the next morning you would remember and follow me around the house, worried about being left behind.
Sadie, my lady, we love you so much, and can’t imagine not having you around any longer. You were a gift from God, one of the most precious gifts ever. You mean the world to us, and I’m so thankful to have had you nearly thirteen years. Thank you for giving us so much love and so much life. We’ll love you always.
