It was late on a Tuesday evening last January. Earlier that day, blood tests had revealed low blood counts. This suggested she was bleeding again. I had scheduled a transfusion in Portland for that next day. But she was weak. All the fancy, even forbidden foods that had tempted her in recent days were of no interest to her. She sat at my feet where as she had so often. I sat on my sofa, watching her try to sleep and then rise to look up at me. I knew. I knew the transfusion wouldn’t help. I knew she was failing. I felt helpless and frightened. I knew this was a cruel, winter night and that, outside, it was sleeting and slippery. Just wait for the morning. Although I knew what this meant, I’d wait until morning.
Twelve years and twenty one days. From the first time I saw her, quarantined in a small crate at the humane society, I loved her immediately. They said this little thing from Arkansas had kennel cough and couldn’t be with the raucous, silly puppies playing together nearby. She had runny eyes and bubbles on her nose. She wore a black and orange sweater to keep her warm and her ears drooped sadly. I took her from her small crate and held her tiny body. And she was mine. I had just stopped by the shelter to drop off a few supplies and yet I knew she was mine.
I carried her inside my winter coat that cold December. Her first Christmas. Her first toys. But something was wrong. Her front leg was bowed. She fell down whenever she’d try to run. She coughed and her nose was running. She was weak. A spinal tap and numerous other tests were all negative…except for distemper. The prognosis was poor and euthanasia was advised.
Nope.
When she tried to sleep, she cried. When she cried, I cried. I thought she might be in pain. Maybe it was the prednisone and antibiotics, to fight the ravaging effects of distemper. I had found and reached out to the man who adopted her sister and and learned that he had decided to put the Nora's poor sick sister to rest. Finally, her tremor became visible. I realized that she was not in pain but the constant movement in her shoulder, although not visible at first, wouldn’t let her sleep. Thanks to valerian root drops, a natural sedative, she finally slept. But the tremor lasted…five years…her shoulder and leg jerking, day and night. Her body bobbing when she sat.
I would play tug of war with her to strengthen her neck, shoulders, and legs. I asked her to walk and run after toys. And she did. Nora always did what I wanted. Her legs grew. Her ears, folded over during teething, finally sprung up to huge, beautiful, brown and black ears.
One other possible result of distemper was Nora's dreaming. She would full out run...bark...and kick. Her head would fly up and then she would run again. On my bed, she would kick me...with force. I miss that kick. She had nightmares too. She would cry or whine and, when I would wake her, her ears would go back as she looked around, hoping it was just a bad dream.
Nora grew and became a force to behold. Although her distemper-softened teeth never hurst a living soul, puppies and full grown dogs at the Bowdoin College athletic fields both feared and revered her. We once encountered three dogs walking towards us on the trail. All three rolled over on their sides as she approached. She would sniff them and move on, but they would bounce up and celebrate wildly that she had spared them or simply because they were privileged to be visited. This was the Nora at the dog park. Teaching puppies, playing with friends, chasing a ball (don’t go near Nora’s ball), and owning the field. When I would first introduce her to a new acquaintance, some would say, “So THIS is Nora!” Her reputation preceded her.
At home, Nora was pure sweetness. Only those who knew her at home and over time grew to understand and appreciate her softness and loving ways. Many larger dogs entered her life…Dan, my ridgeback…Dozer, the imposing Amstaff…Zeke, her shepherd mix friend…Maxie, my adopted lab mix…and finally Rusty, her beloved brother Rusty…and she was both fearless, tough, and adoring to them all. They all knew that they belonged to her. I belonged to her.
At my office, beginning the day after leaving the shelter, she was the Office Manager. She happily greeted my clients at the door and would then find her blanket on the sofa and sleep while we worked. When someone would bring a baby or toddler, she would lie on her side next to them, ears back, gently pawing at them. When someone would cry, she would go to them. She was a natural therapy dog.
Dog people…not dog owners but dog people…know how many small, wonderful routines and games…nicknames, songs, facial expressions and unexpected little events happen that only our dogs and we know and remember. Whenever I would pull into the driveway, Nora would bark. Once. Only once. When we arrived home from her dental surgery in Bridgeton, half crazy and still drugged from her anesthesia, she gave me that one bark as we pulled in. “There’s my girl!” I said.
She had several barks. There was the excited bark at someone at the door or a dog on the street as we drove by. There was her “lecture bark”…after being away for any length of time, I would arrive home first to quiet commotion followed by her sitting and sternly barking AT me…ears forward, serious expression. And there was my favorite…her “bow wo wo” head back bark.
Nora loved new toys. She loved wrapped packages for birthdays and Christmas. We would walk down pet store aisles as the checked out all the furry, squeaky toys hanging. My deal with her was that, if she pulled the same one from the display twice, I would buy it for her. Sure, I would buy one for Rusty as well, but he paid little attention. He knew that ALL toys were Nora’s toys…at least at first.
Of course, I could go on and on. Twelve years is comprised of so many days and nights, holidays, road trips, playing, walking trails and beaches. Private moments.
Those dog people understand. This is not losing a possession, a pet even. This is losing a loved one....a child. I have loved all my dogs equally which is more than anything, anyone in my life. But for some reason, Nora and I had something special. I’ve often thought that, being so small and sick, carrying her with me everywhere as a baby, she imprinted on me. Perhaps she was my boy Shamus, who died way too soon and around the same time Nora was born, returning to take care of me and sooth my grief. She was always concerned with where I was, what I was doing, when I would return. She never slept in the car. She waited and watched. And I was always aware of where Nora was.
And she's gone. One year tonight. That night one year ago...she was lying still at my feet. Suddenly, her head flew up and dropped to the floor. There were other details too personal to describe here and I know she'd rather I didn't. But I knew she was gone. As I went to her, Rusty left to another room. I closed her eyes. I smelled her. Brownies...or cookies. Her head always smelled like brownies or cookies.
I called the emergency hospital in Portland and prepared to take her down. I wanted to remember the cookies, not how I knew she would be if I waited too long. I covered her with one of her blankets and lay her in the back of my Forester. Rusty rode in the front passenger seat...her seat and rarely his. A slow drive, I played "My Baby's Gone" on a cd. Several times. Turning at the light to the hospital entrance, my stomach in knots, driving as slow as I could.
The young techs brought out a gurney for her and we took her in. There was no one else there at 2:30 a.m.. They both saw her, gave an "awww"...and a "poor baby." They gave me a few minutes alone with her and I talked to her. I kissed her. I smelled those cookies. I felt her soft big ears and her beautiful bushy, curled tail. I kissed her incision. And, as I had told her every night for years, "I will love you forever and ever and ever." We left. Rusty next to me. And, at home, just empty. Totally empty. My hero Rusty, with tail between his legs, next to me.
My Surfer Girl…Noreena…Eleanora…No-No…Sweetheart…Baby Girl…Peewee...Bay-Bay…Darlin'...Sunshine…my Nora…
