Sarah came into our lives a little unexpectedly. We were looking for a puppy for our son, who was about 7 at the time, and decided our big yellow lab needed a little black lab for balance.
We were not going to get a dog at the first place we stopped, which was an interesting little house with Rottweilers outside, and inside - the Labs – puppies, mom and dad – in this tiny living room with a tiny makeshift kennel in the corner.
Sara was the runt, getting stepped on, getting pushed out of the way from the milk. My husband looked up at me as if to say ‘We aren’t getting one of these’.
I believe it was my son who picked her up and tried to rescue her from the onslaught of paws. She licked his face. Something she would continue to do for the next 10 years.
I don’t recall seeing an obit for a dog. It’s a shame, really. There are obits for friends and relatives we don’t love near as much who don’t love us half as much as our dogs.
Oh we will miss her.
My son will miss her physical signs of love: those constant, daily morning kisses, her tail wag when she would see him – and let me tell you she was not a gentle tail wagger – she has been known to clear an end table in one sweep. He will miss the space she took up on his bed, in the middle and all over.
My husband will miss her visual signs of love: her pretty girl dance wherein she pranced on her paws in dog ballet for treaties and boney-bones of the Milk bone® variety. He will miss her running to greet him after work and I’m sure as he has slowed over the years in moving from seat to ground, so had she in moving from front door to truck. And of course he will miss the almost nightly rides they took looking for deer and signs of other wildlife while running the back roads. He will do it alone now, and sadder I’m sure. He will return from vacation soon and when he readies for work that first morning, he will miss her prance in front of him squeaky stuffed toy in her mouth ‘squeak squeak squeak’ while he tied his boots.
And I will miss the little things of her - Sarah was not the smartest lab in the world. But she was a charmer. She had a bad habit of eating the bread or getting into the garbage when we left her alone during the day. We learned quickly to close up the trash bags and move the bread far away. If we forgot, we were greeted by a dog whose head was about as low as it would go but who’s tailed wagged like a flag in a windstorm. In other words, she was saying “You aren’t going to be too happy to see me, but I’m really happy to see you!” So, I will miss those mischievous signs of love – and of course the way she came bounding (she wasn’t light on her feet either) into the kitchen at just about 5 because she knew it was dinner time.
We had salad with steak last night. I dropped a piece of cucumber on the floor while tossing. It was there a long 10 seconds before I realized no one was going to tiptoe out and nibble it up.
Ten years is a long time to have a dog – and we have been so fortunate.
While we saved Sarah in the beginning, it was Sarah that saved us in the end. It was certainly she that saved us. Who else but a family dog can truly make you feel so loved on days when you don’t so much?
I will stand in disagreement with any pastor, priest, rabbi or father who would like to tell me dogs have no soul and therefore don’t go to heaven. They are wrong. To them I say, dogs like Sarah are the ones who listened when Jesus said Love One Another. Because, really, who does love us unconditionally here on earth but our dogs? Who else can leave a large hole in your heart when they are gone?
No soul? You could not look into Sarah’s eyes and see no soul. She was full of love. Full of compassion. Full of caring. She was our Sarah Berra. We are going to miss her.
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