The Storm Before the Calm

Honey was her rescue name. A purebred puppy with bowed legs, left at a rescue as she wasn’t “perfect". After we brought her home, it hit me. What was I thinking? I’m 66; she’s a PUPPY, with no socialization, and the urgent energy of a furry Velociraptor.  There were moments I wanted to say, "wait, I change my mind", but like that moment when that first labor pain starts, there's no calling it off.

Her first night was great; she cuddled with our senior rescue Lorelei, and she napped. As my younger husband left for another 5-day business trip, I waved goodbye and thought, "I can do this!"

It was the calm before the storm. I likened it to those long, late flights over the ocean when I was an airline captain - storms forecast but not yet visible, the engines humming in a drowsy sky, senses alert to what could be a sudden change in the weather.  When the first spray of rain hit the windscreen as lightning flashed in the distance, you knew it was too late to turn back.

So, I well remember the first expression of small puppy teeth in my flank.  Sunny had discovered that people have bottoms, and she could bite them. If I showed surprise, she thought it was a game. The next thing I knew, she was running and jumping off the recliner, launching herself at the couch like one of the Flying Wallendas, knocking over a plant in the process, while Lorelei looked on, taking notes.

The typhoon had arrived, and we renamed her "Sunny".

The coming months were marked by continued mayhem, including stolen tools and shoes, shredded rolls of paper towels taken from the counter, as well as one late-night trip to the Vet when a dew claw was torn in the Zoomie to end all Zoomies. There was laughter and later tears as we said goodbye to Lorelei.  There were many days I would have gladly dispensed myself of the regrettable opportunity of "guess what I have in my mouth, Mom?"

In the mornings I’d approach her crate like it was the den of some wild beast, with bravery but some bluster. I'd open the door while singing the notes of "Ride of the Valkyries", and our day would commence, measured not in hours but by the kinetic energy of flying fur.

But, as with any storm, the skies clear, the winds calm, at least in the land of Puppy-Ville.

Even as storms occasionally blew through our lives, I took comfort as the shadows gathered again, with the little things of joy I had around me. I learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of a young dog. She did not know loss; she did not know the word "cancer".  She was once as I was, living in advance of an end she will not fear coming, because she doesn't conceive of its existence, that beautiful continuity of joy that knows no limits and no introspection.

 I wouldn't have traded this decision for anything.