The story below is from our January/February 2021 issue. For more stories like it, Subscribe Today. Thank you!
It was never a good time to get another dog. Then 2020 hit and Spencer came into our lives.
When my husband Chris and I were first married, we got a dog. As many couples do, we tested the waters of responsibility by caring for another life together. Apparently we thought that went well, since four children followed, but June the Boxer was our first baby. As one does with a first baby, we took dozens of pictures of her, proudly walked her down the street in our Pittsburgh neighborhood and doted on her.
As human babies came into the picture, June moved down the priority list, but she was still beloved, curling at my feet while I fed those babies in the middle of the night and sitting vigil while they napped–taking her big sister role seriously. My husband was in medical school and residency then, so he kept odd hours and often returned in the middle of the night from study sessions and hospital rotations. June never missed his key in the door, hopping off the bed and flying down the stairs to greet him, her stump of a tail wagging. He was glad to have someone glad to see him.
June got sick when she was 10, and we had to make the agonizing decision to put her down on an Easter weekend. It’s the heartbreak of having a pet—they stick around just long enough to completely win your love and it cracks you open when they go too soon, and it’s always too soon. Before there was June, I grew up with Fritz, the Schnauzer. He died at 14, but the years were still not enough.
On June’s last day with us, I remember my husband pulling away from the house with her in the back seat, headed to the vet. I had to answer small faces (“Where’s Junie going?”) with a lump in my throat. We looked so sad in those Easter pictures the next day, forcing smiles in candy-colored Easter clothes.
We mourned June, but life was hectic. We moved to Virginia with four kids under the age of eight, and a new dog was out of the question. As my oldest son mounted his dog campaign, the messages honed over a number of years; I always promised I’d think about it again when our youngest hit kindergarten.
Well, the youngest wrapped up kindergarten two years ago and the oldest started his march toward high school, and I started to have dog thoughts. I’d stop and pet dogs while they walked with their owners, and I’d casually look at breeders’ websites. But it still seemed like a commitment I didn’t want to make—more responsibility, and I already knew those waters well.
In my pandemic haze, I pulled the trigger. Crazy with boredom, or just plain crazy, I put a deposit on a puppy for pick-up in late May. A Poodle/English Springer Spaniel mix, the puppy promised to be the non-shedding breed we’d need for my daughter’s allergies. The kids were ecstatic, and made a countdown calendar to pick-up day. We chose a name, Ollie, and waited.
A week before we were to get Ollie, the entire litter became sick with parvo and the puppies died, a reminder of how dogs can break your heart. The kids were devastated; I was devastated. The mounting disappointments of the pandemic had already been enough to handle. But then the breeder called.
“You can wait for a new litter, or I do have a three-year-old dog I’m trying to rehome,” she said. “If you want to come meet him and see what you think we can go from there.”
I drove to Staunton the next day, with my two youngest kids in tow. It was love at first sight with Spencer, and we left with him after that first meeting. The breeder cried when we left. “Spencer’s a good boy,” she said, giving him a final pat on the head.
Spencer, or Spence, as we’ve taken to calling him, is more than a good boy, he’s the world’s best dog–or, the world’s best living dog, as my husband says playfully, not wanting to disrespect June’s memory. Spence has been with us only five months, but has already won us over in that way that dogs do. He’s up for anything, be it long walks, a boat ride or just couch surfing for the afternoon. He’s curled at my feet now while I write, just like June was all those years ago.
I hope we have many years with Spence. But I’m “dog experienced” enough to know that however many years we do have, it won’t be enough.
The story above is from our January/February 2021 issue. For more stories, subscribe today or view our FREE digital edition. Thank you for supporting local journalism!
