I just saw pictures of my sweet puppy tonight. Pictures from 6 months ago and I can't believe how much I still miss him and ache for him. I'm glad to see life in his eyes and energy in his ears and part of me regrets not loving him more--letting him sleep in my bed (although my parents didn't allow our dog inside the carpeted areas of the house), watching TV with him, taking him to more dog parks. There's a part of me that wishes that I could have raised him the way that I wanted to, not the way that my parents wanted to. I miss his scruffy face, his big shoulders and velvety nose. I miss his soft ears and his calm demeanor. He was such a good dog.
Even though I plan to get a new one now (I can't stand it anymore to be dogless), no dog will ever replace him in my heart. He was the first dog that I ever had--we grew up together: through high school, college, post college, two houses, two boyfriends, two cars . . .
There is this constant ache in my heart for him and I really hope that I see him again in heaven. What kind of cruel god would give such a gift only to take it away 13 years later, never to be seen again? I can't imagine that God would be like that. Yeah, I know; supposedly animals have no souls and yada yada, so they're not supposed to be in heaven. But dogs touch the soul, they shape them, nurture them, set them free, and love them unconditionally. How can something like that NOT be in heaven? No, dogs must go to heaven.
When I get my next dog, I will raise him the way that I want to. He'll have a bed next to mine, he'll snuggle with me on the couch and we'll hop in the car together. We'll share food (he'll eat some of mine, but I won't be eating his) and we'll run and hike and jump together. We'll grow up together and watch sun sets and enjoy Sunday afternoon naps together. And maybe, just maybe this ache in my heart will diminish. But I will never forget . . .
All the memories of playing tug of war, of hearing him lap at his water, waking up to him scratching his back on the outside wall, hearing his clickety clack paws on the tile floor or seeing his ears perk up and head tilt to the side when he hears a funny noise. The marks on the doors will remind me of how much he hated to be separated from the rest of the family; how he would throw himself against the door again and again and how he used to run to the bathroom when he heard the door bell because he knew, otherwise, he'd be stuck in the garage. I will always remember that little white mark on his forehead, which he never grew out of. Even when he grew out of leash pulling, he still had that little white dash. He was always so eager to go on walks, that he learned to understand "walk" in two different languages and when we put the leash on him, he'd turn around, grab it with his mouth and pull it, as if to make us walk faster. He was smart, curious, funny, playful, constant, calm, endearing, spunky, full of life, loved people and had a slight knack for pushing the boundaries. He was definitely a member of our family. He even loved eating rice and understood a little Cantonese.
Indeed, our dog. Faithful, you lived up to your name in more ways that you'll ever know and I love you for that. I miss you dearly and I hope you are running through green meadows and rolling on the grass like it was shaggy green carpet. I can't wait to hug you again, buba. Wait for me by the pearly gates--you'll recognize my footsteps, I'm sure.
