Such a sweet boy

This post was supposed to be about my trip to Costa Rica. That changed when I talked to my mom yesterday morning and I learned that Harrison, my ailing 13-year-old dog, had been put to sleep while I was away.

For months I had been dreading the news. Maybe I had been dreading it ever since I received the phone call about Casey a year and a half ago, also on a Sunday, also when I wasn’t expecting it. Maybe I had a feeling as I got on the plane to Costa Rica that I would come back and hear that my little boy, not so much a boy anymore, had lived all he could live. Maybe I knew that by booking my trip only hours before I would have instead booked a flight to San Diego, that it was fate that I wouldn’t be there to say goodbye to my brother in his last days. Maybe it was best that the internet was spotty, and that I last talked to my mom via email the night before she and my dad took Harrison to the vet.

Every time I got a call from my parents since Harrison started declining, a spinal tumor taking the sensation from his legs, his kidneys struggling to function, I thought it was time. But then Mom would say he had perked up and he was eating, he was fine, he was a trooper. Until yesterday, when she let me ramble on about my trip for a full 10 minutes. “So, what have you guys been up to?” I asked cheerfully. “It’s been a pretty rough week…” she started. And I knew it was more than Harrison being sick. He was gone.

Gone, another brother, another amazing, smart, adorable Corgi who led a full life and gave us every ounce of love he possibly could. We got him as a puppy. We picked him from the litter at the Heaths, just like we did again at Christmas in 2009 when we went back for McGee. We brought him home in the backseat next to me. We were still in pain from Rocky’s death just a couple of months earlier. Who knew that he, and then his brother Casey, would bring us such joy, such happiness?

On my trip last week, one of my new-found friends asked me and another girl what animal we would be if we could choose. I had always said a dog…they just top my list. But until that afternoon as we sat under the patio in the rain looking out at the beach, I hadn’t realized why: dogs only need food, sleep, and the love of their people. It’s that simple. Life doesn’t get much better.

Harrison put every fiber of his being into those three principles. When it was time to eat, he came running, inhaled it, and then ran outside. When he wasn’t eating, he was sleeping — on the couch, on our laps, in my parents’ bed, on the cool floor, on the carpet, in the sun outside. And all the rest of the time, he was loving us and absorbing our love. You could massage his back for hours. He would cuddle up right next to you to take a nap — he loved being the little spoon. If we were outside and he was nosing around smelling and breathing in the fresh air, all you had to do was crouch down and call his name, and he would come bounding, sprinting even, over to you, a grin on his face and his long tongue flapping around. When he was disciplined, he cried. Real tears, this boy. Eyes blinking, ears back, he was either a really good actor, or he just got that emotional.

We had a million nicknames for Casey but the only one that really stuck was Heedy, our variation of Harry. Heedy Beeby, our little baby.

Saying goodbye to Casey was a shock. And as before, because I’m not home with my parents, it hasn’t quite hit me yet. I’m still thinking I’ll walk in the door in August and not just see McGee, but Harrison too, even if I have to go to him. I haven’t absorbed that for real this time, “da boys” are no more…it’s just one. McGee is amazing and he and I have a special connection, but Harrison was my puppy that I watched grow up. He and Casey were my companions through my teenage years, the years when you really need someone there, not judging you, just loving you. They were really good listeners. They gave really good hugs. They let me sing to them. They greeted me everyday after school. They let me tell them my secrets, and my fears. Harrison’s long coat was wet with many of my tears.

I knew this day would come, when both of my boys would be gone. But as tough as it is to say goodbye, I know that they are now together, brothers again, looking down on their people with love.

Always finding the crook

One year ago today, my sweet little Casey had to be put down because lung cancer had suddenly filled his chest, robbing him of breath and comfort. One year ago (and it was on a Sunday), I was milling around the arts booths at Adam’s Morgan Day with some friends, enjoying the weather, the sights, the sounds, the happiness — when life changed, and instead of being happy, I was devastated.

Yesterday was Adam’s Morgan Day. Every mention of the festival, every time I hear the words, I cringe inside. I think of that moment, that exact moment my mom’s voice on the other end of the line told me Casey was gone. Every time I hang out in Adam’s Morgan, which is not that often given I live and work near it, I get a funny feeling. I immediately remember that day, I remember the pain ripping through me, the world spinning away, numbly being put into a cab and sent home alone, to cradle my stuffed corgi instead of the real one who was like a brother.

Two months after Casey died, I came into the house back in Ohio for Thanksgiving and only Harrison was there to greet me. It was like a shock to my system, and I held Harrison with everything I had, sobbing into his hair right there on the laundry room floor, where once Casey would have been jumping up and down, begging for attention.

How do you ignore that face?

Three months later, when I came home again, for Christmas, my parents and I were headed for an afternoon at a friend’s farm – which turned out to be the home of our breeders, Cheryl and Ed, who had first given us the wonderful gifts of Harrison and Casey. And then we found McGee. McGee is the best possible combination of Harrison and Casey — sweet and loveable but rowdy and a little pest all at once. An adorable pest to be sure. He rips apart his toys and contently chews on them for hours as Casey did. Every day, there are so many little things he does that make us think of Casey. McGee is a new (if not annoying) little brother to Harrison, and certainly for me. He is comfort and silliness and laughter when we needed it. Casey is carried on through McGee, yet he is his own little doggie personality, too.

Some people may not understand how a dog can bring so much to someone’s life, even a year later. You don’t know until you have it. Casey was as much a part of our lives as any human – even more so in some ways. And he still lives, just in our hearts now.

The first couple of days of this past week were rough. But little by little, day by day, it became easier to continue on with life, as it always does. I went to a farewell happy hour for a colleague, and laughed and enjoyed bar food and beer. I talked to my dad night after night on the phone, reliving memories of Casey, sharing pictures we had collected over the years. I talked to my mom, assuring her that her trip to Miraval was the right thing to have done, that it will help her in the end, no matter how hard it was to leave my dad and Harrison at home again so soon. Friends and family had many words of kindness for me, as well as people I don’t know so well, and people I hadn’t seen in years. I went to another colleague’s farewell dinner, and laughed and bonded and ate some more, enjoying every moment of being with my team, loving what we do while at our desks during the day and knowing that any of us would do anything for the each other. And then on Friday, my boyfriend arrived for the weekend, the last bit of comfort I needed to make me realize that even with this loss, there is still life to live.

I know still that when I go home at Thanksgiving, I probably will be sad again, when I don’t hear Casey’s bark in the laundry room or his nails skidding across the floor to greet me. I know we will all be taking turns holding Harrison in our laps, because it will be one dog to three people instead of two to three.

But – I know as well that my parents and I will be closer than ever before, and we are already pretty damn close. And I know that all I can do is give Harrison all the love that I have and he will give it in return. And I know that I have friends and family and a boyfriend who are there for me, through good and bad, happiness and grief, success, failure, all of it.

Because of some of the struggles I’ve had with my biological father and other family in my life before, I’ve always found it hard to trust that those around me truly love me, need me, want to be around me. And over the last six months, I’ve felt that feeling diminishing thanks to the support of those exact people, and the support of a therapist who has helped me realize that even though this one person wasn’t there for me, I’ve got all of these other people who are there, have been there, will always be there.

With Casey’s death, I know this now more than ever. I know that my friends and colleagues are looking out for me, and appreciate me. I know that my boyfriend is there in a second if I needed him. And most of all, my parents are there in more ways than I can explain. Since I left for college in 2003 and the moved to DC in 2007, my mom and I have talked almost every day on the phone, or at least online. It may be five minutes some days, or half an hour when we have a lot going on. I’ve always loved that, and now, I appreciate it even more. My dad and I haven’t had the same history – he’s not a big phone person, which I respect, so when we do talk by phone, it’s maybe once every few weeks, but we get a lot covered in that one phone call. But this past week, talking to my dad every night for half hour or an hour, about Casey, about work, about our lives, it has done more for me – and I think for him – than I would have expected. We owe that to Casey – our dogs have always brought our family such happiness – and Casey continues to, even in death.

It’s one week later, and life goes on. Football games, dinners with friends, and my daily workouts, which I had dropped over the last few days. Life may not have Casey in it anymore, but I know that because of him, all of life’s little peaceful moments and the relationships I have mean that much more.

It’s two days later, and I’m still sad, still crying at times. Still choking up when someone, as so many people have, say kind words about him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” they say. “It must be tough,” they say. “At least he’s no longer in pain,” some say. “You gave him a happy life,” they all say.

I can’t believe it, is what my parents and I say. He can’t really be gone, we say. Where did we go wrong? we ask ourselves. Why so early, why Casey? we ask God, the vet, each other, anyone. You don’t get it, we think to ourselves. You didn’t know Casey. You didn’t see his big beautiful eyes pour into your soul, understand you, need you, love you with every ounce of his cuddly, little being. You didn’t hear his “Arf! Arf!” as you opened the garage door, or hear his click clack of nails on the floor as he came running to dinner, or looking for you as you played hide and seek.

Many people have read my first post. And yesterday and today, and tonight talking with my Dad, I remember so many more memories of Casey. I remember even more nicknames (is that possible?) that we had for him. I come across more pictures and love that he was most content lying on his back or cuddling with us in a chair or napping on the couch.

I remembered today that we also called him JB – Jealous Boy – because whenever Harrison was being touched, or given attention, Casey needed it, too. Oh, Harrison was the same way – you couldn’t play with Casey without Harrison coming over and barking or whining or rolling on the floor to get attention, but Casey had this special way – you couldn’t ignore it. He would nuzzle right up to you under your hand, so you HAD to pet him. And you couldn’t just pet him once and be done with it. You had to keep petting him, petting him, until he was satisfied. Sometimes it took awhile. If Harrison jumped on your lap, Casey had to jump on your lap. He was a JB, plain and simple. But we loved it.

He was Attack Dog. I mentioned before how he would rip open his toys and spread the stuffing around the house. It was pretty brutal, yet hilarious. This sweet little thing was terrorizing his toys in a way that looked like a grizzly had come plowing through with no mercy for its prey.

He was Cuddle Hound. He may have jumped down every few minutes to “get long” on the carpet and cool off (on his stomach with legs kicked back behind him), but there was no stopping him from jumping up again and again on the couch or chair with us while we were watching movies, reading a book or drinking coffee and watching the birds outside. He just wanted to be with in someone’s lap, plain and simple.

One of my favorite memories of Casey was playing hide and seek with him with the tennis ball. This was more often back in our Loveland home, where we had carpet and he wouldn’t go skidding all around the house on hardwood like he did in our current home in Mason. I would throw the ball upstairs to the second floor or down the hall into a bedroom, and then go hide behind a door or chair. Of course at this point, Harrison would want to join in so I had to take him with me and make him be quiet. Casey would run off to chase the ball and then wander the house looking for me – ball in mouth, slobbery and wet. Sometimes I would give myself away by stifled laughter, but sometimes, he was just so darn smart – I would see his little head peeking around the corner of the bathroom door or pacing around the couch in the living room, his head cocked, and saliva dripping from his mouth. When he would find me, he would drop the ball on the floor and bark: “Arf! Arf! – Hey! Where were you?? Throw the ball again!” And we would start the cycle all over again, a chase ensuing where he would nip my heels (they were herding dogs after all) up the stairs and nudge the ball at me until I threw it again…and again…and again.

Casey also danced. Yes, he really did. Tap dancing to be exact. It would be meal time, and we would be preparing the food bowls, Casey running back to Harrison over and over until that boy came sauntering in, and Casey would tap, tap, tap backwards on his front paws until we set the food bowl down. 30 seconds later, the food was gone.

There are so man more memories of Casey…and I’m sure this won’t be my last post on him. Part of healing is remembering the good times, remembering the times that made you laugh, that made you cry, that made you happy and whole. Casey made us whole. Casey’s memory will keep us whole.

The world around me kept moving. People were laughing with their friends, admiring art from the vendors, petting their dogs. A violinist was playing next to me. My head was swimming though, as I was looking desperately for the friends I came with, trying to comprehend that my 11-year old “brother” suddenly had to be put to sleep today because he could barely breathe from tumors that had clogged up his lungs.

A couple days ago, he was fine.

I’ve cried a lot today. I cried all the way home in the cab while on the phone with my mom, in denial that Casey boy won’t be there to greet me when I get home at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I cried on the phone to my boyfriend, to my best friend since 7th grade, to a colleague. I cried to myself in bed, clutching my stuffed animal Casey, the one that also doesn’t breathe like the real one no longer does.

And now, because I’m utterly at a loss of what else I should be doing, I’m writing. And crying as I write this. This is my way – I need to get it out of the way, so that I don’t have to pretend I’m happy and perky for a few days. So that whoever reads this just knows, and knows that I’m not going to be myself for a little while, because I just lost a huge part of me.

Anyone that knows me, knows how important my dogs are to me. If you’ve seen the dozen or more pictures pinned to my cube walls, if you’ve heard me talk about “The Boys.”  As an only child, they really have been my brothers through their 11 years. After losing my first dog Rocky, when I was 13, we got Harrison, a puppy, and then Casey a year later. They’re brothers.

Casey was always the more rambunctious one, but then again, he could be very mellow. We teased him about being bi-polar. We teased him because he was so small, clearly the runt of the litter. We teased him and called him Scarface because when he was chasing after tennis balls in the house, he would run into walls and doors and tables and keep on going – none of it fazing him. A year ago, he had multiple UTIs, and he bounced back each time. Last Thanksgiving, he had a problem with one of his vertebrae and after getting a steroid shot, was back to normal within hours, wanting to chase down the ball.

He was our Shadow. He used to follow me around the house everywhere I went. Then he followed my Dad everywhere- Dad was his favorite because he got a nice rub from him every night in the chair before bed – creating clumps of hair all over the hardwood floor.

He used to randomly run a lap around the rug, or the living room, and then just plop down on the floor, as if he had gotten whatever bug was out of him and it was no big deal. He would circle us in the laundry room while we prepared his food, and run back to Harrison ten times as if to say, “Why aren’t you coming?? Dinner is here!!”

He used to hate walking on the leash – we think because it made him remember when the breeders tried him out as a show dog – something he wasn’t into. Those old days also were what made him sometimes take huge roundabout turns to return a thrown toy to us – it was like he was doing a lap around the show ring.

We would time how long it took him to rip apart a new toy. It usually wasn’t more than five minutes. We would find stuffing all over the house. That wasn’t as bad as when he ate part of Mom’s leather purse, or Dad’s leather workout belt, or a baggie of protein pills.

He hated feet touching him. He would be curled up on a pillow (he always loved lying curled up on a pillow, so we called him Pillbug) on the couch, and if your legs came close, or dared touch him, he would shoot off the couch like an explosion.

He loved taking naps with us. PST, we call it when we nap with the boys- Puppy Snuggle Time. Casey would always find the crook of your legs to lay behind and rest his chin on your body.

Casey. Boo boo. Ceeter Cotter Casey Cookie. Casey Basey. He’s now gone, so suddenly that I didn’t get to say goodbye. All dogs do go to heaven, as the movie title suggests- and I firmly believe that he is up there now with Rocky, tearing up toys to bits, spreading the fluff all over the floor, chasing tennis balls a million times over, and laying on his back with his legs in the air, content as ever.

Now, instead of asking my parents to give the Boys a hug, or how they are – that won’t work. Harrison is the only one. When I walk into the door in November, I know it will all hit me again, and right now I haven’t even accepted that he is gone. For now though, I know he is happy. He isn’t in pain, and he went knowing we loved him very much.

Goodbye, brother.