Wisdom from the Trenches

I wanted a dog; I never wanted a puppy. I didn’t want to deal with the mess of potty training a puppy AND young children at the same time. In 2009, I was searching for the dog I wanted and finding many potentials. But, as these things often happen, the pet you most need at that moment finds you – not the other way around. And so it was with the little black ball of fur I saw on Facebook…

One of my Facebook friends liked a photo of their friend’s new litter of labs. Thanks to Facebook’s algorithm or privacy settings or maybe it was coincidence or God, it popped up in my newsfeed. These are the random acts of chance that led to me have a frank conversation with myself at eleven o’clock at night on the couch. “You don’t want a puppy,” I sensibly reminded myself. “They are cute, but puppies are always cute – and a lot of work.” I methodically went through every reason why I could not get one, why I did not want one – and then I went upstairs, woke up my husband, and asked him to buy me a puppy.

Hudson was incredibly intelligent – which was both a blessing and a curse. While he could learn tricks and commands in a pinch, he was nearly always bored if not being run, and so, he frequently got into trouble. He feasted upon sticks of butter, leaving wrappers perfectly intact and licked clean on the back of the kitchen counter. A box of crayons would go missing and he would have rainbow-colored poop the following day. Apparently, he once jumped into the bathtub and consumed an entire bar of soap which led to the cleanest scented case of vomit I have ever dealt with and a pathetic-looking dog whose lush, black coat spontaneously lathered on its own as I bathed him.

But those eyes…Hudson’s dark brown eyes followed my every move. He was my favorite pet and I was his world. He followed me from room to room inside the house, waiting outside the bathroom or at the back door when I left to take the trash out. I used a leash in areas where it was required, but Hudson needed no leash. He was always right by my side and would come when called. He wouldn’t eat for days if I went away on a trip. When he wasn’t getting into trouble, he was lying beside me on the floor, always looking at me with a doting look. I would catch him looking at me and he would hold his gaze as if peering into my soul.

I went into counseling for trauma about one year after we got Hudson. I’m certain we have all heard stories of pets who could sense a change in their person…and Hudson was no different. Still a puppy, Hudson somehow easily navigated the difficult terrain brought about by the worst of PTSD and severe depression in me. Somehow without being taught and without being shown, Hudson knew to stay close, to stay present, and to stay calm. His eyes saw tears, panic attacks, anger, and disconnection from the world around me. He would lay his heavy body on my chest as I hyperventilated. The weight would help slow my breathing and his steady presence helped to calm the fear. He would place his big head on my lap so I would not cry alone. He would bat at me with a paw if I was suffering a panic attack, as if calling me back into the present. He saw me struggle. He saw me fall apart. He saw me through to the other side. He truly saw me.

Hudson slept at the side of my bed, as close as he could physically be to me. If I rose in the night, he would awaken and follow me until I returned to bed. Every morning, he would wake me up, to ensure he received breakfast and precisely 6AM. Every day, at the exact same time, he would bounce in front of me to indicate it was time to venture out into the sunshine and exercise. Every evening, he would remind me (sometimes earlier and earlier) that it was time for his dinner. And every night, he would follow me around the house as I methodically locked all the doors and windows, checked the kids, and began my nighttime ritual of cleaning my face and teeth. He would sit, at the entrance to the bathroom, watching, until the moment came to climb into bed. He would watch me climb into bed and, when he was completely satisfied that I was comfortable, he would climb onto his own bed right next to mine, curl into a ball, and sigh. I would reach down and pat him – and we would fall asleep.

Then the day came where I saw the white hairs gracing his muzzle and I was reminded that time with furry friends is limited and precious. The years passed far too quickly from that point on. I saw him begin to struggle when exercised. I saw his knees and hips begin to fall apart. The pain became simply too much for him to bear and the collapsing too frequent an occurrence. He looked at me one day with tired eyes and I knew. My husband helped me take him to the vet. I sat beside him on the floor of the veterinarian’s office and bawled. He lay there, panting, and looked at me one last time before closing his eyes to rest. I was losing my closest companion. I began to notice a gaping hole in the space he had held in my life for over a decade. I felt like my heart was being cruelly ripped out my chest, but I sat on the floor by him – as he had done so many times with me – and saw him through to the other side.

Hudson drifted into my life accidentally twelve years ago and just a few short months ago, drifted out of my life forever. Loving and then losing something so special is probably one of the most difficult parts about walking through this life.

But I don’t regret one moment of the time I was given with Hudson.

And I will be forever grateful that I saw him.