It was one year ago today that I laid to rest the first American I ever loved. Meeting her was a chance connection that changed my life.
My wife was still a university student at the time, and on one of my many trips to campus to pick her up I saw an ad on the wall: “Beautiful Yellow Lab Found Wandering Fall Creek Park”. I reached for a contact information tab, then stopped. I was so certain I wanted her, I took the whole pamphlet. After making my case that Labrador Retrievers were notoriously loving and loyal family pets, we made an appointment to see her.
At her temporary home, it was clear that this dog already ruled the roost. She had a monstrously large cow femur clenched in her jaws which she proudly paraded around the sunken living room. A small poodle watched from the sidelines. It was clear that he wished the bone was his, but that he’d been already put in his place. The rescuer confirmed as much, noting that on one occasion the Labrador had taken the poodle for a similar ride in her jaws.
My wife was a little put off by the dog’s large size, having been a cat fancier since her teens and only having a small dog for a short time as a young child. The rescuer assured us that we could keep the dog for a week and if we changed our minds we were welcome to bring her back. Within two days it was clear that we would never let her go. Not willingly.
Brandy, as we came to call her, was one of those animals that never believed she was one. She walked elegantly, reclined with poise, and for the most part refused to associate with other four-legged beings. She was a people-dog, and in short order she decided that she belonged to me, and furthermore, I to her.
Her affection for me manifested itself with some jealously. On one memorable occasion, she made low growls whenever my wife sat too close to me. Rather than be irritated by this, my wife was delighted. This dog had personality, high standards, and class. She was unlike any dog we’d ever met.
Brandy had bonded with me quickly. She cuddled with me constantly, and was particularly keen to stay close to me when I was sick. While she was a Retriever more in breed than behaviour, she occasionally indulged me in short games of fetch… usually two to three throws, and only for our first 3 months together.
She was a wonderful communicator. I always knew it was time to do her bedding when she would pull it out of her crate. The first time I saw her do this I replaced her bedding back in, only to see her pull it out again immediately. I took one whiff of the fabric and understood her complaint. I never doubted her again.
One our first moving day, she and her crate were the last things left in the apartment. Her mounting anxiety was obvious as object after object left the living room. It was with some guilt that I recalled that she’d been a foundling, and actually, purposely abandoned.
In a subsequent discussion with the rescuer, we learned that our dog’s abandonment had been a deliberate act stemming from a marital dispute. The husband had kicked the dog out of the family van. Having learned this, the rescuer was ever more determined that the dog should remain with us, and claimed not to know our contact information.
The original owners weren’t the only ones keen to have the dog. Apparently, there was a surge of inquiries about her shortly after we took her home. We like to believe this is an example of fate. The right people and the right opportunity at the right time.
Brandy’s insistence at sticking close to us whenever it was clear we were going somewhere repeated itself over the years. One of my favourite pictures of her shows her sitting in the back seat of the car we were loading. Her posture and expression clearly say: “I won’t let you forget me.” And no, I never will.
I am forever grateful for everything Brandywyn gave to me, and the patience she showed my children despite being usurped by them. I can honestly say I loved her more than most of the people in my life. She was more loving, more forthright, more dependable.
I think her belief that she was a person was an unfounded only in that it was an underestimation of her true worth.
My deepest regret in her passing is that I was unprepared for the level of care she required near the end of her life. As her mobility worsened, I continued to provide her with physical assistance to get up and down stairs and in and out of the house, but I felt it sap away at my patience. When she barked for my help, it would undoubtedly happen in the midst of other goings-on involving the children and our busy schedule. I had to take a deep breath, help my dog, then return to real life before stopping again. My life with Brandy and the rest of my life as a whole became separate circles that intersected with increasing rarity.
Consumed with other life complications, I ignored opportunities to cuddle with her the way I used to when she was healthy. While she remained in our house to the end, it became easier for me to become distracted by the chaos of life, and only think of her several times a day when I knew she needed care. When she needed me more, I gave her less. I still loved her, but less often. Less than she needed. Much less than she deserved. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for that.
I visited her grave yesterday. It stirred all these memories.
She made my life richer, and her declining health was an opportunity for me to repay that. I did so only partially. Her loss and the realization that have come from it now offer me another opportunity to become a better person. I can’t squander it.
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