Can I still be a dog person even though I don't have a dog?
I shared my life with canines from age 5. That’s 63 years. They have always been a focus of my being. But on February 28, my husband, Paul, and I said goodbye to our 15-year-old lab/pitbull mix, Martha. She was not a large dog, but she left a huge empty space behind.
A home without dogs.
Ironically, we had adopted her as a puppy from the Kennebec Valley Humane Society in 2009, as a second dog. A precaution against being dogless in the future. In February 2007, our dog Jack had died suddenly. My grief was compounded by the fact that while he had once been part of a pack of three, he had, by 2007, become an only dog.
The house felt empty, despite the presence of four cats. I was, after all, a dog person. I missed my daily walks with Jack. We’d head out the door as soon as I got home from work. I cried as I cleared the driveway of snow—he had always stood by patiently, snowflakes dotting his black coat, as I’d shoveled.
I knew I needed a dog in my life but I couldn’t possibly go looking for one. I was too emotional, and it felt disrespectful to Jack.
Thankfully, by April of that year, a dog who needed a home, a beautiful chocolate lab, came into our lives. We called him Aquinnah, Quinn for short. When I look back at photographs of that time, I see how happy I was and how proud I was of him.
Martha attached herself to Quinn as soon as we brought her home in 2009 and they cuddled together daily (Martha usually stretched out on top of her big brother) until he passed in 2020.
We might have thought about getting another dog then, but the pandemic was raging. The felines were older too. One, Clara, was 18 and had kidney and thyroid diseases. Did we want to disrupt their lives?
Perhaps most importantly, Martha did not get along well with other dogs. She was once mobbed by two loose dogs as we walked on a beach. They terrified her. That incident seemed to set her against all other canines, save Quinn.
Her attitude was not a deal-breaker, though. We had boarded Quinn and Martha a few years before and kennel staff sent us home with the wrong chocolate lab, a Quinn look-alike. Martha acted slightly off on the ride home, but did not bark furiously at the stranger, as she would do if she encountered another pup on a neighborhood jaunt. (We quickly rectified the situation once we got home.)
I felt that if we brought home another dog and presented it as a fait accompli, she’d just go along with it.
But what if she didn’t?
Paul and I did not pursue the idea. Time passed, and Martha started showing signs of aging. I once again considered whether we should adopt, but now I worried how Martha would see the addition of another dog. It could give her a new energy for life. Or it could make her feel like we were planning to replace her.
Then, as Martha’s senior issues intensified last fall, I thought, “No more dogs.” It was heartbreaking to watch our exuberant, lovable, crazy girl go through the sorrows, discomforts and indignities of old age. I dreaded the day when we would have to let her go. I could not go through this process again.
Paul and I weren’t getting any younger, either. Would we want to be walking a dog in the ice and snow in 10 years?
Yet I knew Martha’s passing would leave a huge hole in our lives. We walked her every morning, weather permitting. Capitol Park was her absolute favorite venue. Then we’d take her through the neighborhood in the afternoon. We saw friends, neighbors, acquaintances on these walks. The sunrise. Whatever was happening with various people, squirrels and crows.
I would miss sleeping with Martha. Her habit for most of her life was to sleep at our feet, under the covers. In warmer weather, she’d overheat, extract herself, pant a little bit, and then get back under the comforter. What a pain she could be!
I knew I would miss taking care of Martha, though by the end I was drained and depressed. I wanted her to have the best life possible, for as long as possible, and was willing to do what it took.
A few weeks ago we spent a week at our longtime vacation rental. Martha had visited there with us for 15 years. For the first few days, I felt like I was ripping a bandage off a half-healed wound. I could see Martha (and Quinn, and Jack) lying on the bed, looking out the window at Penobscot Bay. I thought I heard her nails clacking on the laminate floors. Whenever we came back to the cottage from a day trip, I expected Martha to meet us at the door.
But by the end of the week, I was able to at least consider the future. Maybe next summer there will be a new dog vacationing with us. Maybe two.
I’m not sure yet. I have only concluded that once a dog person, always a dog person. Or something like that.
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