TIME – A Love Letter

I do not believe we as humans have fully evolved to grasp and understand the concept of time. Some days long, others painfully short, blink and years pass. Even during seasons of great change, we fail to notice things passing before our very eyes. Babies start sitting, crawling, walking. Knees start hurting. You’re on the verge of 30 and the acid reflux sets in.

Anyone else relate?

Time just has a way of sneaking up on you. I’m sure you thought this was going to be some philosophical rendering of time that maybe hasn’t yet been thought or somehow spurs discussion, but what’s really grappling this concept for me is … Cooper. I could think I’ve reveled in it, soaked the time up, made it worthwhile to the depths of my being, but I still am not and was not ready for my dog to become old. And sick.

It was years of ‘adventure here, adventure there.’

Non-stop.

Go-go-go.

Then a limp starts. Maybe it’s just arthritis. Then a leg amputation. Chemo. All of a sudden, my best friend is down a leg and what used to be measured in big sticks and miles is now being measured in the number of feet between lying to rest. The gray in your ears (weird spot, right?) and the arthritis in your knees expose the age behind your still bright and playful eyes. Now it’s physical therapy, supplements, medications, carry you up the stairs on the days you’re too tired and weak to lift your butt from the ground.

I guess time makes adventures look different.

So, here it is. My love letter to my first (and likely my forever favorite) dog – my emotional support, best friend, favorite sidekick – while I still have the time to revel in all my seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years (?) I have left with you. Feel free to stop reading, because this isn’t written for you anyway. It’s written for my BFF lying right beside me as I cry and type.

I have loved you since you sauntered out of that drug house off Pennsylvania with an empty belly, full of fear & tapeworms, and called “Swag.” You were pitiful in my lap heading back to my apartment – your new home with your new person. You hid in the corner the rest of the night. You didn’t know it yet, but you were about to become someone’s favorite. I let you sleep in my bed under the covers with me that first night, even though you probably had fleas. I just couldn’t stand you thinking that you weren’t going to be mine forever. That you needed to be afraid of anything anymore. And that is where you have slept ever since. I just needed my parents to love you too. And I’d never seen a dog dance so much for a meal. It filled my heart with pain to see that, but also so much joy because I knew that would never be your life again (until you refused to eat any food I got you).

But it didn’t matter. Because you had me. And I had you.

You quickly became my favorite excuse to stay in. You were my safe place when I couldn’t handle life and my reason to stay when I didn’t want to anymore. And what a stinker you were. I mean… who eats their beds? Yes, beds plural. 12 of them. And eats the corner of a room. And gets into the fireplace. And eats every stuffed animal. And swallows every squeaker. And rolls in random dog’s diarrhea. And you didn’t walk further than 2 blocks without putting on the brakes. But you did eventually come to trust me.

Eventually, you’d follow me anywhere.

You always had to touch me, but you were my favorite stage 5 clinger. I loved watching you explore the world with such fervor, but you always needed reassurance. Like “whew, my mom is still here. I’m safe to explore!” “Did she leave? Nope, still attached to the other end of this here leash. Time to keep on a-smellin.” I always joked that if you were a working dog, your only ability would be able to find me in a pile of rubble, because I was all you really needed or wanted. As long as my mom is here, I can do anything! Even when I had roommates, you’d just wait for me to come home before playing with them. We kind of both were like that, in a way, seeking each other and needing each other. If you’re still reading, this probably sounds like a strange way to talk about a dog, but the result was more valuable than gold to me in that time.

I think our 20s are a weird time. We graduate college and everyone embarks on different paths at different times. Our frontal cortex still isn’t full developed, yet we believe ourselves adults and to have everything figured out. The only thing I’m sure about from my 20s is that you were the best and worst part of them. The best because you knew my heart, you knew my secrets, and had this innate ability to sense when I was sad and give me all the kisses and cuddles a girl could need. And then some. And I always had someone with which to do things. Never a dull moment. It was the worst because of the drama. The vet bills. The vet bills. Even more vet bills. Even more drama. But it’s all been worth it. Because here we continue, side-by-side.

Many people have said “this dog hit the jackpot finding you,” but jokes on them because we both did.

I’ve always been so worried to tackle life without you. I’ve been dreading you aging and these final days since I realized I couldn’t imagine a life without you as my sidekick. I guess probably since you were like 1 I’ve been crying and imagining these days. I’ve been so scared that this passage of time has done nothing for that incredibly depressed and lonely state in which we both found one another. But I guess time with you has done numbers on me too. You see, by loving me and needing me with so much gusto, I started to love me and need me too.

I spent my whole life thinking a man would teach me how to love and instead god sent me a dog.

My life is so full because of you, Cooper. Thank you for continuing to love me and need me and adventure with me, even though it looks different these days. I promise to love you now, through the end, and beyond. I will be patient with you as your legs get weaker and you can no longer stand. I will lift you as often as you need it. Mom will always help you. I will keep walking beside you and stopping to rest with you even though I miss our seven-mile hikes. I will keep trying new adaptations to make the rest of your time here easier.

I will continue to be here until you tell me you’re ready.

I will be by your side as your light fades.

I will love you forever.

Thanks again for my favorite adventure.

xx, lauren.

ps – I’m not crying, you’re crying.