We’d been to shelters in Pasadena, Glendale, and Santa Monica all in one morning and had almost given up; in fact, Michael was heading to the parking lot when I made my final loop through the West Los Angeles Animal Shelter. Peering into the kennels, I leaned over and looked under one of the steel benches. There she was, lying on her back, legs splayed to the side and her ears flopped back against the cement floor, their pink interior soft and kissable. Her fur was long and black with a body-wave fluffiness that rivaled anything L’Oréal could have produced. There was a birthmark on her tummy shaped exactly like Texas.
When I pointed to her, the volunteer tried to wake her, but she stretched her paws into the air, sighing into an even deeper sleep. So, putting his hands on either side of her body, he carefully slid her over to the metal mesh door. I leaned down and put my palm on Texas. Her head was still thrown back so that her teeth were showing. She had a darling overbite, just like my new groom’s.
“Shepherd mix,” the volunteer told me. “Probably shepherd-collie.”
She was mostly black, but now I could see that in the center of her chest was white fur — as if she’d been dyed black and a dessert plate, perfectly round, had covered that particular spot. When she finally sat up, her ears looked like fuzzy tortilla chips with the top of the triangle folded down, and she had a narrow, pointed collie snout. Her eyelashes were elegant and long, giving her a look of sophistication beyond her years — or lack of years. The shelter estimated that she was only about three months old.
When I picked her up, the volunteer said, “That’s gonna be a big dog. Look at those paws.”
“Don’t tell my husband,” I pleaded, holding the puppy up to my nose and sniffing in her essence.
Michael and I had agreed on a small-to-medium dog because we lived in an apartment, but that treaty was about to change.
I carried the puppy to the front window and motioned for Michael, who had pulled the car around and was waiting for me to get in so we could move on to the next shelter. I held her up for him to see. Pointing to the top of her head, I mouthed, “Yes! Yes! Yes?”
He laughed, turned the car off, and grabbed our checkbook out of the glove compartment.
Forty-five dollars to adopt and spay her.
She was ours. We named her Hallie.
IT’S MARCH NOW, and sixteen years later you can probably still make out Texas, but Hallie doesn’t like to be on her back anymore. After all, she’s “one hundred and twelve years old in human years,” as our son, Wills, likes to point out. So I haven’t seen Texas in a long time.
Her muzzle is still dark, with gray showing only under her chin, blending into the white-dessert-plate patch of fur on her chest. She’s not oil-black anymore, but rather slate — her curls still swirling around her torso. Her eyes are cloudy, but alert. She can no longer hear.
We’re saying our good-byes every day. Hallie has an inoperable brain tumor on the right side of her head. “Six months,” the vet told us more than eight months ago, and when, before Christmas, she began to fail, it looked like he just might be right. She wandered around in a confused state, not recognizing any of us — Wills, whom she’d practically delivered herself when I was thrown into labor early one May morning, or Michael or me. She was urinating on the carpets and hardwood floors without even realizing it.
But New Year’s Eve 2009 came, and when she made it past midnight, I guessed that this meant something to her — something more significant than the people around her tossing wishes into the fire pit outside and watching the wind carry the embers to God or the universe or wherever wishes and prayers and hopes go. To Hallie, she’d made it one more year, and here was another one staring her down. She wouldn’t waste time on wishing; she’d need to live — right then. She started on New Year’s Day.
I woke to find her standing by our bed staring at me, her chin resting on the white down comforter. She hadn’t done that in over five years. She was hungry. I rubbed the soft fur between her ears. She hobbled to the door and looked back as if to say, “You’re supposed to follow me.” This was another “Hallie-ism” we hadn’t seen in a very long time. I jumped up and followed her to the kitchen with Michael right behind me.
“Hallie’s back,” I told Michael, watching the can of Wellness food twirling around on the can opener. The whirring sound alerted our two golden retrievers, and soon there were three dogs wiggling with anticipation right by the back door. I carried out their plates.
Leo Henry, our new puppy, was barely five months, and Buddy Rose was three years old. We’d gotten Buddy shortly after the death of our beloved golden retriever, Cowboy. She’d been a source of great healing for all of us, but especially my son, who had high-functioning autism and needed stability and, more important, a puppy in his life. We’d discovered this by accident shortly after Cowboy had arrived and Wills began to improve in ways we hadn’t thought possible.
Hallie wasn’t a child’s dog, although she was fiercely protective of Wills. She preferred adults, who were more practical and less likely to surprise her. Generally, she liked to stay in the background and watch and listen. She had no interest in romping or playing. Cowboy, however, was game for anything silly, muddy, or childlike. She was Wills’s companion, but Hallie was Big Sister, making sure that no one came through our front gate or hurt him in any way.
On New Year’s morning, Hallie watched the Rose Bowl Parade with us, sitting on the carpet with Buddy and Leo Henry. She wasn’t wandering around the house, anxious and crying for no reason as she had during the last couple of years. When it came time to potty, she pulled herself up and made it to the backyard without assistance.
“Look at our Hallie,” I told Wills.
“It’s like she’s taken ‘Happy New Year’ to a whole new level,” Michael said.
“She’s happy,” Wills chimed in.
“She really does look happy,” I smiled. Hallie had been spending most of her days sleeping on a fluffy striped comforter that we’d draped over her round dog bed in our front room. It was good to have her awake and right in the middle of things.
I remembered something our friend Lynn had said the night before at our New Year’s Eve party. Watching Hallie weaving in and out of people’s legs, she observed, “You know, Hallie might not want to be petted or loved on, but she sure wants to be at the party.”
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, when Hallie was our only dog, she was still very much at the party, a wallflower to be sure, but always within sight. She loved being home, and saw the world mostly through the car window, preferring long rides sitting on my lap as I drove, her paws poised on my windowsill, eyes squinting into the wind.
When I became pregnant with Wills, I was so nauseous that I spent every morning and evening lying on the cool bathroom tiles close to the toilet. Hallie always lay down beside me, carefully placing her soft, black chin against my cheek. It was stifling hot, but she could sense that I needed her, and that’s what she could give. We laid there, sometimes for hours, the side of my face sweaty and draped in fur.
When baby Wills finally came home from the hospital, Hallie was very confused by the new person in her pack. But once she realized he was here to stay, she went on high alert. Her job, she’d decided, was to protect both baby and mother.
While I sat in the white rocker nursing Wills, Hallie would sit on my feet facing out, keeping watch in all directions. No offer of food or rubber balls could budge her from her post. Same as the pregnancy, the nursing made me so hot, and with her heavy coat of hair draped on my feet, I felt like I might spontaneously combust. But it was such a tender gesture and a great comfort to have her there that I didn’t have the heart to ask her to move.
Hallie was suspicious of all deliveries, including the daily visits from our poor mailman, Tony. When he entered our yard, she’d go wild, barking and racing back and forth in the front hallway. Tony would drop the mail through the slot in the front door and race back to the safety of the sidewalk. He was an ex-marine, but he’d also had the unfortunate experience of meeting Hallie in the yard one day when he’d stopped to say hello to Wills, who was sitting on a blanket next to me. Hallie was furious that this person was so close to Wills, so she chased Tony across the grass, barking and nipping at the backs of his ankles. I was mortified, but also knew that no one would be robbing our house. No one could even get near it. Michael installed a mailbox outside our picket fence just for Tony.
Any type of truck made Hallie crazy, and she raised hell whenever one drove by. One cloudy afternoon, she took on the UPS truck. As Spencer, our favorite UPS driver, rounded the corner, Hallie jumped our front picket fence and raced toward the truck. Luckily, Spencer stopped in time, albeit barely. I could smell the burnt tires from him stomping on the brakes to avoid hitting her. She sat inches from the grille, looking over at me with a satisfied look on her face. We built a higher fence.
Hallie loved to be higher than anyone else. She ran our canyon hiking trails nimbly and fast, dashing to the top of rolling hills and then kicking up the light brown dirt on her way back down, beige powder forming a cloud around her delicate legs.
Wills was about four years old when we were hiking at Tree People Park. He’d gone several steps ahead of me and Hallie was right beside him. Suddenly, Hallie began to bark. Wills ran back and said, “A spider is walking.”
“What color?” I asked him.
“Brown. Hallie is mad at it,” he replied, pointing down the path.
Hallie was standing stock-still, her nose to the ground. I pictured a small brown wolf spider or something equally benign, but when I got to where she was, her nose was resting on top of a tarantula. She wasn’t moving, and neither was the spider. She was waiting for Wills and me to go by. We did, quickly, and then I called her. She did a little hop step back and came running. The spider scrambled down a hole and a small chipmunk came running out as if he’d been shot out of a cannon.
“Boy, that was close,” I said, my mouth dry from fear.
“A tarantula will bite, Mommy, but it’s not serious,” Wills said, running slightly ahead. I caught up with him.
“Really?” I asked. “I thought they were poisonous.”
“I don’t want to get bitten,” he said, “by anything.”
“Me, neither,” I agreed.
“So it’s good that Hallie did that,” he said. “Tarantulas go bald on their thorax when they get old.” He picked up a stick for Hallie. Wills’s autism contributed to his almost photographic memory. We had read about tarantulas two years earlier, and yet he knew every fact we’d uncovered.
“It is good that she did that,” I told him. “Imagine how big that spider must have looked to her.”
Maybe the spider hadn’t intimidated her, because Hallie had seen it all in her eight years. The menagerie of animals that had come through our house since Wills turned three included hamsters, hermit crabs, dumpy frogs, land turtles, rabbits, and, of course, the retrievers. Hallie watched them come and go with stoic bemusement, curious, but not really bothered by any of it.
She shielded us, that was her job — especially when it came to Wills. There was deep love between them, but it was as if Hallie were a protective aunt, standoffish but fiercely protective. And in January, two weeks after our New Year’s Eve party, Wills returned the favor.
WILLS WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD when, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, he, Buddy, Leo Henry, and Hallie were walking toward the shallow end of our pool. I was on the patio, closer to the house but watching them go. As they started around the deep end, Leo Henry saw a tennis ball floating in the water and dove for it. When he plunged into the water, he accidentally knocked Hallie into the pool. Hallie had always been an excellent swimmer, but hadn’t been in water for over six years. She sank like a stone. Her back legs were not agile enough to push her to the top and her front paws were equally unreliable.
I ran toward the pool, but I didn’t need to. Wills, my boy who was anything but spontaneous, who usually refused to swim unless he was wearing goggles that covered his nose and eyes, and who was fastidious about not getting his clothes wet, instantaneously leaped into the water wearing sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of fleece-lined Ugg boots. He even had on his beloved Mets cap, a gift given to him by his late grandfather and something that he cherished. By the time they’d made it to the side of the pool, Hallie’s head was above water and Wills was underneath, holding her up and paddling his feet. He swam them both to the shallow end.
Wills’s Mets cap was now lying at the bottom of the deep end. I hurried to meet them at the steps.
“Wills, oh my gosh, I can’t believe Leo knocked her in,” I said, “and she went right under.”
“She can’t swim,” he sputtered, water coming out of his nose and mouth.
“You saved her life,” I told him, lifting first Hallie and then Wills out of the pool. “You saved Hallie’s life.” I wiped his face with the bottom of my T-shirt and cradled a wet and shaky Hallie in my arms.
“It’s lucky I was here,” he said, suddenly smiling.
“Yes, it was,” I said, slipping one of my arms around his waist.
“I weigh about fifty pounds more than when I was dry,” he said, standing up. As he headed toward the house, his Uggs squished pools of water onto the tiles.
“Hallie was always a great swimmer, but now we know she can’t hold herself up,” I said, my voice almost a whisper as I imagined both of them at the bottom of the pool struggling. After all, Wills loved to be in the pool, but he wasn’t the best swimmer. But that’s not what happened — at all. “Let’s get you inside,” I said, lifting Hallie. Meanwhile, Leo Henry and Buddy began their nightly doggy laps in the pool.
After wrapping Hallie in a beach towel, I put Wills right into a hot shower, his pajamas lying on the bathroom counter. Hallie was so thin with her wavy hair stuck to her body, I happily held her on my lap and waited for Wills.
That night, I asked Wills if I could call some of our friends and tell them that he was a hero. “Yes,” he said, “I think that you should.” He smiled and leaned against me on the couch listening as I told the story over and over again.
IT’S NOW JULY and we’ve been in this strange time with Hallie for a while now, where we know there might not be much time left, have been told as much. She’s begun peeing and pooping on the carpet again and seems disoriented, even with the medication we’ve been giving her. Still, she has her good days.
The family room carpet needs to be replaced. Between Hallie’s bathroom problems and Leo Henry’s difficulty potty training, it’s like living inside a litter box. But we’re reluctant to go to the carpet store. So I have to ask myself, “What are we waiting for?” — even though I know the answer. No one wants to say it, but we’re waiting for the unthinkable. We’re waiting for Hallie to go.
“Wouldn’t it be a shame to get new carpet only to have her pee on it?” my friend Emily asked. Yes, it would. But that ruined carpet reminds me every day that I’m literally waiting for Hallie to die. I can’t do that to her or myself. Hallie’s getting on with living, and so will we. Michael and I ordered new carpet — and long plastic runners to cover it.
We’re going to quit saying good-bye before she’s even gone.
THIS MORNING, Wills’s very last hamster, Teddy, died. He was four years old — our longest-living hamster (and we’ve had at least twelve of them through the years). I found him on his side, his head resting on the bottom of his red wire wheel and his front paws relaxed and casual against his tiny chest. Teddy’s eyes weren’t open but his mouth was, revealing he was so old that he’d lost one of his elongated front teeth.
I picked him up in a blue washcloth — his body still soft. Hallie was standing beside me, so I knelt down and let her sniff him. She gave him a good once over and then looked at me as if to say, “Damn, your animals have lousy constitutions.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” I told her, kissing the top of her head. She followed me to the bedroom, where I picked out the perfect shoebox. It had to be plain, because Wills decorated all shoeboxes used for burying pets with plastic jewels, colored leaves, and special writings about what made that animal unique.
I laid Teddy in the box, wrapping the washcloth loosely around him so just his tiny face was showing. I placed the shoebox on the fireplace mantle to wait for Wills.
Sitting on the hearth, I took Hallie’s face in my hands.
Buddy and Leo were hiking with Michael and Wills, so it was just Hallie and me. Her back legs were sticking out to the sides in an awkward slant. I couldn’t help but wish she’d give up on those back legs for a little while and just sit or lie down. Standing looked so painful. But Hallie never gave up.
I looked into her eyes, but it didn’t seem as if my image was getting past the cataracts. Still, she held her snout up for me to kiss. She’d lived with us at our first apartment in West Hollywood, at our house on Beverly Glen Boulevard, at the crazy house on Camarillo Street, and now here, in the home we finally owned.
I don’t know where the years went; I don’t know how long it’s been since she was capable of jumping up onto our bed with one gentle leap, or how long since she could hear well enough to howl at a fire truck whizzing by us. Too long. Still, she’s here, and that’s what matters. She might be wobbly, but she’s not in pain. The brain tumor is benign, but getting bigger. We have no idea what direction that will take in the next few months.
My heart’s been broken with many losses through the years, but there have been enormous blessings, too. Wills was born; my career has evolved; my son has grown into an adorable, smart, funny adolescent; my roots turned gray along with Hallie’s; I survived a heart attack. Old friends came and went and then came back again. My marriage broke apart for more than a year, and I cried until my chest nearly collapsed. I painted the house and bought a new grill. My husband came back.
Hallie, this girl who’s always preferred to stay in the background, choosing when she wants kisses or hugs, has been the one constant through the years, completely devoted but asking for nothing in return.
I carefully load her into the car, plastic underneath her blanket just in case she has to pee. I lift her up, mindful not to hurt her fragile bones and joints as I place her on the passenger seat. She can no longer sit on my lap and hang her head out the window. It’s too exhausting for her to hold herself up.
Tonight we’ll bury the hamster, but this afternoon Hallie and I are going for a ride.