5 Pounds of Joy

Four years ago, after the loss of my beloved Chloe, a beagle/husky shelter pup, I truly couldn't imagine ever finding another dog who captured me like that beautiful, 50-pound, ever-shedding, multi-colored fur baby could.  Chloe had a heart so humanistic.  So very intuitive.  She knew me well, and served as my ever-supportive, unconditionally-loving, and simply beautiful sidekick in life.  

The pain in the loss of my Chloe hit me deep to the core, leaving me vacant and heartsick.  Friends and family urged me to adopt another puppy, but I just couldn't do it.  In my book, I had shared my life with the best dog on the planet, and no one could ever take her place.

Shortly after Chloe died, my city's mayor and his wife also lost their beautiful furry companion.  I watched both with a heavy heart and a sincere level of empathy, as they navigated their own loss.  I knew all too well how losing a member of your family-- even one with four paws-- creates a painful crater in your heart and soul. More on that later...

About three months after Chloe passed away, my Mom contacted me via Facebook and shared a picture of a tiny, little doe-eyed, reddish brown, five-pound chihuahua, snuggled in a blanket, wearing a sweet little sweater, complete with a pink bow.  Mom insisted I need to rescue that poor little baby.  As funny as it may seem today, I instantly remarked, "Mom, I'm into big dogs.  A chihuahua is like owning a guinea pig.  Not my kind of pet, sorry."  But Mom insisted, "Look at her sweater!  She's cold.  She's scared. She's been through so much in her short life!"

Begrudgingly, I pulled up the information on this little "rodent" of a dog, and her story compelled me to look further.  Originally cared for by a beautiful couple who fostered dogs, Lily as a puppy was quickly adopted by an older lady.  Four years later, Lily's owner passed away from cancer, leading to a shuffling of Lily to various family members, before she ultimately arrived back at the same foster family who originally cared for her.  And to make matters even more fascinating-- I soon found that the foster father happened to attend high school with me years ago.  It was all surreal.  But Mom wouldn't let up.  Persistence is something that most certainly is a trait in our family, and she wasn't going to let me pass up on this little one. 

My partner at the time and I agreed to come and meet Lily and determine whether or not she would be a good fit for my next puppy.  When we arrived at the door of the foster couple's home, I could already hear the barking. High pitched.  Anxious. With a bit of aggression.  When Erin opened the door to greet us, I could already see frothing and teeth displayed by Lily, perched at the top of the staircase.  The entire "meet and greet" lasted about a half an hour.  Lily barked incessantly.  Growled.  Nipped at my partner's coat sleeves.  She was a complete and utter hot mess.  In my mind, all I could think of was, "how can I tell Erin and Michael that Lily isn't a good fit and thank them so kindly for allowing us to meet her... and LEAVE."  Michael explained that Lily was the sweetest dog in the world prior to being adopted-- but something happened between adoption and the shuffling that ensued after her former owner died.  Both were insistent that all she needed was love, a stable environment, and for her to be comforted.  

As we sat in Erin and Michael's lovely home, filled with so many sweet, gentle and affectionate animals, only one stood out-- the tyrant:  Lily.  Michael quickly grabbed Lily's cotton-candy-pink crate, her little bed, and a few other items, including her Nutro small dog food, and said, "I am so glad she's going to a good home."  Meanwhile, the froth on Lily's seemingly rabid mouth created a beard, all the while growling, showing those fierce teeth, and in complete display of pure defense.  Yep. We were crazy.  We were taking home a dog that most certainly would be nothing more than a liability.  

We carried Lily, still in her crate, reacting erratically and defensively, to the back seat of our car.  We waved at the Jensens, and thanked them for being so good to Lily.  I rolled up the window, looked at Rich and said, "we are certifiably NUTS. She's CRAZY.  She will bite me!"  As my partner pulled down the road, Lily squealed with the most high-pitch, simply obnoxious tone, and continued to growl.  I slumped in my seat, thinking of the immense blessing I once had in Chloe-- and how nothing would ever replace her-- especially NOT this dog!

About four miles down the road, I asked Rich to pull the car over. I explained that I wanted to take Lily from her crate and have her sit on my lap.  Nervously, he looked at me and asked, "Are you sure about that?  She seems pretty scared right now?"  I told him that the only way I'd know she would have any chance of being "normal" was to hold her on my lap for the trip home.

When I opened the door of the car and peered into the backseat, Lily sat there, head turned, froth still ever present on her lower jaw.  Carefully, I opened the gate.  Within seconds, Lily jumped into my arms, pushing her head to my chest, and looking up at my eyes, all the while shivering.

Gently, I ran my hands through the top of her head.  Cradling her like a baby, I carefully grabbed her blanket, wrapped her up in it, and took a seat in the front.  She laid there, rolled up in a tight ball, cuddled under that blanket, with eyes ever focused on mine, nervously licking my right thumb. Over and and over.   And that, my friends, might be the end of the story. But it wasn't.

Lily never once growled at me again.  She never barked.  Never showed her teeth or frothed at the mouth. The high pitch squeal remains to this day-- but only when I arrive home after working, visiting friends, etc.  And that squeal is always accompanied by a seemingly five-foot, repetitive, jump in the air, where she begs me to pick her up and cradle her.  I still shake my head that I ever had a reservation in adopting this little 5 Pounds of Joy.

Lily changed my life and came at the exact time I desperately needed her.  

Little did I know then, in a short three year period, I would leave my relationship of 23-years, albeit amicably and peacefully.  I would suffer breakups, heart ache, managing the selling of a home I loved intensely and the buying of another, and so many tears. So many tears.

Speaking of tears.  At one point, on one of my deepest and darkest points of loss, I sat on a park bench at the resort where my second home is located.  It was a beautiful day-- bright blue skies with a few cotton candy clouds floating above.  I sat there, praying, asking God to make all things better. I asked Him for strength. Comfort. And to know that in the end, life would be good again.  Lily, ever observant, saw the tears running down my cheeks.  Her head tilted, and whites of her brown doe eyes focused intently on my eyes, Lily slowly moved to my knees, lifting herself up, and stretching her little nose to sniff my face. Her eyes followed the the stream of tears.  Her nose ever sensing my intense emotion.  Then, that little dog began to lick.  Strategically. Gently.  Every. Single Tear.  She covered my face with kisses.  And pressed her own face towards my chest and cheeks.  She sensed my darkness and she did the only thing she knew might help-- provide comfort and love.

Lily has taught me so much in life these past four years.  She's taught me that we're all a bit scrappy.  We've all experienced loss and pain.  We've all been scared and fearful.  And we've all been misjudged.  Believe me, I most certainly misread everything about Lily when I first met her. She may be five pounds in weight, but that dog has a 100-pound heart.  

Looking back on the story about the shared loss I experienced about the same time my Mayor and his lovely wife lost their fur baby, I can remember one conversation I had with them-- even knowing that at the time, I didn't necessary feel it for myself. The advice is still good:  the greatest tribute you can give to a pet you've lost is to adopt another, and do it immediately.  

I will be forever grateful Lily remains at my side to this day.  Snuggled up in a blanket, watching as I share her story. She may be grateful I rescued her.  Little does she know-- the feelings are so mutual.