Whirlwind

December 2 was as “normal” a day as ever occurs in this household. Being a Friday, we followed our regular work-day routine, after which we came home, ate supper (turkey a la king), and watched some television before bedtime. We were just settled in for the night and dozing off when I realized Nelson, our fifteen-year-old Jack Russell Terrier, was losing his dinner. This wasn’t entirely unusual for him at his age, and so I cleaned up after him and we went back to bed.

Nelson laid around the house the next day, again, not entirely unusual behavior for someone who is the equivalent of 105 human years. He turned his nose at any offering of food. All indicators were an upset tummy, and so we watched him closely and prayed Sunday morning would bring improvement. Come Sunday, he refused his usual breakfast but ate some cooked lean meat. I was elated until, a few minutes later, he returned his breakfast undigested. We debated on whether to call the veterinarian, but decided to wait after recalling that the last time he was similarly ill on a weekend we’d been advised to bring him in first thing Monday. We were up early the next morning, and I called the veterinarian’s office to advise that we were on our way with a sick little boy.

Our veterinarian of many years gently examined Nelson, then turned to us. “He may have some bacteria in his gut, but I think this is something bigger. I’ll need to do some blood work.” We agreed that Nelson would be best served to remain under the care and observation of the veterinarian until the results came back, and we left the office with an empty crate and heavy hearts. That night, we realized just how much our world involved that little boy. We missed the wagging tail that was his “welcome home” greeting. We missed him being parked by our seats at supper, standing at the ready for a taste and to help “wash” the dishes. We missed him most when we saw the empty spot in the bed where he normally slept.

Early next morning, the veterinarian called to confirm what we had sensed in our hearts already but didn’t want to face; our boy was not going to get well. We dressed and went to the office, where we found him very weak and laboring to breathe. As the veterinarian described how his condition had turned significantly about six that morning, we knew we could not delay the inevitable. The veterinarian cried with us as we kissed our little one goodbye.

That night, the hole in our home and our hearts was palpable. We had known from the moment Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson marched into our lives that we wouldn’t have him forever. We knew we’d done our very best to give him a good home, and that he had a good life with us. He had come to be such a part of our family that my husband often referred to us as “We Three,” the title of a favorite childhood storybook.

“Am I terrible for thinking we should get a puppy?” I asked. My husband assured me I was not; he had been thinking the same thing. We know a couple who raises Jack Russell Terriers, and we knew they had a few puppies left from their fall litters. My mother-in-law had tried to convince us to add a new member to our furry family, and we had considered the possibility. The veterinarian advised us to wait because of Nelson’s advanced age and the fact that he had been an “only child” for so long.

After we spent a sad night we decided we couldn’t bear the possibility of going without a furbaby until Spring. My husband made a call, and after work that afternoon we went to meet a little fellow with brown ears and a spot on top of his head known as an angel kiss. We brought Sir Walter Raleigh home the next day.

Raleigh will never replace Nelson. Each is his own individual, with his own unique and distinct personality. Nelson never liked to be held, but to our delight Raleigh likes hugs and sitting on laps (where he spent his time during most of this writing). Like Nelson, Raleigh likes to be with his people. He also thinks he’s bigger than he really is. He made an entrance on his first visit to the veterinarian, waking up the entire office at first sight of a coon hound sixty times his size. The poor hound was minding his own business in the waiting room and wondered why he got in trouble when he only spoke when spoken to by this boisterous little whipper snapper.

We settled immediately into a familiar routine. We have recalled Nelson’s puppy days and how this boy will benefit from our experience. Raleigh has already captured his own place in our hearts and has settled well into his new home. I felt a little guilty at first, but somehow I think Nelson would not want his people to be sad or lonely. Nelson was our “little man,” and we miss him greatly. Every so often we speak to Raleigh but call Nelson’s name. We still look for him at familiar times and places. He will always have his own special place in our hearts.

We were not alone in that sentiment. My father-in-law and Nelson were great buddies. My mother-in-law sent word in the early fall that on our next visit Dad, who was confined to a nursing home, wanted to see him. Indeed, we had barely said “hello” to Dad a few weeks later when he asked, “Where’s Nelson?” Their visit was delayed by the need to file paperwork with the business office, but they got to spend about 90 minutes together before we had to head back home. Dad passed three weeks later, and we three headed back to Indiana to spend a few days with the family. Four short weeks later, Nelson was gone, too. I like to think that maybe God let him pass over the rainbow bridge to play with “Haw Paw,” who loved him so much.

As Raleigh naps now at my feet, I am hopeful that he will live as long and full a life as his brother before him. Given the life expectancy of the breed, we can’t expect to have Raleigh for the rest of our lives, but we know he will be with us for all of his. My husband and I marvel that so much has happened in such a short time. I feel at times as though I have been through a whirlwind, transported away for some immeasurable span of time and returned to a present that is familiar, yet somehow changed in ways I can neither identify nor understand. Such is the way of life and loss. I know that we will make new memories while cherishing the old. Time and tides bring about inevitable changes, but there is always room in our hearts for all who come into our lives, whether for a season or for a lifetime.

Copyright 2017 Sherry Hathaway All rights reserved.