melissabarr's blog

When we decided that the theme of our second writing contest ought to be "How I Met My Dog," I was excited for the opportunity to hear stories about how dogs have changed people's lives, or even saved them. Then I was saddened because, seeing as I work for Modern Dog, I wouldn't get to share the story of Elmo, my own dog who changed and saved my life.

Then Connie wrote a gorgeous blog post about how she met her Kaya, and I thought about how imitation is the best form of flattery, and decided that my blog, too, could be the place in which mine and Elmo's story could find a home! So here it is:

I was twelve years old when my family made the decision to get a dog in honour of my little brother's birthday. My grandmother excitedly informed us that a neighbour of a friend of a friend had a dog who had just had puppies, and they were trying to get rid of them.

The very next day, my father drove us out to see these puppies, and we were greeted by a wriggling mass of cream-coloured, hyper-excited puppies. Their mother was a crossbreed with some American Eskimo in her, and their father was rumoured to be the gray Poodle next door-- Eskipoos. All but one were cream-coloured, and my brother, being the rebel that he was at seven, chose the darker one, of course, and I sat back and watched, determined not to bond with a single one of those puppies that would not be mine.

I hear over and over again that sometimes you don't get to choose the dog, the dog chooses you. That definitely applies. The runt of the litter wriggled away from his littermates, climbed up on my lap, flopped down like a baby in my arms, and contentedly went to sleep.

I can't remember how long I cradled him and stared and stroked his little ears, which were a few shades darker than the rest of him, which was, really, the only thing that set him apart from most of his siblings.

The puppies were not old enough to leave their mother, so we left again, after promising to return in a few weeks for my brother's puppy.

Coincidentally, the puppy was old enough to come home with us on the same day of my brother's official birthday party, so my father went to get the puppy alone.

Fate intervened, I suppose. My brother's dark little puppy peed on my father's shoe, and my father made an executive decision and chose another, the happy, friendly, non-peeing one who had dashed out to greet him first.

Of course, it was Elmo. Maybe he knew. Maybe he was just that friendly. Either way, he was scooped, brought to the party, deposited on the ground among the throng of excited children.

Once again, I was not there, choosing, instead, to stay as far away from that dog as I could, since he would not be mine.

He was having none of that, dashed through their legs, and found me seconds later, his dark little ears and pink little nose giving him away instantly, and he was mine.

It only took my brother a month or two to realize that the puppy had never really been his, and there were no hard feelings when he finally gave up and said, "I guess you can have him, Melissa. He likes you best."

He didn't understand that Elmo had been mine long before he decided to graciously pass ownership to me. Sometimes dogs pick you, sometimes you pick them, and sometimes its just fate, or coincidence, or something else entirely. But I know Elmo saved my life when things got rough (c'mon, teenage years always get rough), and I wouldn't be who I am if he hadn't chosen me all those years ago.

Quick, send us your own story. Enter our How I Met My Dog story contest. The deadline is September 1st (which is SO soon, so write like the wind, my friends!)

Working for Modern Dog has taught me a lot about the impressive and awe-inspiring lengths that some people will go to to save animals in distress. Dog-lovers are creative and passionate in their quest to save as many as they can.

I think this way might possibly be the most fun, however. I'm not knocking the doggie wash fundraisers, and surfing dogs just blows my mind. All the people who spend countless hours volunteering, fostering, traveling with Vets Without Boarders-- all of that impresses me and humbles me and makes me wish I was doing more every single day.

But this, ladies and gentlemen, is like a treasure hunt. To benefit an animal rescue.

On Wednesday, June 7th, on "Man Shops Globe", the Sundance Channel's hit series, Keith Johnson, buyer-at-large for specialty retailer Anthropologie, is going to be using his treasure-hunting skills. He will search through shops, markets, and studios in a quest to gather together a host of collaborators and dog-related goods to be auctioned off to benefit a Philadelphia animal rescue.

Part Indiana Jones, part Tomb Raider, part Rescue Ink, this show promises to be an action-packed, wag-worthy good time, and all for a worthy cause.

I know what I'll be watching. What about you?

From where I sit in my small-town newspaper office, if I crane my neck just right, lean forward, and cock my head a bit sideways, I can see through a series of windows to the house across the street, and sometimes, their Jack Russell plays in their yard.

It's not nearly enough to compensate for no longer having Esther and Rose wandering by for visits. I guess that's what I get for leaving Modern Dog for a summer at home, working for the local paper in the middle of the prairies in a town that consists of tumble weeds, cows, and grain elevators.

I asked about the Vegetarian Option at this year's rodeo, and I got a bunch of smirks and a "We're serving Beef on a Bun-- the vegetarian option would be Bun."

I guess I should talk about some things that are different here, without Elmo. Maybe it was for the best that I wasn't here when he died, because it gave me two months to adjust to not having him in my life, and I didn't have to adjust to not having him in my home, too. I don't know how I would have managed to remember to breathe if I'd have had to walk through the rooms he had walked through, or looked into the backyard he didn't play in anymore.

So now I'm back, and it seems so empty. I don't trip over him, he doesn't try to coax me to play, I don't have to go and find him after he wanders down the back alley, and when I turn on the hose to fill my nephew's swimming pool, he isn't there to jump at the water.

I found his pink collar under some old winter muck and dead leaves, and remembered last summer, just before I left him for the city, when he was filthy and I had bathed him in a baby bath tub in the backyard. His collar was neon pink, and when I'd bought it, he'd been in the store with me, and probably out of protest, he'd peed on a shelf when I was distracted.

I'd panicked when I saw the mess and we dashed from the store before anyone else noticed.

I left the collar lying there in the much because I didn't know what else to do with it.

In the end, he hadn't had much use for toys. He'd spent his puppyhood playing soccer and fetch and chase, chewing up squeak toys and stealing golf balls. When he tore the ligaments in his back legs and couldn't run anymore, when walking became awkward and difficult, he stopped playing. Sometimes, I could coax him into tug-of-war with a sock, but he grew tired.

Sometimes I don't know what to do at all without him. I sit on the floor and he doesn't come over to lean against my side. I curl up on the swing in the backyard and he doesn't sit in the nearest sunspot.

He was my dog, so there isn't really anyone who understands that level of grief in my family. I know they have their own memories and their own methods of dealing, but none of them feel like they're missing a part of themselves.

The other night I was sitting alone on the couch when I noticed my mother's dog, Rowdy, the silly little Shih Tzu cross with the vicious overbite, curled up alone on a pillow on the floor. She's gone silent since Elmo left. She used to sing along sometimes, when I was too off-key, or bark when Elmo started barking because he'd noticed someone at the door. Her one trick is to say "Please", but she doesn't say that anymore. She is a year younger than Elmo was, and they grew up together. She's never quite been the brightest dog, and Elmo was always too smart for his own good. Now, without him, she doesn't know where to sleep, because she isn't sleeping next to him (and he isn't huffing in exasperation and trying to get away). She doesn't know when to bark at the door because he isn't doing it first (so she never makes a sound). She doesn't know when to beg for food, because he isn't there to follow, so she doesn't. She's gone mostly deaf and mostly blind and can't find her way to the door, or the table, or her food dish because Elmo isn't there to follow.

Rowdy was never my dog. My mom's dog, through-and-through, we never had much in common, but I guess, now we do. We both know what it's like to be deaf and blind and missing limbs without Elmo there to lean against us and show us how to get to the door or anywhere else we need to go.

Rowdy doesn't smell like Elmo or feel like Elmo or even cuddle like him, but she knows what it's like to miss all that about him as badly as I do.

The morning after that, I took her into the backyard to play. She wouldn't play, but she sat in a sunspot and smiled for the first time since I'd been home.

I have a problem where I want to save every dog that needs saving, and I can’t. I have another problem where my father is military, I’m a military brat to the core, and thinking about the soldiers overseas, without their families, befriending injured and homeless dogs and then being forced to leave them when they come home again, hurts.

So when I heard about Connie, the homeless dog in Afghanistan who was rescued from barbed wire and became a friend and companion for the soldiers there, I thought that our readers might want to know.

Maybe we can’t rescue every dog out there, but I, for one, feel that this little one really needs to come home.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of grieving for a lost pet lately. You may remember my entry back in March about the death of my dog, Elmo. Before this, my experience with the death of pets was limited to the (admittedly devastating) death of my rabbit when I was 11. I’d had the rabbit for two years and was pretty attached, but that was nothing compared to fourteen years with Elmo. For starters, Oreo, the rabbit, disliked me and every other person in the world, and Elmo was always so desperate for affection and approval.

I will admit that I barely knew how to begin dealing with that level of grief. Even knowing it was coming didn’t make it easier, and it seemed like some sort of nightmare I’d wake up from. I’d been having nightmares about my dog dying since I was a teenager and I guess I’d gotten used to waking up to find him at the foot of my bed. Since he’s been gone, though, the nightmares are different. I don’t spend the dream telling him he’s actually still alive, but rather trying to make him understand that he’s not. Notably, the other night, I dreamed he came out from under the table and I said, “No, Elmo, you died. You can’t be alive, you’ve made my blog a liar.”

The dream ended reasonably well, for a dream about a lost loved one. When I was attacked by a rat playing a banjo, Elmo protected me from it and it all ended happily, until I woke up and remembered that no, he really had died, and I hadn’t been there when he had.

I know this blog is supposed to be about ‘pawesome’ things, and maybe this doesn’t qualify, but I still thought it deserved a mention. I fully credit the fact that I focused so intently on finding a way to memorialize Elmo in the days following his death with the fact that I even was able to get out of bed. The kind, amazing people at paperedorb.com were nice enough to make me a gorgeous decorative orb in honour of Elmo, with pictures of the two of us, and I love it. It’s different, and beautiful, and unique, like he was, and I’ll definitely treasure it for ever.

Another thing that helped with the grief was being surrounded by people who understand. With Connie, who recently suffered the loss of her beloved Kaya, and the rest of the amazing people at Modern Dog, including Rose and Esther, our office dogs, I felt like the scope of my grief was normal. There were also many phone calls to friends who’d known him too, and they didn’t mind letting me go on and on about every little quirk and memory, and even shared a few of their own.

I guess I’m lucky that way. I think that’s pretty ‘pawesome’ too.

If you’ve got any tips or ideas on dealing with the loss of a beloved pet, please leave them in the comments.