Here’s what we she taught us in 24 hours.
Two weeks ago our dog died. It was a tough time for my wife and me, especially as we took on the additional burden of carrying our children’s grief, ages 11, 17 and 19, along with our own. Her name was Cassady, in honor of the Grateful Dead song about Neal.
We rescued her 10 years ago from Ventura. She had been left tied in the backyard with her mom, the byproduct of a recession-era housing crisis. But luckily both survived, and Cassady was finally in a loving home.
At first, she didn’t take to me. She had an aversion to men. Slowly, we built trust. But we took a step back when I would wear a collared shirt. No doubt, that minor change in clothing was a trigger for her.
We brought in a dog psychologist to help us. And no, it’s not a weird L.A. thing. Mental health is something that should be treated by professionals, whether you are a person, dog or cat. And it worked. Slowly we indoctrinated her into the house, then the outside, then walks. Then to the end of the street. Farther on walks. The car. Then farther once again.
Even with all we had done, there was still leftover ptsd. She ate super fast, for fear it would be her last meal, even after 7500 feedings. It broke our hearts every time. But we knew she was safe, and the only time she would reenter that fearful place, was in her mind. When she developed lung cancer and the treatments didn’t take, we hoped the other side would still her mind toward complete peace.
But the loss of a pet extends to other pets as well. We have 3 cats (one that pretty much lives under the bed) and another dog. After Cassady passed, we could see the grief and depression setting in with her closest companion, an Aussie named Ollie (after the skateboard trick). I tried to help as much as I could. Being between jobs, I put Ollie’s bed in our office/kid-away-at-college bedroom. He sat with me all day while I worked. And even with all the love and time and treats, I couldn’t compete with what he had lost in Cassady.
Shortly after, we started looking around for a new friend for Ollie. He grew up with Cassady and they were constant companions. Conspiring to get food off the counter, chasing squirrels in Big Bear, going on hikes in the Santa Monica mountains. And now, those moments only live in Ollie’s heart.
And that broke ours.
A few years ago, my middle son saw a 3-legged dog on a walk. He said, “That is what I want to adopt someday.” When asked why, he explained that dogs like that probably were not going to get easily adopted, and I want to help them. It was one of those character-defining moments of kindness you see in your kids, amid the fart jokes and pushing their siblings. But it was a light that never extinguished.
When we were ready for another dog, Noah reminded us of his wish. And in that beautiful and weird way the universe sometimes aligns, we randomly saw a young, female, 3-legged dog up for adoption. I got on the phone, we went in as a family, and played with the dog for a while. She was happy and full of energy. Missing a leg did not slow her down, it seemed to give her more drive. It had been only three months since she got hit by a car, and ultimately lost the leg to infection. Yet, she was moving quite gracefully.
We immediately fell in love (how can you not, right?), and began the work to bring her home. The adoption service was quite surprised that we specifically wanted her. I guess Noah was right, special needs dogs have a hard time at it.
The adoption agency had named her Tresee. It was a play on words for her 3 legs, and they seemed quite proud of the wordplay. But, I immediately changed it because I didn’t want to define her by her special need. She is so much more than that. It would be like calling a blind person, Blindie, or a hearing-impaired dog, Deafie. That nomenclature doesn’t work with people, and does not extend kindly with our animal companions either.
So we named her Scarlett Begonias (Scarlett for short). It was after another Grateful Dead song. We wanted a name that fit her spirit, but also was in remembrance of Cassady. The song lyrics fit her perfectly:
“From the other direction she was calling my eye, Could be an illusion but I might as well try, might as well try.”
And then this really brought it home:
“Well, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way she moves, all Scarlett Begonias or a touch of the blues. And there’s nothing wrong with the look that’s in her eyes.”
And as luck would have it, we needed Scarlett as much as she needed us. My family and I have experienced other loss this year. But we are getting through by prioritizing the things that are important and leaning on the people we love.
But we have also received gifts. Beautiful human moments filled with compassion and joy, like this one. We are no different that the rest of the world, as loss and gifts plot the journey of life.
But luckily, we now have another member of our family to march forward with us, pushing on with 3-legs as the rest of her doggie peers use four. But that doesn’t stop her, in attitude or stamina. Or even pure, doggie joy. She just wants to play. She just wants to be loved, and love things back. Simple, right?
She wants to be a dog. And that’s what she is. A beautifully special dog that teaches us lessons for our own life. To give us hope. To make us grateful. To realize that our figurative “missing legs” are not things that should stop our journey.
But leaning into that thought, maybe it should slow us down a hair, have us keep a more present pace. Have us look around. Discover things we may not see because we are moving too fast. Because like the Dead song says, “Once in a while you get shown the light, in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”
And looking at it right, after 24 hours, has filled us all with joy for the many days we will all have with Scarlett.
