Vignettes of Love

You were almost 14. We adopted you two years ago when you were almost 12, a retired sled dog. The facility was shutting down and all the dogs needed homes. “Eh, we already have two, one is also a senior pup, I work from home, we have a fenced-in yard, we’re set up for this. We can take another." I don’t know how but we got the best one. 

You were incredible. Philip came with Petra and I came with Paco, but you were “ours.”

We were obsessed with you. Philip and I used to lie in bed at night and watch you sleep like you were an actual baby, we were transfixed. “Look at his toes.” “Look at him breathe.” “Look at his fur.” “How is he so perfect.” “I can’t believe he’s ours.”

You would chase basketballs, dip your toes into the river, tilt your head and marvel at things you’d never seen, run zigzags until we finally learned your dogsledding cues. You pranced around to solemnly rehome our socks. We called you Tweezer Tootsies. You always tried to flip your bowl. You were so smart. We loved watching you learn to be a house dog. You ran like the wind and you were everybody’s friend. You chased rafts down the river because you felt that anyone could be yours. You were always trustworthy, always friendly, always good-natured, always smiling. You walked or ran at exactly whatever pace we were going, you tiptoed into whatever room we were in. You just wanted to be with us. That first day you hopped into our car without hesitation and let us whisk you away to a whole new life. You loved us from the start. You were such a remarkable being.

You loved snuggles more than any dog I’ve ever known. You always slid between our legs for a smiley cuddle. Slid between us and whoever else we were snuggling. Flopped your head against our chest and nuzzled in. We treasured you. We still treasure you. We always will.

You loved creamy things. Ice cream. Sour cream. Cream cheese. Whipped cream. You did not love blankies and refused our offers to cover you with them except for that one time out in Utah when we camped in the freezing cold. We realized we had fully domesticated you — a sled dog who had lived outdoors on Snowmass Mountain your whole life — when we saw you shivering inside the van. You let us wrap you in a pile of thermal blankets and you snuggled in to sleep. I woke up in fits to reach my hand into your pile to check that you and your brother and sister were still warm, still sleeping comfortably, still ok. You always were.

You used to come up on the people bed with us for a few minutes at bedtime and we’d hold our breath so you wouldn’t leave. You weren’t a bed snuggler (as much as we’d beg you to stay) so that one time out on Grand Mesa when you laid down with me in the van bed as the little spoon and Philip arranged everything so we didn’t have to move, we fell asleep together for hours into the night, a triple spoon cuddle with you at our core. It was ecstasy.

You followed us around everywhere. You weren’t raised with people of your own, you didn’t know we’d always come back. We relished your devotion. It always felt like a little blessing when you chose to hop up on the couch with us and settle down next to us with your trademark “comfort grumble.” You chittered when you were excited. You almost never barked. You had the biggest, most genuine perma-smile.

Richard, our happy man, we miss you beyond words. Thank you for being ours. We’re so lucky we got to be yours.