My life goes lacking

When I was twenty, I left everything I knew and moved to Florida. With only a few suitcases in hand, I struck out on my own, finding a home, a job, and a car within a month. My life became a struggle, often working long hours just to make ends meet. I always knew I wanted to get another dog, but I also knew the life I lived wasn't one that would be good for one so devoted to my every move. Instead, I found a wonderful cat to help fill my wanting heart. Cats, though needy, thrive well for hours on their own. And Dingo was quite a character. She didn't welcome me with a wagging tail, but she did seem very glad when I was at home.

For ten years, my life lacked that special love only given by a dog. Then everything suddenly changed. I had been seeing a man whose father had two dogs, Gizmo, a black miniature Poodle, and Tiki, a white "teacup" Poodle. (I use quotes because the poor little thing couldn't fit into the largest latte mug you could find.) I never really liked Gizmo because he was the canine version of a crotchety old man, always growling if I tried to pet him. Tiki, on the other hand, was the typical loving pooch. Tragically, my boyfriend's father died suddenly in his sleep. We went there to help the authorities enter the house and had to carry both dogs out to the car. They both had been barking hysterically inside, so I sat with them in my car while my boyfriend spoke with the police and EMTs. While we waited for the coroner to come, Tiki slowly calmed down and sat in my lap; however, Gizmo was inconsolable. He continued to bark and pace around the car. We had no choice but to take the dogs. As I said, I wasn't a big fan of Gizmo, yet I did everything I could to make both of them feel at home. It was obvious they had been traumatized by that night. 

Tiki was eight years old and Gizmo was ten when they moved in. It was obvious that he was losing his sight and I think that may have been one of the reasons why he tended to growl. He was reacting to things he couldn't see clearly. Almost immediately, he became completely attached to me and I quickly fell head over heels for him as well. If I was sitting on the couch, I had to take care when putting my feet on the floor, making sure I didn't step on him. If I went into the kitchen, even if I tried to sneak past him, he would quickly realize I had moved and find me. And he always went to bed when I did, crawling under the covers and falling asleep by my feet. He would slowly work his way up, placing his head next to mine on the pillow. Though he had stopped growling at me, if I tried to pet him when he was laying in bed with me, that familiar low, rumble would come out again. Don't bother that old man when he was trying to sleep. My boyfriend told me that when I took my annual trip home to visit family, Gizmo would never sleep in the bed. He said he wouldn't even sleep through the night, getting up frequently to look for me. 

Gizmo lived for almost eight years, passing away at the ripe old age of 18. By that time, he was completely blind and had lost all his hearing. He still had some sense of smell and was very aware if I got up and left him by the couch, though it did take a little longer for him to realize it and for him to find me. In the end, his body gave out, suffering from grand mal seizures. I was with him, alongside my boyfriend, as we sad goodbye. For all his moodiness, he was ma bookie, Huttese for 'my boy' (Yes, I am a Star Wars geek) and he will always have a huge part of my heart. He was my first 'difficult' dog. Little did I know he was a breeze.

My first love(s)

I have loved dogs all my life. My childhood was filled with several different four-legged friends. The first was an all-American mutt named Jiff. I don't remember much about him except that he had a second home he would run to every time he got loose. As soon as we noticed he was gone, we would call the nice old woman who lived there and warn her to keep an eye out for him. When he inevitably showed up, she would let us know. Our next dog was Maggie, a Golden Retriever bought for my oldest sister. She became one of my closest friends. I remember working with her on her obedience 'homework' and playing for hours in the snow. She had free rein to roam around our property and once she brought my sisters and I a gift, a tiny newborn rabbit, so young it didn't have any fur. She had tried to be gentle, but you could see in her eyes that she knew it was hurt. Those eyes pleaded with us to help; however, there was nothing we could do. She had an odd appetite that included barbie dolls, fiberglass insulation, and tulip bulbs. One Easter Sunday, she devoured the contents of both my sister's baskets, including the fake grass. She was a devoted and loving dog.

The next was Catie, a Scottie Terrier mix who was slightly aloof, but always loads of fun to chase around the yard. 

Then there was Kiska, the first dog officially known as my dog. The only dog we owned who had papers, her full name was Kamchatka's Princess Kiska. She was a beautiful silver color with one brown eye and one blue. She was the closest friend I had, lending a never-ending ear, listening to all my teenage angst and worries while we took long walks through the woods. When I started college, my mother moved from the country home where I grew up to a house in the city. Because I wasn't going to be around much and because my mother felt it wouldn't be fair to take her from a large yard to the small lot houses in town sit on, we made the difficult decision to find her a new family. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I know in my heart it was the best decision for her and I think we found a good home for her. 
A few years later, I moved over 1200 miles away to Florida and my life was void of the devotion only a dog can give. It would be ten years before that empty spot would be filled and it would be the first time my stereotypical view of dogs would be challenged.