Her absence was felt immediately, not just because she wasn’t physically there but also in the subtle ways I was unaware of…until I was.
Her name was Annie, my loyal best friend, and I had to say goodbye to her last week. Named after a series of strong women - Annie Oakley, Annie Proulx, Anne Lamott - she emulated strong female energy herself. She was an Australian Shepherd dog.
She came into my life with the hope that she would be a spark of joy. During a dark period in my life, feeling isolated and alone, I had the idea that a puppy might bring back the light. At that time, I was not planning on having children, but I was no less wanting to nurture a life. I had a substantial list of expectations - female, well-mannered breed, intelligent, trainable, loyal, and personable. Growing up in the country, animals belonged outdoors, so the thought of bringing one indoors terrified me. She needed to be perfect.
After a little research and a day trip to the breeder in Paris, Texas, I found myself misled as I sat among the flea-infested litter. They were outdoor country dogs, to be sure, but a litter of tri-colored Aussie puppies romping around in colorful bandanas was all the convincing I needed. I had my pick from five. I watched them for a while, wondering how in the world I was going to choose one. It wasn’t long before this adorable pup with a red bandana tied around her neck came and sat in my lap, looked up at me with her soulful brown eyes, and then started licking my arm. She chose me and, at that moment, stole my heart.
After a good bath and flea treatment, she and I were inseparable. Day in and out, she became the reason I got out of the house. I would walk her through the undeveloped section of my neighborhood, letting her run like crazy as I regained my reason to carry on. I trained her, and not once did she let me down. She would sit in my lap in the car until she grew too big for me to see over her. She would go to work with me, sleep next to me, follow me into every room, and sit in my chair when I left the house. Not once did she go to the bathroom in the house. She was perfect.
Her favorite pastime was what I called lovin’ time. Every time, and I mean every single time I arrived home, we piled on the bed, and she asked for belly rubs and hugs. She had a particular bark that was just for lovin’ time, so she barked her special bark and started heading toward the bedroom, ensuring I was following her. If I wasn’t, she would circle back and herd me like a cow because she wanted lovin’ time and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She called it and did so until the end. She taught my son about lovin’ time, and now he calls it! He’ll walk in the house, shout “lovin’ time!” and head for the bedroom. It was always our way of reconnecting.
Annie was my first baby, so I wasn’t sure how she would handle bringing a human baby into the mix. Until then, she had all my attention, and most of the time, it was just the two of us. True to her sweet nature, the day I brought him home from the hospital, she became a mother too, in a sense, embracing my son with compassion and protection.
There are so many ways to describe Annie, but I realized that as I was thinking about who she was, I was describing myself. I had no idea my dog and I were one and the same: independent, loyal, and playful when she trusted you.
Honestly, her decline in health had me preparing my heart for a while, but nothing could have prepared me for the heartbreak I find myself in the middle of as I write this to you. After an emergency visit to the vet clinic and two weeks of carrying her 65lb body around because she couldn’t walk, I had to make the hard decision. How do you make that decision?
After some advice from a friend, I realized Annie had been fighting for me for quite some time. I told her it was okay to let go. I did need her, and she took that role seriously, but it was time for her to need me. The moment I told her it was okay to let go, her eyes changed. Her body was failing her and she was weary with pain most of the time. In truth, she hadn’t been herself in months. It was a relief, and I knew it.
On her last day in this dimension, I hugged her one last time and asked her to come visit me and let me know she was okay. At that moment, I saw a ladybug and knew that would be her sign. She entered my life as a black puppy with a red bandana, and she was always a lady. Of course, she would choose a ladybug as her way of communicating with me from the other side.
Do you believe in signs? I wholeheartedly do. A few days after Annie’s passing, while hugging the woman I love in the parking lot of a restaurant… a ladybug landed in her hair. Naturally, Annie showed up in a loving moment to let me know she is okay. She was perfect.
Annie’s absence is felt in so many ways. The house is too quiet now. She was the alpha dog so Olive, my young aussie doesn’t quite know what to do without her. Seems as if we are all a little lost without Annie. The absence of her noises is what triggers me the most. I had no idea how much she panted, sighed, licked her chops, and followed me with the click of her claws on the wood floor until it was no longer heard, the background noise of my life from my copilot. Sleeping without her in the room was odd, too. The absence of her life was deafening in the silence if that makes any sense.
I miss her terribly. She brought me back to life when she chose me in the beginning, fiercely watched over me during the lonely days of divorce in the end, and loved me unconditionally every day in between. She will forever be the best dog I’ve ever or will ever have.
Before Annie, I thought dog people were a little nutty, but I naively misunderstood. She stole my heart and then broke it.
Run and play free from pain, my sweet girl. I’ll be watching for lady bugs.