*(I know this blog
has, for the most part, centered on our adoption. However, this post Is about
our family. If you’re interested in adoption-only posts, then feel free to skip
this one. No hard feelings. --A.B.)
Before
I had a wife, a kid, and a mortgage, I had a ball of fur for a roommate who we
called Charlie. And when I say “ball of fur,” it’s not only said with
affection, but it’s also quite literal. As a puppy, this dog was almost
perfectly round, like some little furry, worm-infested orb of pure cuteness.
Sure, he seemed a lot less cute after he cried for 2 or 3 nights, but it didn’t
change the fact that he was, quite possibly, the cutest puppy in the history of
puppyhood.
The
circumstances that led to Charlie joining me were different than how most
normal people get a dog. I had made the innocent statement to my (at the time)
girlfriend of how someday I’d like to have a dog and I’d name him Charlie
(Charlie Brown, get it? Clever, I know.). Based on that single conversation, I
started getting emails sent to me at work almost every day with pictures of
shelter dogs, all of which asked the same question, “Could this be Charlie?”
(She something similar with pictures of engagement rings. I guess she’s 2 for
2.)
Finally, there was a dog at the
shelter in Madison, Indiana that I thought, maybe, could be Charlie. We went
and found a litter of 4 puppies sitting in a pen outside, 3 of whom were
excited and happy to see us and one that hid in the one shady corner of their
pen. We looked at the 3 happy ones, but the loner in the corner intrigued me a
little. I mean, I have to respect a dog smart enough to get in the shade on a
90 degree day. I picked him up, held him up to my face and said, “Are you
Charlie?” When he answered by licking my face, our friendship began.
Tomorrow
morning, as I write this, after a painful fight with lymphoma, we’ll take my
friend Charlie to the vet for the final time. As much as I want my buddy to
stay with me forever, this illness has become more than he can bear. Charlie is
a huge part of our family, and to watch him struggle with this has been one of
the most difficult things we’ve ever had to deal with.
One of
the most painful aspects of this process has been the fact that our son won’t
get to know Charlie. In our minds, Charlie was going to be the perfect big
brother for Will. You couldn’t pick a better dog for a little boy than Charlie
if you could design one yourself. Some of Charlie’s favorite things in the
world to do were to play ball, run around in the yard, and swim. What kid
wouldn’t love a dog like that? And Charlie was great with little kids. Whether
it was with family members or people he’d never met, Charlie was always able to
play without ever getting too rough. Maybe we were just blinded by the image of
Charlie being Will’s best friend when he got older, but we never really saw
this coming.
Part of
the reason was because this dog was indestructible. I mean, I saw him once run on
a dead sprint after a ball, get to the end of his rope and get pulled by his
neck up into the air, did a full flip and land on his feet as if nothing happened.
Most animals (or people) would break their necks doing that, Charlie just kept
playing ball. This is a dog that as puppy tore down a Cincinnati Reds flag on
the wall (sorry Reds, still love you), then proceeded to eat the push pins that
had been holding it in. And this was when he was still the tiny little ball of
fur! This dog is the sweetest/toughest animal on the planet.
I’m not
the smartest person in the world by a long shot, but I believe God gave us
Charlie for a reason. We saw tons of dogs, but I think He set this one aside
just for us because we needed this dog far more than he needed us. He taught me
how to care, everyday, for something that depended on me for its very
existence. Having him with me taught me to be a better husband, a better
father, and a better person. And because that’s what I believe, I think that
maybe Charlie has finished what God sent him to do for us and that’s why he’s
leaving us now.
It’s
hard for me to imagine getting up in the morning without Charlie. I’ll miss him
every day, but the memories of him will never make me sad. Whether it’s
remembering how he hid behind the couch when I tried to put him in his room and
made me late for work, how he used to freak out when I’d try to put a hat on
him, playing hide and seek with him, or a million other memories, they’ll
always make me smile. I don’t think I was ever good enough to deserve this
amazing dog that God blessed us with. His time with us isn’t going to last as
long as we’d wanted, but we know that we were fortunate to have him at all.
Remembering Charlie will never make me sad, it just makes me sad that my son
won’t.
