Time to Tell the Story

This is a piece I always knew I would have to write eventually, and for the past two weeks or so it has been so much on my mind that I know that now is the time. If I don’t write it, it will just keep rattling around in my head and bother me. It’s not funny, but as a dog-person, it’s important; other dog people will completely understand.

There is no way to tell the story of my Ripley in a short essay, but I’ll try to condense it as much as I can without losing the essence of it. Still, this will be a very long edition of Fermented Fur. Recent events and emotions are creating a turning point for me, and I’m still trying to make sense of it.

Flashback to 1994. We were living in Indianapolis, and had three cocker spaniels. Each of them was a great dog in his or her own way, but I’d realized that cockers simply weren’t “my” breed. I had been reading Susan Conant’s mystery series featuring Holly Winter and her malamutes, which introduced me to the idea of obedience training. I quickly determined that malamutes were not the breed for a novice obedience handler, due to their strongly independent personalities. Holly’s “other” breed, the one with which she had been raised, had been golden retrievers. Gentle, smart, willing, joyful… goldens were the breed for me.

The way that Ripley came to me was wrong in just about every way possible. Tom and The Boy gave him to me for Christmas. The “violations” were:
• It is generally a galactically bad idea for anyone to select a dog for someone else.
• Getting a puppy from a newspaper ad: also a bad idea.
• Getting a puppy from any “breeder” who doesn’t have a carefully-planned and well-established breeding program which involves at minimum genetic health screening of the parents is just plain stupid.
• Giving a puppy for a holiday present is beyond idiotic.
• I’d wanted a female, because in my still-uneducated brain I had decided that I would breed her.

Despite all this wrongness, it worked for one simple reason: Ripley was perfect. For me.

It was Christmas Eve. I knew something was up, and I had a pretty good idea what it was, thanks to my oldest cocker, Porsche. Tom and The Boy had been out somewhere, on a secret Christmas mission, and when they got back Porsche made a bee-line for The Boy and buried her nose in his sweatshirt. I could only think of one thing that would cause her to do that.

Tom sent me upstairs to soak in the tub, and told me to stay there till he called for me. He did, and I came downstairs and settled in the living room. A moment later, Tom walked into the room – carrying a golden retriever puppy wearing a tiny Santa hat. He placed the puppy in my arms, and that was it. I was smitten beyond words. Despite the efforts of the male members of the household to rig the name game (we were drawing names from my approved list out of a hat), I vetoed their preference of “Cody” (yeah, I know, Cody… Ragweed… Ironic now) and selected Ripley. His registered name became “Better Believe It’s Ripley.”

I don’t know how to describe the intense, immediate, lifelong bond between us, but Ripley and I were undoubtedly meant to be together. We were two halves of a whole, or the human/canine versions of the same soul.

Ripley was a shy puppy. We started obedience training as soon as he was old enough, and he spent the first few classes hiding under my chair. He was so intelligent, though, and wanted to please me, so he soon caught on and was among the best dogs in the class (other than that damned lab, Zipper, who totally blew the curve for every other dog present). At about 4 ½ months old, my instructor told me I needed to get his hips evaluated, because he had the tell-tale gait of hip dysplasia.

She was right. His hips were so bad that at six months he had bilateral hip shelf arthroplasty to create a ridge to help support his femur and allow him pain-free movement. We didn’t have the money, but somehow managed, and to this day it was the best $2000 I have ever spent. He healed, we continued training, and began entering obedience trials and matches. He never placed in the top three, but always achieved a qualifying score. We moved to Minnesota, and he finished his AKC Companion Dog obedience title the month after we got here.

Ripley, despite his reserved nature, was the Alpha of our canine pack from the beginning. No matter how many dogs we had, he was the leader, the caretaker, by virtue of his intelligence rather than his strength. Just by maneuvering himself into a situation or using something as subtle as a look or the posture of his tail, he kept things running smoothly. When Sprocket came to us, Ripley took care of him and protected him, never letting any other dog take advantage of Sprocket’s non-confrontational demeanor. I became very good at selecting the dogs who would join our family, knowing that they had to have a certain mellowness that would not challenge Ripley.

Ripley and Sprocket became certified Therapy Dogs, visiting hospitals and nursing homes on a regular basis. Despite his surgery, Ripley was pain-free, running, jumping, climbing and swimming, enjoying every moment.

Throughout all of this, he and I were inseparable. When we were together, he was never far from my side, and we were usually in physical contact. He would curl against my side, or he’d lie on the couch so I could rest one hand on him. If I withdrew my hand for any reason, he would raise his head and turn to look at me as if to say, “More touching, please. I don’t want you to go away.” I always obliged.

I could look into his beautiful cognac-colored eyes and see everything from myself to the entire Universe. I knew his every thought and feeling, and he knew mine. He could soothe any anguish, lighten any depression, make the world better again just by being at my side. I know he felt the same about me.

Ripley, Ripley-My-Love, Rippy-Dippy, Dippy-Dog, Dippy-Doodle, Doodle-Bug, Doodle, Lovey-Dovey, Love-Dove, Dovey… my “Heart Dog.” I loved this red-gold boy with all my heart. (Stop crying, Lor.)

In the fall of 2006, Ripley was approaching 12 years old. Other than his hip surgery, he had been totally healthy. He was perhaps slowing down a bit, and I was giving him joint support and monitoring his hindquarters carefully for signs of painful movement, but he was doing great. I refused to ever consider him more than 4 years old. He was going to be my 17 (or 38) year old dog, because the thought of losing him any time soon was far too painful to bear.

Then I noticed that he seemed to be panting more than usual, and I was concerned because this can be a sign of pain. I took him to work to reevaluate his hips in case there was something else I needed to be doing. X-rays didn’t show any overly-alarming joint problems – but his liver was a whole different story. The Dr. Vet-Friends sent me immediately to a nearby clinic for an ultrasound. They even paid for it. But the news was devastating. My boy had hemangiosarcoma.

“Hemangio” is among the most evil of cancers. It hides, growing, consuming blood-intensive organs. It is a cancer of the vascular system, and it is largely without symptoms until very late in the disease. The only clues are things like the panting (due to blood or other fluids leaking into the body cavity and compromising heart and lung function), or extreme weakness and pale mucous membranes from the blood loss. The tumors begin to spring leaks. If you are “lucky,” the dog has a significant enough bleed early on, alerting you to the problem. If the tumor is still confined to the spleen, that can be removed and there is some hope for a bit more time together. Ripley’s spleen did not seem to be involved, but his liver was a mess. His body cavity was full of fluid. He was bleeding to death. There was no treatment that could save him at this point in the disease.

We took him home, and set about doing everything possible for him. He didn’t want to eat, so we hand-fed him raw steak and rotisserie chicken. I even gave him steroids to help buy a few precious days. Just two days later, he was so weak he could barely rise, and I arranged for Dr. Vet-Friend One to come to the house the next morning and help release him from the body that could no longer support his beautiful spirit. I slept on the floor with him that night. In the morning, he got up with a lot more vitality, and we decided that wasn’t “the day” after all.

I know Ripley did this for me. He knew I wasn’t ready, hadn’t gotten to the point where I could somehow endure his passing. He tapped some hidden inner strength and stayed for me.

After that, we had nine more days together. (The picture below was taken during that precious time.) I spent every possible second with him. We would look into each other’s eyes, and I would hold his paw or rub his velvety ears, whispering softly to him about all the things we loved best. I took pictures, and watched him closely for signs that he was struggling too hard to stay.

Finally, on a Sunday morning, I knew. He had fought all that he could, and there would be no more reprieves. Tom called Dr. Vet-Friend One, and she was here within a half hour. In the living room, as I held him in my arms and looked into his gentle, wise eyes, we let him go. He was less than a month past his 12th birthday.

(STOP crying, Lor! Oh, even now, a year and a half later, I can’t bear it.)

He was my joy, my heart, my shining star, and I was left to drift aimlessly in the chill of his absence. I would do anything, anything, to have him with me again for one more hour. I dream about him all the time.

I had always said that I would never have another puppy as long as Ripley was alive. I knew I couldn’t give a puppy the complete attention and devotion that he deserved, because Ripley would always dominate my world. Once he was gone, in my grief, I started looking. Golden rescue had a precious little golden mix puppy. I named him Shaman, but it quickly became evident that he was not the dog for us. I was used to a gentle nature, and Shaman was far more assertive and dominant that I’d bargained for. He returned to rescue, and found the perfect home. A few weeks later, I discovered Brody, and he was the right one. He is a wonderful boy, helped fill the void in our pack, but was not in danger of usurping Ripley’s special place in my heart.

Which brings us to last November, a year after Ripley left us. I was once again checking out the golden rescue site, and one face demanded my attention. He reminded me so much of our Ruxpin, who had died suddenly of a massive staph infection just eight months earlier. Rux had been “Tom’s dog,” and I knew he was feeling that absence, and I thought this boy looked like a good match. Already long story somewhat less long… it was Darwin, and he joined our pack on November 21, 2007, at the ripe old age of three. I’ve told his story before, his years of neglect, and how things have been since he arrived, so I won’t repeat that. (You can thank me later.)

With the exception of Sprocket, all of our dogs have always ended up either being more “mine” or more “Tom’s.” Sprocket is the only one who is truly, equally both of ours. With his strong resemblance to Ruxpin (despite only being half his size), and the fact that Tom was ready for another Heart Dog and I didn’t believe I was, I had assumed that Darwin would be “his.”

Well, nobody got around to notifying Darwin of that. Perhaps even when Tom was choosing his name he was setting the stage. “Darwin” was the name I’d secretly been saving for “my” next dog.

As the months passed, I began feeling a unique connection with Darwin. He is so loveable and agreeable, anybody would love him. But to me, he began to feel extra-special. I can’t look at him without a silly smile spreading across my face. Even at his most naughty, I can’t find it in me to be angry with him. It isn’t the immediate, all-consuming bond I felt the instant Tom placed ho-ho-hat-wearing Ripley into my arms, but it’s very strong. I don’t know if it is at the Heart Dog level, but I’m learning that there is more than one kind of Heart Dog.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I reached some sort of turning point. I was lying on the bed with Darwin, snuggling and rubbing his ears and looking into his adorable teddy bear face – and I started crying.

In many ways, I have never let go of Ripley. I don’t know how to do it. And I don’t want to. I believe in the continued existence of our spirits after they depart the body. I don’t have specifics in mind, but I believe that in some way we endure, and in certain powerful circumstances I believe we can come back. I believed that Ripley would find a way back to me, and I probably still believe that. For people, it doesn’t do any good to come back, because by the time your spirit returned in infancy and grew to adulthood, the other soul you were seeking would be aged or seeking its own next existence. All you can hope is that the bond is strong enough that in some future life your souls will find each other again. But for a dog, it’s different. I figured that Ripley could return as soon as two months following his death. I thought that, in his wisdom, he would know to come back as a dog and not a person or any other life form, and that he would almost certainly once again be a golden retriever. (It is the highest rung on the spiritual evolution ladder, after all.) I imagined that in several months, or several years, he would find a way for our paths to cross again, and that we would know each other immediately. It might still happen.

Yet here is Darwin. He is not Ripley. Even if he weren’t already two years old when Ripley died, it would be obvious. The physical differences are considerable, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it. The personality, the behaviors, the expression in his eyes – they’re very different. He has a few mannerisms that are reminiscent of Ripley, but that’s not it. It’s a different sort of connection, but deep, and growing deeper day by day. There is a need to be near each other, but it doesn’t overwhelm. He is still happy to lie in his window or go off on his own, but we seem to revel in our closeness more than I’ve experienced with any dog other than Ripley.

So, why was I crying on Memorial Day weekend?

I think it was because my heart began to recognize and accept the closeness developing between me and Darwin, and for the first time since losing Ripley I finally began to let him go, just a little. And it hurt more than I can describe. I’ve held that hole in my heart open, refusing to let anything else fill any part of it, because to do so was to lose Ripley all over again. I barely survived it once; I couldn’t bear it again.

As I write, Ripley’s memory box, containing his ashes, collar, registration papers, and Santa hat, is less than two feet away. I feel a strong desire to hold it to my chest, weeping, pouring all my love and energy into that box, willing him back to me.

Yet, also, mere feet away, Darwin is napping. His paws are twitching with his dreams, and his brow is wrinkling with whatever perplexing thoughts those dreams are bringing. His compact, blond body and oversized paws don’t resemble Ripley’s lean, graceful red body, but there is something about his spirit that reaches me through my pain. If he is my new Heart Dog, he is of a completely different variety than my Ripley.

I’m just beginning to realize and accept that that is OK. I have to let another dog fully into my heart, and know that even though he might fill that emptiness, it doesn’t in any way erase one moment of my years with Ripley. I know all this in my head. I know it. But you can know something without question, and still not have that knowledge translate into what you feel in your heart.

But I know that, Heart Dog or not, Darwin is helping my heart to heal.