I put down the phone and walked into my husband’s office — we both work from home — where Sally, our almost fifteen-year-old black Lab, lay resting, along with the cat, on one of several beds we had placed around the house for her. She lifted her head as I sat down beside her, her eyes milky with age, her muzzle gray, and she smiled. Yes, she smiled.
“I made the appointment. Scott said to come at four forty-five.”
John stopped working and leaned forward to rub Sal’s head. “Let’s all go sit in the garden,” he said.
We spent almost all day in the garden, the four of us shaded by the walnut tree in late-September sun. Deldy, our calico cat, would not leave Sal’s side, and Sal would not leave mine; we had thirteen years of history and a compendium of memories — sweet, good, and bad — behind us.
I WAS SINGLE AND LIVING IN THE MARIN COUNTY town of San Anselmo when I decided I wanted to have a dog again. I was brought up in rural Kent, in England, and because we’d had dogs ever since I could remember, a home without a dog seemed an empty home indeed. My studio apartment — the top floor of a family home where my landlords lived — also had a large deck and another room on the opposite side, so I had a fair bit of space. I thought that, with morning saunters, evening walks, and weekend hikes up to Mount Tam, the prospective new dog would have plenty of room and exercise. The first hurdle was in gaining the permission of my landlords, Christopher and Sabrina. I stopped them one day when they’d just returned from an outing with their two young sons — Nate was six at the time, and Matthew four. I waited until the boys had run into the house; the last thing I wanted was to use the emotional blackmail of children who wanted a dog.
“Um, I wonder if I could ask you something — and really, I know this is a big one, and I really, really understand if you say no, so…”
They looked at me, their smiles frozen in anticipation of my request.
“Well, I’ve been thinking, I would really like a dog and — ”
The smiles grew broader; Sabrina beamed. “Oh, Jackie, of course you can — that’s wonderful!” She leaned around the door. “Hey — Nate! Matthew! Jackie’s getting a dog!”
The boys came running out as if the prospective canine were in the driveway, ready for inspection. Questions came thick and fast — when would the dog come home? What sort of dog? Could they play with him — or her?
I went along to the Humane Society the next day and made my application. I was clear about the type of dog I wanted — medium to large, but not giant; house-trained; good temperament; excellent with kids; and generally an all around nice dog. And though there were dogs I could have taken home in a heartbeat, it would be a while before I found “the one.” The boys took to waiting in the driveway for me to come home.
“Why haven’t you got a dog yet?” Matthew asked one day, crestfallen that the long-awaited four-legged one was not with me.
“We’re all waiting,” added Christopher, joining the boys.
“I know. I’ll find one soon.”
It was on February 14th that I made another trip to the Humane Society, sighing as I walked alongside the cages with dogs jumping up for attention. “Choose me, choose me, I’m a good dog,” they seemed to be saying. I reached a cage where there was a new dog in residence, but no dog to be seen. I took her rap sheet from its holder on the outside of the run — the fact that it was there meant that she was not out with a prospective owner — and read the short history, and behaviorist’s assessment. “Two years old...loves to walk…good with children and other dogs…not possessive with food.” Then, “this dog does not know how to play.”
Each dog had a long narrow run, divided in the center by a concrete wall to separate the animal’s living space from its personal viewing area. A small archway allowed the dog to go to and fro; possibly the designer had the idea in mind that the dog could go back beyond the archway to the living space if it needed some peace and quiet. On this day, all the other dogs were not about to miss a chance and were firmly up front to be viewed — but where was this dog? I knelt down to look through the archway, to see if she was there. And in that moment, a shy black Labrador with a bright white tuxedo chest was craning her neck, curious to see who might have stopped to look for her. I smiled.
And if a dog could smile, then she smiled the widest smile I have ever seen. She trotted toward me, sat in front of the wire, and put up one paw to touch my hand. I looked around for a helper.
“Can I take this dog for a walk?”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Christopher, Sabrina, Nate, and Matthew were waiting outside the house when I drove in, with Sally riding shotgun. She passed her first test with flying colors — the boys were all over her and she just lapped it up. Sabrina hugged Sal to her chest, and I thought for a moment I’d lost my new dog.
I knew the first month would be the most challenging for Sal, so she came to work with me for a while. Luckily, I was a sales rep at the time, so I could organize my schedule to allow Sally to spend increasing amounts of time on her own, until she was happy to spend most of the day sleeping on the deck, or in my home office — as long as we had that morning walk and play, and a long hike late afternoon. We met new friends on the morning walk — Nina and her dog, Blaze, and Ellen and Bandit. The three dogs became best buddies, their morning romp together forming part of the ritual that helped turn Sal from a good dog into a great dog. But our early days together were not without problems.
It was during a routine vaccination visit to the vet — she’d been with me for about a month — that I expressed a concern that Sal was “depressed.”
“She plays now, and loves to run with the ball. But sometimes I look at her, and it’s as if she’s really down, you know, like someone who can’t forget a bad experience. I take her to the park to cheer her up, but, well …”
Dr. Rob Erteman, Sally’s vet in San Anselmo, nodded, looking into her eyes, and stroking her head. “Jackie, though animals don’t remember in the same way that you and I remember, there are things that have happened to them — especially rescue dogs — that have caused them pain. And just like our bad experiences don’t just go away, neither do a dog’s.” He paused; Sally leaned in toward him. “Now, if one of your friends comes over to tell you about something bad that’s happened, you don’t say, ‘Let’s go play!’ Instead you put your arm around her, you reassure her, and you tell her you’re there for her. And that’s what you have to do with Sal. Every day, in a quiet time, tell her that you love her — and tell her she’s safe. She’ll understand.”
So, that evening, after our walk and dinner, I sat on the floor, my back against the sofa, and held out my hand for Sally to come to me. She snuggled into the crook of my arm, her head resting against my chest.
“You’re safe now, Sally,” I said. “I will never leave you. You’re mine. I will always love you, and I’ll take care of you forever.”
Within a week, another, more vibrant Sally emerged. Even the light in her eyes seemed brighter. And she proved that she really knew how to play!
SALLY ALSO KNEW HOW TO HAVE ACCIDENTS. Rob Erteman commented on one occasion that he could even set his watch by her forays into emergency veterinary medicine — they always seemed to happen late on a Friday afternoon, just at the point when he thought there was only one more patient to see before the weekend. These accidents varied, from a run-in with barbed wire, to an overindulgence in swimming that left her with too much water in her gut; there was the fall down a twenty-five-foot wall, and the day she had her side ripped open by the big black dog whose owner never seemed to be around at the park. On that occasion I raced her down to the animal hospital in the car, then ran into the packed waiting room only to find I could not speak. Dr. Erteman’s receptionist, Tink, looked at me and realized I was in shock.
“It’s Sally?” she prompted.
I nodded.
“She’s hurt — badly?”
I nodded.
“Bring her in right away — I’ll tell Dr. Erteman. Do you need help?”
I shook my head and ran out to the car, helping Sal to walk in under her own steam while dripping blood across the waiting room floor on her way to the examination room. I turned around to nod my thanks to everyone in the waiting room — they’d be there for a while now. Rob Erteman lifted Sally straight up onto the metal table. Jill, the veterinary nurse, helped to hold her while Rob inspected the wound. A boy from the local high school on work experience stood next to me as I watched the vet’s expression; I was looking for a sign that everything would be all right.
“OK, if anyone’s going to faint — ” He looked at me, then the teenager. “You’d better leave now.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
The boy nodded. I think we both felt a bit queasy.
I hugged Sally’s head to my chest as Rob set to work.
“It’s OK, Sal,” I whispered. “You’re safe — I won’t leave you.”
WHEN IFIRST MET JOHN, we talked about our dogs. He had joint custody of his dog, Spike, with his former wife, and I told him all about my Sal, who was now five years old. I always said that John fell in love with Sally long before he fell for me; when he walked into the house and called out, “Where’s my girl?” I knew I wasn’t the girl in question.
We moved to Ojai when Sally was eight, and soon afterward my travel schedule increased. My first two books had been published, and long book tours demanded weeks away from home. I was also trying to get back to the United Kingdom several times each year to visit my now-elderly parents. During that time John and Sally grew closer and kept each other company, joined by Delderfield, the cat who adopted us as soon as we moved into our new home. Sally and Deldy had become inseparable; where one went, the other followed.
A routine dental exam when Sally was eleven years old led to the discovery of an aggressive mouth cancer. I received the news on the evening before I was due to fly back to England to see my parents — my mother had suffered a minor stroke earlier in the year, so those visits had taken on a greater significance. I was going to cancel the trip, but John insisted that everything would be fine. While I was in the air, Dr. Scott Smith, our vet in Carpinteria, would be operating on Sally — neither the trip nor the surgery could wait. I remember sitting on that plane, looking out at the black night sky. I prayed. Give me one more year with her, just one more year.
JOHN SAID IT WAS JUST AS WELL I was in England when Sally came out of the hospital; she was so very ill. He turned his attention to being her full-time caregiver for the following week, until I could stand the distance no longer and flew home early. He was hand-feeding Sally at this stage and had designed a special drinking fountain because she was unable to lap her water. Soon she was able to eat wet food from a plate on her own — the ideal plate was a faux silver platter I’d found at a garage sale for seventy-five cents — and we both cherished our special time in the evening when she would sit in the crook of my arm while I told her she was safe and loved. With her recovery in progress, we decided that every day had to be a banner day for Sally, and if the banner days became few and far between, then we would do what was best for her. Above all, she would not be allowed to suffer.
Those banner days became good days for us too. We met new friends at the local park; we’d finish work early to take Sal to the beach; or perhaps we’d just go for a coffee downtown, sit outside, and watch the world go by. Sally became a grande dame of doghood, those many accidents of her earlier years coming home to roost and slowing her down — but I had asked for a year and had been given three.
SALLY — AKA SALLY WAGSTER, Wagerooni, Wagatha Labsy, Sally-Sue — lay on the ground between us as we sat in the garden and talked about her life, remembering her speed at the dog park, her love of the water — what about when she tried to swim to Japan from Montara Beach — those accidents. And the fact that she would have sold her soul for roast chicken — hey, remember when she chased that hen? And remember when we found her — all of her — foraging in the trash can?
Oh, remember when … remember when … remember when …
And then it was four-fifteen. Time to leave.
“We’d better get going,” said John.
We helped her into the car, leaving Deldy on the porch to await our return.
As if she knew this was her final journey, Sal’s breathing became labored on the way to the animal hospital. I held her close. “I’m with you, my love, I’m here.”
We lifted her out of the car, and though she was still breathing with difficulty, she stumbled over to the grass and relieved herself as if she were determined not to cause embarrassment inside the hospital. Her dignity maintained, she could walk no further, so John and Scott Smith carried her inside and laid her on the examining table.
“Not a second too soon, or a moment too late — she’s crashing, and probably wouldn’t last the night,” said Dr. Smith.
The veterinary nurse, Regina, pressed a small silver angel dog into my hand, and tears filled her eyes. Yes, everyone loved Sal.
I turned away as Dr. Smith prepared the syringe, then leaned forward and rested my head next to Sally’s while John rubbed her back. Dr. Smith explained what would happen, that after he’d administered the injection, Sally would just pass away as if falling into a deep sleep.
“I’ll leave you alone with her, then come back later to make sure.”
I held Sally closer. “I’m here, Sal. I love you, girl. You’re safe now; I won’t leave you…”
Scott Smith slipped the needle into her foreleg and lowered the lights. Within seconds her breathing calmed, the heavy rasping stopped. And I whispered the words “I love you, my Sal” one last time.