There is nothing like the love of a good dog. Like so many things in life, you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. A year ago I lost my 9-year-old English Labrador, Charlie. She passed suddenly (in a matter of hours) when a mass ruptured internally. Charlie was a Seeing Eye dog school dropout. Although she was exceptionally smart, she had some issues she could not overcome, like a fear of stairs and startle barking for no apparent reason. Her mother, Kelly, belonged to my friend, Darcy Falk. She was a full-wagging, smiling, gentle and happy dog that was a breeder for Canine Copilots. When I found out that one of Kelly’s puppies was not going to complete the training, I adopted her at once.
At the time I did not realize how much I needed an assistance dog. The day she came into my life marked the beginning of a whole new way of seeing the world, and opened my heart in ways that I never imagined possible. I’ve heard people gush about how they never knew unconditional love until they had a child. For me, this is also true with having a dog. When I see how my family and friends with teenagers suffer, and I remember how poorly I treated my own parents at that age, I know I was meant to be a dog mom.
Charlie was adorable. She had a big, square head, a barrel chest and expressive, velvety ears. Her eyes were brimming with liquid kindness. She communicated with persistent snorting, heavy sighing and full-body wagging. She was a fast learner—what you might call book smart. But she lacked street smarts. Charlie was a nerd who had been in school most of her life so she didn’t really know how to be a dog. She was enthusiastic about people and other dogs but socially awkward. Because she was cute in that classic wagging and smiling Labrador way, people would try to pet her and she would dodge their affection.
Charlie knew she didn’t want to be a professional assistance dog, but she was perfect for my special needs. Dogs need daily walks around the neighborhood, and it turns out so do people, because every day is new. Charlie sniffed the same bush and each day it seemed to carry a different message—some days necessitated a longer pause than others, as if she was decoding life’s secrets. We were well-matched for our strengths and weaknesses. I taught Charlie how to be a dog—to play and take adventures just for the sheer joy of it, and accept hugs. She taught me how to be a better human—to be present, to stop and smell the flowers, and to be compassionate.
Charlie was not athletic, but she liked to stroll. When I started training for a half marathon I tried to drag her along and it was terrible for everyone involved. She was a delicate flower that wilted in the heat. Despite being overtly sweet and easygoing, she had a very strong will, and was quiet and steady in her defiance. I had to let go of my expectations that I would have an athletic dog that liked extreme adventures. It was better for both of us when I stopped being a soccer mom and accepted that my dog really just wanted to relax and watch the world from the porch.
Charlie’s short and stocky body type summoned unsolicited comments from people like, “She doesn’t look like she ever misses a meal.” There is no doubt she enjoyed her kibble. She celebrated breakfast and dinner by spinning casually in a circle upon approaching the house on our way back from a walk. Once she heard the sound of kibble clanging into her metal bowl, which warranted more spinning in rapid circles. So much spinning for joy!
Charlie was very musical. She loved to sing. When guitars came out she would situate herself in the midst of it, and when the harmonica solo came, she took a howling break right along, throwing her head back, eyes closed with a whole-hearted, unabashed effort, sometimes not even aware that everyone had stopped playing and was watching her performance. She placed herself front and center for band practice and open mic at Mia’s Lounge and Hops on Birch, and I really felt like she watched our sets.
With Charlie as my copilot, a steady presence in my day-to-day, I was never alone. When my sister was hospitalized after a nervous breakdown, Charlie was by my side for support while we navigated our fractured mental health system. She was steadfast, keeping watch during my sister’s recovery in her kind, compassionate way. Charlie was my constant companion when I lived by myself at a remote ranch in Marble Canyon for a month. When I was scared, lonely and needing comfort, she was there. When you are somebody’s human, there is nothing like that kind of devotion.
I miss her rendition of downward facing dog, and hearing the jingle of her collar in the morning as she shakes out a night’s sleep. I miss the thumping of her strong and expressive tail against the floor, signaling that she is excited about something. It calmed me just to hear her breathing in the night, especially when my marriage ended and I lived alone. I miss her daily greeting of ecstatic wagging that encompasses the whole torso and tail thwapping that could take down a table lamp.
My life will never be the same without Charlie. She taught me to smile and wag through my worries. When I’m sad, I conjure her noble, compassionate forehead and I try to remember how soothing it felt to stroke it. I feel the softness of her ears and remember her deep, brown eyes brimming with understanding. Those eyes absorbed my sadness, my joy, my rage, my love. Without her there is a missing piece, one that I will not be able to replace. I don’t think I will ever recover from losing her. I am grateful for the time we did have together, the many adventures we shared and the fears we helped each other overcome. I am grateful for the walking and thinking we shared and the daily reminder to be present. I am forever different because of her unconditional love and belief in me. There are days I regret not being more patient, kinder, especially in her last hours. You never know when the end will come, yet another reminder to be present and to appreciate every moment.
