It seems there is a holiday for everything. Thanks to social media, I’m reminded of all major, minor and questionable festivities that prompt me to check my calendar because I’m pretty sure National Pie Day isn’t an official holiday, but I’m all in regardless. While scanning Facebook, I missed another important date: National Puppy Day, a legitimate celebration if there ever was one.
In another time and place, I would’ve rolled my eyes as others feigned over their furry companions. Then Maggie, a 60-pound sweet-tempered chocolate lab who thought she was a lap dog, came into my newly married life and I was hooked. When she died, I swore I’d never have another dog. She left my heart with a hole, and I did not want to go through such pain again. Never. Ever.
Then came Honey.
Mike and I soon violated every dog rule we had established. No new dog while the kids were little. No small dog. And definitely no impulse purchase the first time we saw a new dog.
Rules, shmules. Honey, a fluffy white and tan ball of silky soft fur who weighed 3 pounds, had us the minute she fell asleep in Griffin’s arms. She was a Chi-Poo – Chihuahua poodle – a unique genetic combo worthy of raised eyebrows and restraint. We’ll take her!
Thirteen years later, we are still smitten. Family and friends say Honey could be part human. She wears emotions on her face with expressive big marble brown eyes that would give Actress Meryl Streep a run for her Oscar. She’s a camera’s muse. Honey understands nuance, I swear she does. Happy, sad, contemplative, hungry and, definitely, always hungry. She really is like me.
And she loves presents like no tomorrow. Every Christmas, the kids sit on the couch with their gifts piled in front of them as Honey sits in between them with her packages, patiently waiting for each family member to open their presents until it’s her time. Honey quickly rips the paper away with her paws and teeth until she’s covered in gift wrap and tissue. And woe be unto us if we do not have a gift bag waiting for her when it’s someone’s birthday.
Maybe we’ve become part dog. Most nights, Mike and I fall on our knees to the floor, patting the carpet to play with Honey, rolling over playing dead until she pounces on us with wet kisses. And we make over her, goodness do we make over her, wooing and cooing as mushy as the inside of my Cadbury candy egg left over from Easter. Now that the children are in college, we’ll send them photos and videos of Honey doing something absolutely adorable – like sleeping on the bed. So talented!
Yet, time takes its toll on us all. Honey and I no longer spring out of bed each morning. We both stretch our tired old limbs before starting our day. She doesn’t play as vigorously anymore; instead, she looks at me as if to say, “I think we both agree a nap would be a better idea.” And Honey is losing her hearing and, I’m afraid, her mind. She paws our sliding glass door to go outside then forgets what to do once she’s out there, quickly turning back to come inside.
She’s no longer the puppy who made us break our no-new-dog rules. And when she passes, she’s gonna break my heart, cracking it wide open. What a privilege. So much, in fact, I’ve established a new holiday – National Good Old Dog Day.
This one’s for you, Honey.