We Brought Him Home Wrapped in a Blue Blanket: Teddy

We brought him home wrapped in a blue blanket. He was soft and warm; a squirming, wiggly little two-pound puppy we named Teddy. He joined our older dog, who instantly took to him as if he were her own. She kept him in line, giving him a gentle nip or batting him softly with her paw when he played too roughly. She potty trained him much faster than we could have done on our own. They were inseparable, even sharing the same dog bed when she was in her last year and was unable to move around comfortably and spent most of her time there. Teddy lived four years longer than she did, succumbing at 16 this week.

For the past twenty years, I have lived with dogs. I walked dogs in the rain and snow, cleaned up messes, bought food, and paid vet bills. For twenty years I climbed out of bed before the alarm to prepare bowls of food and open the back door, then rushed straight home from work to do it again.

For twenty years, I had constant companions who wanted nothing more than my presence or a ride in the car. They didn’t care if I wore makeup or fixed my hair. They didn’t care if my writing was any good, or if anyone loved me.

But suddenly, the dog who woke me without fail every morning with a soft whine and a jingle of his collar, whose little face watched for me every evening at the window to return home from work, could no longer easily lift his head.

For seventeen years, Teddy had followed me from room to room. He had, without fail, given me affection, obedience, humor, joy, and companionship. But this week his back legs no longer reliably held him upright. He alternated between sleeping and standing uncomfortably. He paced and panted. He couldn’t tell me what was wrong.

The big brown eyes that had watched my every move now seemed consumed with fear and suffering.

I cleared my schedule. I spent days lying on my bed next to him. He slept, rarely opening his eyes. When he grew restless, I carried him outside to the backyard and back. I cooked a chicken and tried to tempt him to eat out of my hand. But he refused first food, and eventually water.

I cried. I talked to him. I patted him gently and told him how much I loved him.

But at three am on Thursday, the facts were undeniable.

At 8 am, I called the vet.

“It’s time,” I said.

I hung up the phone and wept.

For seventeen years he had followed me from room to room. This week I followed him.

Certainly, I had given Teddy many things: reliable care, affection, a safe home, regular meals, time, and attention. He had given me loyalty, affection, trust, humor, companionship, forgiveness, and comfort, and purpose. Those elements are a given in the equation between a dog and her owner.

But the real gift he gave me became clear this week, and it was one I never even saw coming. This, of all weeks, should have been the most unequal of our seventeen years. He needed everything. He could give me nothing. And yet…

Teddy looked at me and I knew where I needed to be. This week, yoga class didn’t matter. Nor did the dentist, or that package that needed to get to the post office. That could wait.

In his most helpless week, he asked the most of me. He needed me to stay when staying was hard, and to act when acting broke my heart. I would not have known I could do both.

He gave me that.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.