Big love

My life once followed a pattern so ingrained that I often found myself following it, rather than questioning it. When Bolt turned seven in 2018, it was as if a timer went off: a puppy was needed, no questions asked, it’s just what I was “supposed” to do.

The attempts to find my next dog were many and laden in rejection, sadness, and a whole host of anxiety. I felt very much like I failed myself and the breeders who I was working with when, for good reasons, a puppy wasn’t the right fit. I felt at the heart of it all a disconnection, as if a wedge was being driven between me and the sport I loved so much. I don’t often put much stock in signs, but it very much felt like the universe signaling to me that this was not the right path for me, that maybe I was willing things to happen. My actions were almost forced—like I was moving on a track I had built for myself but wanted to get off of. But still, I pushed on.

When a picture of a bi-black sheltie puppy just a couple hours away came through to my messages on Facebook, I remember thinking, I won’t even look at this. It was just months after a wonderful puppy I had taken on was diagnosed with a condition that would make her unable to play agility safely—and months before that when I had flown abroad to meet another puppy whose temperament and mine did not align—and I wasn’t ready to face something new again so soon. I felt embarrassed and ashamed that this was not working out for me. I felt like I didn’t deserve more chances to find a next dog. But something about the picture of the scruffy-looking puppy and the idea that two local friends would be taking littermates stuck. The track stayed fixed and I moved along it.

I reached out to his breeder and had a quick conservation while on break at work, asking the questions I’d repeated before, the familiar feeling of excitement and hesitancy meeting in the middle. I explained to her the puppies that had not worked out before and the reasons why. I told her my fear of taking on a new puppy so soon and she proposed an idea: I could take him—his name was “Arrow” at the time—home to stay for a week to see how it felt, to see if he fit in with Bolt and Nike and Joe and our home. A chance to see if we were a match without the commitment just yet. 

It felt safe, like I could try this without failing again. Without disappointing anyone, including myself—so I agreed.

The moment I met that puppy, I knew. I know some people say that and honestly, until then I never believed them. But it was true. Both of his parents were there, stable and loving and full of expression and playfulness and joy. They were the kind of shelties that didn’t meet the standard in the best way—they weren’t reserved or timid or spinning in tight endless circles. When I popped Arrow into the crate in the back of my car I took a photo and sent it to a few friends, likely along with something like: “Uh oh.”

I named him Seeker, with the intent that our lives would be ones looking for adventure. Adventure awaits those who seek it.

For anyone who followed in the intervening years from that day, you’ll know that Seeker was not a match for agility. You’ll know that his big heart allowed him to play for a couple years, but his vision ultimately prevented us from doing the sport safely. But he was a dog who did whatever was asked of him: biddable and steadfast in his quiet and gentle way. He learned scentwork easily in the early days of COVID when we were bored and house-bound. He hiked diligently with me, every weekend we were able, leading us through winding trails with his distinctive, slightly crooked gait and tail. He was smart. His tongue was too big. He was easy to live with, and even easier to love. He took up more space in a king-sized bed than any 27-pound dog has any right to.

His affection ve wasn’t easily earned, but it was complete and whole when it was.

Figuring out the key to Seeker’s love and trust was one of the greatest gifts in my life. I remember clearly the day it felt like he “chose” me back, and how unwavering he was from that day forward.

Seeker was a kind dog in a way I hadn’t known. He was patient with other dogs and puppies alike, though he was usually overly excited to play with them, regardless of their attitude towards him. He greeted people in an aloof but gentle manner, but generally was uninterested unless you were one of his people— or a boy about the age of six. (He never forgot about his first family in all the years he lived with us). He never once snapped at anyone or anything in anger or frustration. He never gave up, not ever. Even when his body had begun to fail him, he never stopped trying.

Our life together became simpler after agility. There were no expectations. We played and trained for the pure fun of it. When it wasn’t fun, we stopped and did something else. He caught frisbees and learned tricks—earning a single Q in a disc dog tournament and an AKC trick dog title I’m sure I never sent the paperwork in for. He got to be just a dog. He’d jump three feet straight into the air for treats or at dinner time, as if spring-loaded from his heels. He was well-known to graze the back of your knee with an open mouth if you turned your back on playing (he also knew it would make you laugh). He was silly and funny. Our relationship was founded on the same goals and dreams I had with Bolt, but it shaped into a wholly different reality. A reality I wouldn’t have ever asked for, but one that I am endlessly grateful for finding it.

Because of Seeker, my life opened up bigger than before. I took risks to learn new things—sports, careers, languages—to meet new friends, to try new things, and to explore parts of the world I’d only wished for before. I don’t say this as hyperbole—it is because of Seeker. If another dog had come into my life as a consistent and safe jumper, I would have stayed in the sport. It’s something I can almost guarantee. I think the appeal of staying involved in agility and chasing new goals would have been far more comfortable than the course we followed instead. It took a while to realize the track ended with Seek—and maybe that’s because it didn’t feel like an ending at all.

When he got sick, it was a gradual and mundane sort of thing. A stomach upset—maybe he’d picked up a virus. I worried through the weekend and then felt silly on Monday waiting at the vet for a negative x-ray and a couple days of cerenia. “Give a bland diet,” they recommended. “He should feel better in a couple of days.” Of course, I thought, I’m over reacting. We’d learned recently that he had a congential condition affecting his kidneys, but had been given a prognosis of years left together, no immediate concern to act, no panic in the specialists. Why would I panic, then?

Why would we recheck his bloodwork? It had been done less than 10 days before and was normal, for him anyway.

Within days, he was seemingly better. Eating again, no longer vomiting, but a little lethargic. It had happened slowly over that last year, his slowing down. Attributed to his kidney disease, yes, but also his somewhat dysplastic hips and the arthritis that would accompany that. He wasn’t an old dog, but I began to cut our hikes a little shorter—I chose easier routes to help him. He stopped chasing the frisbee after a few tosses and opted instead to lounge in the garden with me as I worked. We started supplements and specialty diets. So no, not sick, but a nagging feeling wouldn’t leave my stomach that day. I couldn’t wait another weekend.

I won’t recount the days that followed. The admission to the emergency hospital and the days of worry—and brief hope—that came after. We laid on the hospital floor together, letting his tired body fall into mine, his breathing heavy, his nose obstructed by a feeding tube, his chest and body thick with an abundance of fluid as we tried to revive his failing kidneys. I held on to a glimmer that maybe he’d get better.

When his specialist called on Wednesday, she was crying.

We said goodbye on a quiet Friday morning, after spending our last day at the beach, eating ice cream, and sharing French fries on the floor at home. We lit a candle and opened the windows to our backyard, so he could find his way back to the garden we loved.

To save a dog’s suffering does not save our own. A love so big leaves an ache I’ve never known.

Seeker hasn’t found his way back to my dreams just yet. I think sometimes it takes them a while to work their way back to us, but I know I he will.

Crooked tail and lilting gait, smiling face and bounding body, he’ll find his way back home.