Real Simple Magazine Essay Contest Entry

The Meaning of Love

by Tasha Schlake Festel

She is snoring sweetly on the couch next to me, her head on my lap, finally settled after a stressful evening of trying to walk without falling, getting stuck - again - under the dining room table or slipping down the stone stairs leading to the swingset. It was a tough day, another in a string, where I responded to her cries for rescue, never knowing what she had  gotten herself into this time. I repress the guilty feeling of resentment for the demands her presence makes on my time, my body and my emotions. I am exhausted, as I am sure she is, by the emotional and physical toll this has taken, so much more than I had ever anticipated.

Despite the exhaustion and resentment, I look at her trusting face and feel her warm breath and love washes over me. I am overcome to the point of tears, realizing the full scope of my affection for her. This is not what I expected. It's complete, innocent, pure. It is the very definition of love.

It's easy to love a puppy. It's like loving pizza, chocolate, a beautiful sunset or a man that does laundry. Who could resist the nearly intolerable cuteness? The oversized feet and lack of coordination? The sweet puppy smell? The way they play hard until they pass out? They are sweetness and innocence wrapped in fluffy fur. Who could resist falling in love?

And 14 years later, I am still falling in love with Jaz. I do it every morning when I see her chest moving up and down with each breath, thankful that she made it through another night. I do it again when I gently wake her and she looks up at me, confused at first and then lovingly as her surprise turns to softness. And I do it all over again when I carry her 75-pound frail body down the stairs so she doesn’t fall, still stiff from sleeping soundly on her far-too-comfy memory-foam dog bed. I fall in love with her countless times throughout the day, as I respond to her needs the way she has always done for me.

We've been through a lot together since I picked Jaz from the wriggling mass of soft gray feet, bellies and ears in the straw at the breeder's barn. She has been there for me through happiness, dark times, sickness and stress. She has never judged. She has always been the strong and silent one whose constant presence has calmed me and allowed me to survive.

I could have grown a human in the time it took me to housebreak this dog. For nine months, Jaz would run into the living room, make eye contact with me, and then pee on the shag carpet, soaking it, endearing us to the landlord, no doubt. Oh, how she used to piss me off. It was a test of wills and she was my first real match. I’ve always easily out-stubborned anyone I’ve ever known.

Her stubborn desire to get whatever she wants is impressive. One day, Jaz sniffed out a fresh carnitas burrito, filled with rice, sour cream, pico and guac. Right there. On the coffee table. Unattended. What goal-oriented and determined girl could resist that little piece of heaven wrapped in a tortilla, wrapped in foil, tucked neatly into a white paper bag? The attainment and immediate consumption of the goal pleased her to no end, at least until the intestinal distress kicked in. But the minor discomfort was clearly worth it. Her furiously wiggling nub of a tail and the smell of cilantro on her breath spoke volumes.

Somehow we survived puppyhood, inseparably bonded, shell-shocked from the experience.  I loved her in spite of and because of her behavior. What didn’t kill us, made us stronger. She tolerated the addition of my boyfriend, who became my live-in, who became my husband. She tolerated another puppy, who turned in to an annoyance, who tuned in to a playmate. She tolerated the apartment, then the starter house, then the money-pit fixer-upper. She tolerated the addition of a daughter, then a son, then playgroups loaded with easy targets carrying snacks, conveniently at eye level. She stoically tolerated all of it. Through it, she was constant. She was solid, my rock, my dogged companion.

When she was about three years old, I decided we should start running. Together, of course. As someone who had previously only run if being chased, I was a novice. I thought I would need my hands free – no, I do not know why – so I got a leash that went conveniently around my waist. I laced up my sneakers, strapped on the leash, clipped it to Jaz, and off we went, hitting the sidewalks of our sleepy seaside town. I enjoyed the fresh salty air, and judging by the speed of her quivering nostrils, Jaz did too. We had gone about a mile at a manageable pace, when suddenly a squirrel appeared in front of us and took off up the sidewalk in a blur. I have never run so fast in my life. Jaz and I chased that squirrel for a half a block, while I pulled back on the leash, yelling, “Nooooooooooo!” I was no match for the combination of power, hunting instincts and inertia in that crazy Weimaraner. I was never so happy to see a squirrel run up a tree as I was that sunny morning.

Always by my side, never questioning and forever understanding, she has patiently waited for it to be her time again, when my life would revolve around her as it did when she was a puppy. When her needs would be paramount in my day-to-day existence. When it would be just us again.

Jaz went through a time of self-soothing, when I was too preoccupied with being the mother of two humans to also be the doting mother of a canine. She used to cuddle with her faux sheepskin gingerbread man, “Buddy,” who was approximately the size of a newborn baby. She would drag him around, tripping over his bulk, eventually settling to hold him in her paws and resting her head on him until she fell asleep. She knew I couldn’t comfort her, crazed with the responsibilities of my too-busy life. She was there for me, again, by giving me space.

We've now come full circle. What started as a naughty puppy I couldn’t help but love has turned in to a needy, elderly dog who I can only love. Gone are the days of chasing the ball, long walks and housefuls of children using her as the patient in their game of doctor. And as I did when she was a puppy, I find myself loving her in spite of and because of her behavior.

Six months ago the depth of my love for her became clear. I heard a funny noise from the playroom where I found her in the early stages of a Grand Mal seizure that would last for twelve minutes, an eternity. I didn’t know then that this event would be the first step in a steep decline. What I did know then was that I could not say goodbye to her yet. I wasn’t done. I hadn’t yet given enough back to her for the 14 years of devotion she had given me.

Now completely deaf and partially senile, she’s a ghost of who she was, but I love her more every day. I can see that trouble-making puppy in her eyes. I see the toughness that once allowed her to best a Rottweiler in the Rottie’s own yard. I can tell she’s still in there, still my rock. She is my heart and I am her center. She completes me. I don’t know who I am without her.

She is not the proud, strong, noble presence that she once was. She is frail, weak, needy. Awkward and unsettled. For her entire life, I have been the center of her world, but age and dementia have made her world smaller. Now I am its entirety. There is no happy ending. Heartbreak is on the horizon. Things will not get better.

I’ve spent the last six months taking care of her, tending to her every demanding need, trying to make up for her lifetime of devoted service to me. I’ll never be ready to let her go, but I think she finally understands what she means to me because I finally understand.

It’s been said that the only problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. The fact that puppies grow up to be dogs is not the problem. The problem is that they steal your heart and then die too young. The 14 years I’ve had with Jaz is about 100 years too few.