The summer after 8th grade, my dog, Stormy, passed away with no warning at all. She suddenly fell very ill one day, and we took her into the veterinarian for what we hoped was a routine visit. Unfortunately, the vet discovered something much more serious that had spread very rapidly. He advised us to put her to sleep so she wouldn’t have to suffer. I was beyond heart broken. I bawled my eyes out, I wouldn’t eat much, and I could barely sleep in the days immediately following her passing. Stormy was such an amazing dog, and she had been a huge part of my childhood. She was loyal, protective, playful, comically plump, and loving (among many other positive adjectives). I was sure that I could never love another dog as much as her.
Many months passed since we lost Stormy, and I still had absolutely no desire to try to find another dog and fill her void. However, my mom had been thinking otherwise. My brother, Dave, and his family had recently visited the Humane Society and took notice of a young puppy. He called my mom and told her she needed to give this little mutt a look.
After visiting the little pup with my brother, my mom decided it was time to approach me about possibly getting a new companion. She, being the great mother she is, knew that it was still a very sensitive subject for me. My heart still ached for my boyhood dog, and she would understand if I wasn’t ready to move on just yet. But, there was something about this little dog. Something that made her decide she needed to at least give it a shot. Some mom 6th sense that said this furry little creature may be the perfect fit for us.
She told me about the dog, and I reluctantly agreed to go visit her at the Humane Society. I was nervous about going and actually felt pretty guilty. It hadn’t even been a full year, and here I was going to look at a new dog. What kind of loyalty was that to my beloved Stormy? I felt like a selfish jerk.
When we finally arrived at the shelter, I took a deep breath and walked through the door. Seeing all the animals made me think of Stormy, and I was sad all over again. Nevertheless, I pushed on. “Let’s see this dog, pet it for a bit, and go home,” I thought to myself. A shelter volunteer led us to a small room where we waited for her to retrieve the dog from her kennel. After a few moments, I saw the door begin to crack open. The shelter volunteer had returned, but she was not alone. In her arms, she held a small, fluffy, jet-black little mutt. She said, “This is Liza,” and gently set her down on the floor. The puppy, Liza, immediately started playfully running around the room. I could feel a small smile creeping across my face, and I knelt down on the floor to get a better look and pet her fluffy fur coat. Now, the feeling of guilt was still there, but there was another feeling there too. A warm feeling that slowly wrapped itself around my heart.
After playing with Liza for a little while, the volunteer returned to take the puppy back to her kennel. We said goodbye to Liza and thanked the volunteer for her help.
On the car ride home, my mom asked what I thought. I don’t recall my exact response, but I believe it was a mix between excitement and reservation. After all, she was an adorable little puppy, and she gave a loving feeling that I hadn’t felt since I last saw Stormy. On the other hand, I still felt the guilt. I talked to my mom about that guilt, and she helped me understand that I didn’t have to feel that way. She told me that Stormy knows I loved her, and that I will always have a special place in my heart for the memories we shared together. And she told me that Stormy loved me too, and the last thing she would want me to do was be sad. Stormy would want me to be happy, and if that meant welcoming a new dog into the family, then that was okay. It definitely helped to hear her say that. Ultimately, I told her that I was fine with whatever she decided to do about adopting Liza.
The very next day, I was walking to my mom’s van after baseball practice (She had to pick me up because I couldn’t drive yet. Not because I was some huge nerd). As I approached my mom’s van, I saw her open the car door. I could see my mom’s two feet beneath the door as she stepped out. She then paused for a second. And then I saw four more small feet touch the ground. Four furry little, jet-black feet. My mom adopted Liza. I would be lying if I said that seeing the little mutt didn’t excite me.
The three of us piled into the van and drove home to meet my dad. After my mom, dad, and I played with Liza for a long while, we put her on a little bed in the laundry room so she could take a nap (We kept her in the laundry room for a little while we potty trained her). It didn’t take long before I was anxious to see her again, so I crept back into her makeshift bedroom so I could spend some time alone with her. When she saw me walk in, she got out of her bed, plopped down on her belly, and in quite possibly the most adorable way possible, crawled over to me. I looked down at her, smiled from ear to ear, and felt that warmness wrap around my heart again. It was at this very moment that I realized it was okay to love her.
And love her we did.
During the course of Liza’s thirteen and a half years on this earth, she provided love, entertainment, and joy to all that met her (Except for some of our neighbors, but they’re d*cks).
She was most certainly an interesting and interesting looking dog. She was possibly the mutt-iest mutt that ever lived. We still don’t know what the heck breeds she had in her. We think there was some terrier, lab, and chow mixed in there somewhere. She had jet-black fur when she was a puppy, but it grayed out when she became full grown. That was probably for the best that it lightened up, since we couldn’t see her at first when we let her outside to use the bathroom at night. Her fur was also very long and fluffy. It would often cover her eyes, and I had no idea how she could ever see anything. When I would see that she was blinded by her face fur, I would brush it out of the way with my hand, and she would look up and give me a big ol’ dog smile.
When we first brought her home, we thought something might be wrong with her. We probably didn’t hear her bark for damn near two weeks. We would even try to encourage her by barking ourselves. She would just sit there and look at us like we were idiots. Finally, she started barking. And from then on, we couldn’t get her to shut up.
Liza’s one flaw was that she was overly possessive. If we ever gave her a new toy or bone (or if she stole one from the neighbors), she would growl and bare her teeth at anyone who got within ten feet of her. She would do this around her food bowl too. Heck, she even bit me one time when I was trying to train her not to behave that way. I was pretty angry with her for quite some time afterwards and tried several more times to teach her not to act like that. Finally, I just accepted it. She was an amazingly loving dog, but when it came to new toys and her food bowl, this bitch was crazy.
Even though she would get grumpy with new toys, she would finally cool off and let people play with her. She absolutely loved playing fetch. And when I say “fetch,” I mean I would throw a ball, she would go get it, and then go somewhere else and chew on it until I came over to her and threw it again. She sure did love playing with her ball. Right up to the very end, she would run after a thrown ball with the vigor of a puppy.
Another thing Liza loved was the snow. When a fresh blanket would cover the ground in the winter months, she would charge out the door and roll around in it for as long as we would let her. Even as her age slowed her down, the snow would always re-energize her like the fountain of youth. It brought a smile to my face watching her enjoy it.
There’s about a million other things I could say about Liza. She was a great dog. Without fail, she always made me feel loved. Throughout the years, whenever I would come home and walk through the door, she was there to eagerly greet me with an avalanche of kisses. She would whine and jump until I sat down on the floor with her and scratched her big ol’ belly. It didn’t matter if I’d been gone for two hours or two months, she would always give me the same greeting. No matter what, I always knew I had a friend. I always knew I had someone who loved me. I always knew I would have my furry little Liza there for me.
I am so thankful that my mom brought her home that day. I am so thankful that I could have her in my life for so many years and have her tied to so many great memories. I am thankful that I could spend time with her and say goodbye before she passed. I am so thankful that I could find another dog to love and love so well. Liza wasn’t a pet. Liza was family. I will miss her and remember her fondly for the rest of my life.
Rest in peace, girl. I love you!