In Memoriam: Ripley

Beginnings:

You were born in 1996.  That’s the year I moved to St. Louis, freshly in love with the man who would become my husband and – eventually – your Dad.  I didn’t know you existed then, you had a different family, and I had Miko, my longtime shepherd-mix girl who had seen me through college, marriage, divorce, and a long road trip to St. Louis on the start of our own new beginnings.  I didn’t know it then, but her loss would ultimately lead me to you.

Evolution:

It’s the summer of 2000 and I am many months into mourning my dearest, bestest friend in the whole world.  Miko was 17 when her body gave up the fight.  Your Dad and I were married by then, and we held her (and we held each other) as the beautiful Dr. B., the woman with the biggest heart in all of veterinary medicine, helped us let her go.  We all cried, and in the months to come, the daily “gut punch” moments as we looked for and realized she was not there were never quite gone.  Actually, they still happen.  When people say “it gets better”, they lie.  It does not get better – nothing is better without someone you love that much.  But time eventually does make it at least easier.  And as the months passed, your Dad and I began to think about letting a new love into our lives. 

We had a few false starts that turned into more of those “gut punches” – looking at the faces on the Humane Society’s website would start my tears all over again.  I wanted my Miko.  It took a bit more time before my scarred heart had healed enough to let someone else in.  But eventually …

We Meet:

It’s the fall of 2000 and to this day, I don’t know what finally made me “click”.  Something told me it was time to come find you, I guess.  So on a weekend afternoon, I gathered up my courage and went to the Humane Society to see who I might meet there.  No promises to myself – I was only going to look.

I met a lot of beautiful dogs, young, old, hyper, calm – dogs from every spectrum of dog-dom.  My heart was wrenched, I wanted to give them all a home.  And then I walked by one kennel and heard the sound I would hear again and again for so many years to come.  The quiet, endearing, entreating little “Woof.”  I stopped and looked – it didn’t sound like a bark, it sounded literally like a human saying the word “Woof.”  And then I saw you.  One ear up like a shepherd, one ear down like a lab.  One single, pointed thump of your tail.  And those liquid brown eyes staring right into my soul.  You didn’t blink.  You didn’t move.  You stared right at me and gave me one more of those famous “Woofs”.

I sat at your kennel talking to you for more than an hour, falling more enchanted with you by the minute, but still not entirely sure the scar tissue on my heart was healed enough to really let you in.  I remember they said your name was “Heidi” and I remember being shocked.  You didn’t look like a Heidi.  You looked tougher than that.  You looked like you’d been through some stuff.  Your eyes told a story about love and loss and hard times.  But you looked like you had hope, like your happy time was JUST around the corner, just a little bit out of your reach.

In other words, you looked like I did in the months before I decided to make that long drive to St. Louis.

My head was still negotiating with me, but my heart was gone.  The shelter was closing by then, and I had to leave.  You stared after me with those eyes and you gave me one of those determined thumps of the tail, and as I started to turn the corner out of the kennels, I heard that trademark “Woof”.

You Are Ours, We Are Yours:

I decided that someone more rational than I should confirm this decision.  Enter, your Dad.  I had to go to work the next day, but he was off, so I said “please go meet Heidi”. 

I got a call at the office later that afternoon and your loving, funny Dad, didn’t even give me a greeting first – as soon as I answered, all I heard was his voice, saying “That’s our dog!”

That’s all it took.  I called the shelter and asked when they closed - - I wanted to come adopt my new girl right that very minute.  They said they closed at 4:00 but I knew there was no way I’d make it in time from all the way in downtown St. Louis.  The wonderful woman who helped me said, “We’ll stay open for you.  Get here when you can get here!”

So I got there, and they led me into a visitors’ room and said they would bring you to see me.  The room had these plastic lawn chairs, so I sat in one and waited.  When the door opened, all I saw was a streak of black and tan fur and suddenly there was 45-pound YOU, right in my lap, both of us giving that old plastic lawn chair way more than it could handle.  The joy and the frenzy of the next 15 minutes were like a blur but I shall never forget them.  You were my dog and I was your Mom. 

They took you away so that I could fill out your adoption paper work and so they could microchip you.  You looked back over your shoulder with those eyes and I wished so fervently I could speak dog.  We were not leaving each other – we weren’t!  We would be together again.

It felt like forever, but it was only a few minutes later, when they brought you into the lobby and brought you back to me.  You weren’t a very good girl, you know.  You saw me, bolted, and ripped that leash right out that nice woman’s hand.  Clattering and slipping on the linoleum, you slid right into my leg, craned your neck up at me, implored me with those brown eyes, and clearly asked me, “Can we go home now?”

Everyone in that lobby was cracking up.  I looked back at you and said, “Yes, we can go home.”

You launched yourself into the Jeep and promptly positioned yourself so that you could look out the front between the two front seats.  You were never more than 10 inches away from me the whole ride home.  Your Dad tells the story of how he looked out the window, saw us driving up, and all he saw was two smiling faces – mine at the wheel and yours hanging over my right shoulder.

We would drive like that for many years to come.

The Ripley Years:

You didn’t hang onto that “Heidi” name for long, you know.  It didn’t suit you.  Your Dad and I talked a lot about what your name should be.  I worried about how you would get used to a new name, would it be too strange?  And one night we were watching the movie “Aliens”, one of our favorites, and we both knew.  You were a tough chick.  Yet you were warm and caring.  And you were freaking fearless.

You were Ripley. 

We tried it out on you and I swear – you answered to it immediately.  There are days when I think you may have been patiently waiting for us to finally figure it out.

These were great, hilarious, and loving years.  You and your Dad loved going for your walks. 

You chased the cat one too many times, got a bite of cat-tail-fur, and promptly got blocked by baby gates so the kitty could live in peace.  Oh, the baby gates your Dad and I crawled over for all of those years.  Such a trouble-maker.  When I was in the kitchen, you were like a furry Roomba, constantly circling and just *hoping* something would fall on the floor.

You turned your nose up at regular doggy beds, preferring instead the comfort of the leather love seat.  So there your Dad and I were, two of us one one couch while you lounged in creature comfort on one that you had all to yourself.

You loved ALL of the seasons.  You turned into a “dirty digger” in spring’s fresh mulch.

You looked for all the world like a lounging Hollywood diva by the pool in summer.

You were like a kid with the pile of leaves in the fall.

You thought you were “By-Tor the Snow Dog” in winter.

And no matter what the season, what you always loved best was hanging out with us – wherever we were.  If one of us was near, you were content.

You were the light and the joy of our lives, always into something, always giving us those big brown eyes, learning some new endearing habit, getting into some new trouble, and just being you.  Our lives and our home were filled with our love for you.

Life Turns:

It’s the winter of 2011 and you are suddenly ill.  Though in my head I know that you are an old girl, you never act like it and my heart does not want to know.  We take you to see the vet and they run so many tests – too many tests.  I worry about your comfort and I know you are afraid. 

The vets think they have things figured out and we get to bring you home.  You look hilarious with your tummy shaved from the ultrasound.  You also look annoyed that we think you look hilarious.  But you eat and drink with gusto and we are delighted that you are on the road to health.

And then on Friday, 6 days after you became ill, 2 days after we brought you home, the seizures hit.  Those horrifying, constant seizures.  Your Dad calls me in panic, I race home, and we get you to the hospital.  The wonderful vets get your seizures stopped but the look in their eyes tell us all we need to know.  This is not good.

While you are knocked out and recovering, I give them the OK to run one more test.  A biopsy.  And then we know.

The liver cancer is metastatic and advanced.  There will be no cure, and all we can do is see if you are “you” when you wake up – see if we can make you comfortable for a few more happy months with us at home.  But the seizures have thrown us a grenade.  You are definitely “you” when you wake up.  But the neurological damage is severe.  You cannot stand.  You cannot walk.  And you have difficulty breathing in certain positions.

Your Dad and I have never felt so in despair.  We authorize the vets to try the treatments that *might* help ease the damage and enable you to be mobile.  The treatments do not work.  You are a prisoner of your own body and I can see in your eyes how frustrated that you are.

The vets want to keep you in the hospital.  I challenge them.  I want you to come home.  They cautiously advise me that you could go at any time, that it “won’t be pretty”, and to not “make it so hard” on ourselves.

I don’t think they were quite prepared for my reaction.  Hard on MYSELF?  What about YOU?  You are my baby.  I am your Mom.  There is no “hard”, there is only “right”.  I will not let your last days be in a hospital when the greatest joy you ever have is when you are with us.  I am adamant.  I am determined.  And they relent. 

Your Mom gets a crash-course in advanced animal care, a tote-full of medications and solutions, and then we are going home.  Your Dad and I have talked.  We know what we must do.  But you have earned your ride back home, my girl.  You have earned your comfort.  We owe you.

And you are immediately a different dog from the one the vets saw.  On a bed of blankets topped by your favorite doggy-bone-print throw, you are comfortable now.  You eat, you drink.  Perhaps you have a large quantity of your favorite doggy cookies from your doting Dad.  You are never alone.

You sleep with your head in Mom’s lap.  We spend the night on the living room floor together.  It is a beautiful, perfect, loving night.  You are calm.  You know you are loved.  I gaze into those big brown eyes for a long, long time.

Until We Meet Again:

It’s mid-morning in St. Louis.  There’s snow on the ground.  The amazing Dr. B. is on call for us when we are ready.  We will never be ready, but we know that you are.  Your eyes –- oh, those eyes – tells us that you are.

We call Dr. B.  We ride one more time to see her.  We all hold you, we all whisper what a great girl you are, and how much we love you.  We will see you again. 

And then we let you go.

We all cry – buckets and buckets.  Gut-wrenching sobs.  It may be right, but it’s not FAIR.  Three of us entered the hospital.  Only two of us leave.

Now:

The house is too quiet.  The gut-punch moments are frequent right now.  Washing your blankets.  Hanging your collar around your framed photo.  Filling out the paperwork to get your ashes back –-  you will go in a picture box right next to your older sister, Miko.  Your Dad has asked to pick out the photos we will use and I told him I thought that was only right.

More gut-punch moments.  The first night your Dad comes home and calls for you to go on your walk without thinking.  The first morning I start the coffee brewing, then pick up your leash, ready to go for our morning stroll for the paper.  But you’re not there.  Washing your bowls and setting them down on your “Go Fetch” placemat.  But you’re not there.  Seeing your nose-prints on the windows of my Jeep.  You are not here to make any more of them.  I think they will stay there for a while.  I like them.

And the cat now roams the whole house, no longer trying to evade your devious pursuit.

You are missed, Ripley-girl.  You made our lives better, brighter, and more loving, and your absence is a gaping wound in our hearts.  New scar tissue will form, but you were worth it.  You were worth it all.

You were worth everything.

Rest in peace, my darling.