It has been twenty-one months since my pup Ted died. He was only nine years old. After several months dragging his left paw along on walks, and after multiple tests by veterinarians, it was discovered in June that he had a tumor growing on his spine; it was inoperable and terminal. We watched Ted struggle over the summer, losing his ability to walk on all fours; as the cancer forced his left leg to curl up, it became completely unusable. He never lost his will to live, his desire for food, for petting, for love. In November I had to take him to the vet and let him die in my arms. The pain of that day, of watching my baby die, is still with me.

I adopted my first dog when I was 13 years old and have had six others since then. As I aged and experienced the lives of my dogs, I realized that they were changing me. I was beginning to see just how intelligent, how loving, how wonderful they are, and how their lives seem just as significant as any life, even my own.

Ted taught me this lesson, about the value and wonder of life. His big eyes would penetrate through me, staring at me, taking me in, in complete loyalty, complete love. The loyalty and love were reciprocal, of the same level, one for the other.

Teddy

He had such a distinct personality. He was vivacious, full of enthusiasm, jumping up and down for his food, excited to go outside. He loved to play chase games. He would run and run and go to a spot, like in tag, where he was safe. Then he would jump off the safe space and zoom around—he had the “zoomies,” we said. He loved his familiar places, his special spots, to lie and rest or sleep. He was a prodigious jumper for such a small dog. He was a mix, part chihuahua, part pit, and many other parts, about 30 pounds, a foot and a half off the ground. He had small, chubby legs—not chubby really, more muscular; he was a powerful little dog. His fur was incredibly soft, like velvet, and a golden brown. He had little ears, a little snout, and big brown almonds for eyes.

I knew he was special, unique, a gift from God. God does this to us, creates these wonderful beings that surround us, flying about, swimming about, crawling about, running about. There are billions and billions of these wonderful creatures, and humans are no better, no worse, just life, like these creatures that inhabit our Earth. Some of these creatures we really get to know, to find out what is unique and special about them. This is the blessing of pets, that we get to know them, know another being like yet different from ourselves. And it opens up worlds for us, to see these other creatures, to experience them, to know them, to love them. For knowledge is love. But with love comes an end, at least on this Earth, so dominated by time. And love, relationships, at least physically, will come to an end. Death intervenes, comes about in time. But is it the end? Something tells me that Ted still exists, that he has a spirit, a soul, just like my own, and that he and I are going to the same place after death, where all life goes, and there we experience another form of existence, though it is still, like our existence on Earth, dominated by Love.

Buzzy

There are others like Ted. His twin brother, Buzzy, is still with me. But I know it will end, this relationship, probably in his death first, and the pain will reoccur, the pain of loss. And I will struggle to bridge the gap of pain and loss, even though I know love is still there, and existence is still there. This faith I have in existence, in love, in the origin and sum of existence and love, that is God, helps me to bridge that gap being having and not having, between physical love and loss, with just knowing that these other creatures, humans and animals, still exist, and I can still love them, reach them, and I will in time. Such will be the reward of my own passing.