A Good-Bye to my Baby

Dear Muggsy,

All I have left of you is a tiny footprint sitting on my mantle. You always had such tiny feet. That's how they convinced me you were a terrier mix, even though you grew to 85 pounds. It's amazing all that you carried on those tiny feet during your 10 years of life. When you crawled into my lap and looked into my eyes, I knew you could really see me. You were the first to really see me, I think, and I know there were many times that you carried me on your tiny feet, making sure I was safe and happy. I always knew you would protect me, no matter what the cost, and I hope I made you feel protected as well.

When you started showing signs of severe fear, I didn't know what to do. But that led me to a new career that would ultimately land me in graduate school. I even talk about you in my personal statement. I can't talk about who I am without mentioning you. I'm not sure who I am without you. I guess figuring that out is the next phase of my life.

When we were young, my expectations were high. I wanted you to be the type of dog everyone wants: friendly, fearless, obedient. But what I got was so much better. I got a dog who was sensitive, insightful and discriminatingly loving. You tried so hard to be the dog that I wanted you to be, but in the end, all I wanted was all you were. I will miss the way you ran into my room when I was blowdrying my hair, wagging your tail, showing me that you could be brave. I love the way you looked angrily at me from behind that muzzle but still did exactly what I told you to do at the vet. I loved that look of hope in your eyes when I put on my shoes or put food on the table. I will miss the look in your eyes any time you looked at me. You were so expressive. You always knew what I was thinking and saying, even though it sounds ridiculous for a dog trainer to say that. I will miss your crooked ears, and the way they perked up every time I talked to you. Those ears are in my training logo, and they are in my heart, making a place where no other dog can quite fit.

Dog trainer Melinda will always say: Don't talk to your dog. Teach him commands. But you know the truth: how I talked to you like a human and believed that you heard me every time. When I lived at Moore Creek, you used to run out the door, and I'd have to chase you down the street. That day when I caught you, I held you and said, "Please don't ever do that to Mommy again. You scared me." And you never did. Even though I never trained you to wait at the door. I would talk to you before every vet visit, every pet sitter, every vacation. You always listened. And you always did what I asked. I know you were a once-in-a-lifetime dog. As much as I love him, Chubbs does not have your abilities. I can't imagine having another dog that does.

A few weeks ago, my mom told me that you were my greatest success. But I am yours as well. You taught me to be compassionate and understanding. You taught me to embrace my loved ones, even with their faults, and love them through whatever they are going through, even if I don't understand. You taught me to be strong. You taught me that we all make mistakes, and then we get up and try again tomorrow. You helped me grow into the kind of person I have always wished I could be. And for the rest of my life, whenever I start to feel down about myself or put pressure on myself to be perfect, you will be in my heart, wagging your tail, reminding me that I'm perfect just the way I am. Just as you were.

Last night, as you were breathing your last breaths, I'm so grateful that I was there to tell you I loved you. Just before that, you looked up at me while I was reading to you and gave me that look of understanding. You knew I was trying to be strong for you. And you were trying to be strong for me when you walked into the bathroom so we could spend those last few moments together the perfect way: just the two of us, no interruptions, just as it should have been. I will always feel cheated that you only lived 10 years and that you died within a week of your diagnosis without us ever getting to know what was wrong. I will probably cry every time I walk into this bathroom, where I held you for the last time. I will be angry and hurt. But I will always feel blessed that I got to spend 10 years with the most truly wonderful being in this world. I will wake up every morning and get out of bed to try again. That's what you taught me, and I will be true to your memory.

I love you, Muggsy. I will always love you. No one will replace you. Because, after all, you're my wonderwall.

Good-bye, Buddy 'Ims. You're better than the world. You're better than an armrest. You're my best friend. Love, Mom