by Marylou Ambrose

I dreamed of another dog last night, one that looked like Sadie but wasn’t her. Apparently, it was a replacement dog, except this one talked. I asked how old it was, and it said “Thirteen,” and I said, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Sadie was almost thirteen when she died.

I cried and sank into a depression for two weeks afterward. I snapped out of it, but now a month later, I’m crying again.

In the middle of the night in our boathouse bedroom, I get up to close the window—and step over the phantom dog sleeping on the rug at the foot of the bed. The phantom dog bounds down the deck stairs and runs to greet me like she hasn’t seen me in years. On my woodland walks, the phantom dog tugs at the leash. I hear the phantom dog’s nails scrabbling on the kitchen floor as she tries to get a grip, her hips not working as well as they used to. I take a baby carrot from the fridge and the phantom dog meets me there with hopeful eyes—and I offer her a carrot, too. As I leave my office, my head turns to see the phantom dog lying near the doorway of the TV room, in one of her favorite places, where she can keep an eye on both Art and me.

I wait and wait for a sign from Sadie but none comes. I’m hoping for something like the sign Domino, our previous dog, gifted me. A dog we had the privilege of knowing and loving for fifteen years. On my first walk without her, I felt a warm breeze caress my face two times—in January. Sadie hasn’t sent me such a sign, unless I’ve missed it. They say cardinals are a message from deceased pets. But cardinals have been visiting my office birdfeeder every day for months, so unless one writes a note in bird poop on my window, there’s nothing special about that.

The poet Mary Oliver says our pets become part of the rain, the fine green mist, the trees, the air, and the water after they die. I believe this. Animals are so much closer to nature than we are. They become a part of it in death.

Two weeks before she died, Sadie started lying at the edge of the driveway, partly under the wire protecting the rhododendron bush, right in front of the spot where I park my car. It was an odd place to lie. The ground is still bare in that spot, where her body brushed away the leaves. It’s stayed that way, even after a heavy rain. Is this a sign? I look down at that spot often, and I see the phantom dog lying there and tell her how sorry I am that I didn’t realize how sick she was. That when she didn’t move from that spot I felt annoyed that I might run over her and had to back up my car and go the other way out of the drive.

I apologize to her because I might have been short tempered on our last walk together, two days before she died. She kept walking in the ditch and I scolded her for it. Domino walked with me until right before she died, too. I’ve seldom walked without a dog, and yesterday, on my solitary walk on our usual path, my eyes welled with tears.

I made the mistake of looking at a Border Collie rescue site, and now I’m deluged with photos of these dogs on Facebook. Sadie was a mutt, but she was obviously part Border Collie. Some of the black-and-white dogs’ faces look so much like hers, it makes me cry. Again.

The vet came to our house to put Sadie to sleep. It seemed like an act of kindness, but I’m not so sure it was the best thing for us because the spot where she died is under my feet when I sit in my chair watching the nightly news. Domino was put to rest in the vet’s office, and I remember a shot and then she was gone. Sadie fought until the end. We had to hold her down while the vet gave her a tranquilizer so he could insert the IV to administer the drug that would stop her heart. I watched her eyes cloud and it was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I hope she forgives us for doing this to her. She had a big tumor and couldn’t eat. What choice did we have? I fed her spaghetti for her last meal, her favorite dish, and she managed to eat it. I made spaghetti for Domino’s last meal, too, but she couldn’t eat.

I’ve had many dogs in my life, but Sadie’s death is hitting me the hardest. Maybe it’s because of my age—76. I’m feeling like a lot of things are the last—last car, last day skiing, last dog?

Art and I want to get another dog, just not yet. It seems cruel to replace a beloved pet too soon. And even though I yearn for a furry head to stroke and a four-legged friend to tug at the leash, it’s too soon.

My broken heart isn’t ready to love another dog.

Postscript

We have been dogless now for three-and-a-half months. Art and I agree we should wait until spring to get another dog and that we prefer one that’s already housebroken. Meanwhile, I can’t resist looking online. Yesterday, I checked out Petfinder and discovered a small rescue facility in a town just a few miles from my house. My heart leaped when I saw a black-and-white dog that looked like Sadie! She’s a year old and housebroken! The poor girl is a refugee from the hurricane in North Carolina whose family lost everything and had to put her in a shelter. I got in touch with the rescue facility and Art and I filled out an application. I heard back from them a couple hours later.

They denied us because we’re too old.