“And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old—or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give.”
― Mary Oliver, Dog Songs: Poems

Edgar came into our lives almost a decade ago.  There he was, standing in the center lane of 16th Street, already busy with early morning commuters. We had just left the gym of all places when my daughter spotted him, alerting me to that fact by screaming at me to stop the traffic, jumping out, and flailing wildly at a car which she successfully brought to a momentary standstill. Within seconds, she had scooped up the tiny Chihuahua trembling in the widening beam of the headlights before him, named him Edgar – an homage to Mr. Poe. Shortly thereafter she announced on Facebook that “He’s 50% tremble, 50% snuggle” … and also that he would be moving in with us.

In spite of having run several miles on a treadmill, I had not yet had my first cup of coffee and was neither alert nor ready for work let alone a Chihuahua. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was planning to post a few “Found Dog” signs around the neighborhood, confident that by the end of the day “Edgar” would be back where he belonged, answering to a name someone else had given him.

Sophie almost convinced me to let her stay home from school to be with “her” new dog. Shaking and scared, Edgar was submissive and very sweet, his little ribs as noticeable as the heart shaped markings on his coat. Without saying it out loud, I knew Sophie also knew that based on our experience with Molly the Greyhound, a dog was probably not in the cards.

On the heels of a spectacular crisis in my professional life, we had just weeks earlier visited the Arizona Greyhound Rescue and brought home a beautiful brindle. Elegant and affectionate, it seemed Molly knew how to be retired. She wanted to lounge around the house all day eating Lays potato chips – but she did not want to do it alone. She needed a companion. She needed more space.

Within a week or two, we had found out that another family was waiting for Molly – with another greyhound and someone at home all day long. It was a  better place, a “forever home.” It was also heartbreaking. Life with Molly – although brief – had sealed the deal as far as future pets were concerned. We would remain a one-cat family.

No dogs.

No fostering.

No rescuing.

No more dogs.

No way.

But there were tell-tale signs that Edgar was finding a way into my husband’s heart. “Surely someone is missing this little guy terribly,” he said, slipping out to Safeway for dog food and treats. He drove slowly around our neighborhood, posting “Found Dog” signs next to  “Lost Dog” notices on lampposts, hoping he would make some family’s day by returning their dog. He scoured Craigslist to see if someone in central Phoenix had lost the cute little Chihuahua that liked belly rubs. The next day, he took Edgar to the Humane Society where they checked for a microchip.

No chip. No collar. No clue that he belonged to someone.

They estimated Edgar at about seven years old. He hadn’t been neutered or cared for. Malnourished and dirty with ghastly breath and worse teeth, Edgar weighed three pounds – less than a bag of sugar.

It soon became clear that nobody was looking for him. In spite of having four perfectly good legs, he expected to be carried everywhere and dutifully, we obliged. All of us. He gained weight. He stopped trembling. He slept on Sophie’s chest every night, his heart beating against hers. He scampered towards us when we called “Edgar.” We were besotted, as poet Mary Oliver writes,

Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Edgar was ours.

One gloomy Friday afternoon about a month later,  my daughter and I were in Northern Ireland visiting my parents. I had been keeping my fingers crossed that a friend would come through with tickets for Van Morrison’s concert in Belfast after being granted the Freedom of the City. But I was  distracted – repeatedly – by thoughts of foreboding, by the unexpected sound of my voice when my phone-calls to Arizona went straight to voice-mail. Worried, I did what I always do when I have “a bad feeling.” I sent a text to my best friend and asked she would drive to my house – just to check.

Yes, I have a flair for the dramatic and, conventional wisdom be damned, I always sweat the small stuff, finding the devil in the tiniest of details. I make mountains out of molehills which sometimes works. And sometimes I might produce a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But this? This would be one of the most significant details of my adult life, wrapped up in a text that travelled across several time zones from the little village where my parents live to Chandler, Arizona at 12:25PM Mountain Standard Time:

“Trying to be calm, but afraid he is hurt or dead.” 

I stayed on the phone as she got out of her car and walked to my front door. I held on as she looked through the bay window to see little Edgar looking back at her, still and silent.  I held on as she discovered my keys under the doormat, as she came on in to our cheery living room with its sunny yellow walls. I held on as she called my husband’s name. Once, twice, three times before finding his lifeless body on the bed. I held on, hoping with her that he was just resting but knowing – knowing – he was gone.

Gone. 

What I remember more than the anguish of those moments, was the bright reassurance that as his fragile heart stopped working, his last interaction on this earth was one of tenderness, three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.

For a long time afterwards, Sophie  told me that every day without her dad began not with sorrow and dread, but with Edgar licking her face and making her smile. He was always ready to walk –or be carried – into the world with her. He was always ready for her.

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