It was one year ago yesterday since we lost our dog Daisy, and I spent the whole day thinking about her. It is amazing how little memories flit through your head when you sit by a little backyard grave with a rock as a makeshift tombstone and think—memories you thought were tucked away and gone forever.
Like the way she would stand in our driveway barking like Cujo at neighbors, joggers and Girl Scouts selling cookies, shielding me with her body so vehemently she’d nearly knock me over. Or how she’d sit in the passenger seat of my car and try to get me to shake her paw while I was driving. The way she’d listen to me bay at an imaginary moon for a thoughtful minute before joining in, until the two of us were synchronized in a howling wolf choir. Or how, whenever I hugged her, she’d lift a front paw and strike a pose. She always looked like she was smiling, mouth wide and seemingly painted with black, goth lipstick.
Daisy was a survivor. Before I came into the picture, she activated the garage door opener at Doug’s friend’s house, got lost in the dead of winter and came back, emaciated and scraggly, a full month later. A year before she died, she fell into through the hole of our septic while it was being cleaned and clung to the edge for dear life until Doug fished her out. She tapped into every last drop of her senses long after she lost her hearing and sight, when I would call her by clapping my hands so she could feel the vibrations through the ground.
I believe every animal that comes into our life brings us a message, and Daisy’s message was to forge ahead no matter what life throws at you. If only I could do it as gracefully as she did.
There are two things this world high on the list of events that will change a person right down to the core. One of those things is to love a dog with your very soul. The other, when that dog dies in your arms.
It’s funny, the things you’ll miss, after a year goes by. The barking during kids’ naptime, holes in the lawn so big you could see China, the tumbleweeds of fur rolling through the house, the wet spots she left after sneaking on the couch and licking the cushions.
Well, maybe I don’t miss that stuff so much. But how I do miss you, my Daisy Dog.