Dogs are the best of us:love, death and new beginnings

I feel like we were cheated. After everything, it was finally the 4 of us. Our little family that we’d fought so hard for — and now, we’re 3. 

Getting to 4 took many things: hope, research, curiosity, questioning, surgeries, healing, effort, years, heart, faith, blood, tears, privilege, secrecy, dialogue and honestly, probably years from the length of my life. Infertility isn’t something I’d wish on anyone, ever. It’s heartache and pain, anxiety and stress, a constant minefield of unknowns and upheavals. 

I often joked with folks who learned this about my story about how I felt as if I was constantly navigating a really messed up treasure hunt. You know, with hopefully a beautiful baby in lieu of gold coins at the end.

If I wanted to become a mother, I had to come to terms with my body disappointing me. According to the experts, the only way to motherhood would be a daunting mix of many injections, countless appointments, hospital visits, surgeries and recoveries.

Through my infertility journey, our bird dog Benelli — Nelli — a wirehaired pointing griffon, was a rock, and on many days, she was a lifeline. We called her Roo, because she hopped like a kangaroo. She breathed life into me when I was down. After surgery, she’d snuggle me. Unannounced, she’d lick my face. Everyday in the afternoon, no matter how I was feeling physically or mentally, she’d remind me she needed exercise, which meant we needed to go outside. 

Fresh air was healing and visiting the wide Missouri river near our home helped me make peace with my circumstances. Watching her swim her tail off and seeing her sheer joy diving into the water reminded me that everything in this life is temporary, so we may as well play and know joy while we’re here. We may as well do our best to flow, like the great river.

Nelli made hard things feel less hard from her presence, simply by me existing in her sphere. 

I read somewhere on Instagram while scrolling that dogs are chapters of our lives but for a dog, we are their whole chapter. I feel honored I was one of her people. 

Through infertility I latched onto the things in my life I could control because so much felt unhinged. I couldn’t make sense of why my body couldn’t behave the way it was biologically supposed to, the way society expected her to. I clung to our little family unit. I journaled and scrawled thoughts but I didn’t share most of my writing because of shame, needing privacy and because my heart wasn’t ready to own that infertility was a part of my story. 

There were roots to anchor me. Roots that held me in place like the deep taproot of sagebrush and thankfully, many of them are still here. But, life is ever changing. I’ve learned it’s tough to navigate a river in the dark. 

I relied on my partner, our trusted and loyal girl, Nelli, my therapist, and pillars of support, the good hearts that kept me moving through those challenging years. And — we made it through to the other side. 

We were happy. We welcomed a son this past August and my heart expanded immensely. I became a mama. For almost 3.5 months we were 4. And now, we’re 3. 

I’m gutted knowing that nothing can be done to bring Nelli back. I felt as though my focus had shifted from her to our son and I continue to think that I hope she knew I hadn’t forgotten her. I hope she knew how much of my heart was hers. 

One morning she was here, and within hours, unexpectedly, we had to make the decision to say goodbye. No action can make this home feel full again, the way it felt a few short months ago. I’m unbelievably sad that the future I had, the one I saw, the one I feel I gave everything for, was brief and cut so short. I’m left sitting here, writing to you, wanting answers. 

I think we’re inundated with false happiness at times across the media. While authentic joy is positive, it’s difficult to sift through the noise to find it. I find myself craving that though, the raw truths. Because those are what’s real, what’s true. The rawness of life connects me to you because we can see our common humanity. Through vulnerability we can see one another more clearly. I think it’s best to wear our hearts on our sleeves and invite love in when we need more love. 

This is my love letter to you to share my grief, our collective grief, in this new year. This is an invitation for you to remember our furry friends — really, we know they were our family members — and give gratitude for their good hearts and the love they gave us while they were here. This is a written prayer for each of us that we’re seen in our grief, held and hugged in our sorrow and loved through our experiences as we keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

I trust I am infinitely better for every experience I’ve had, everyone I’ve loved, every loss I’ve known, and every piece of baggage I carry with me. I know this loss is heavy because my love for Nelli was great and I know she loved me too. 

Our four and three legged friends, if given an option for more play and more fun, more hours of running and swimming, and more time to sniff out birds, there would be no question about what they would do. They would run, swim, and play. They would sniff and sniff and sniff. They’d chase the ball, and they’d make the snow angel, probably a few. So, we must honor their lives by continuing ours. Run, swim, play and find your joy. Make a snow angel. For them. 

I only wish we didn’t have to lose love to recognize love. I wish we could see love for what it is, which I think, love is everything. I wish we appreciated every moment of every day without letting love pass through our fingertips. And — I wish our dogs lived as long as we will. 

I wanted more time with her, you know? More snuggles, more surprise face licks, more intentional face licks, more walks on the public land near our home, more ball throwing in the backyard, more belly rubs, more moments of watching her swim in the big river, more snow angels, and more of her goodness — her beautiful spirit — because she was pure joy in the form of a dog. 

We were 4, and now we’re 3. I’m grateful we were 4. I’m grateful to have known the love of a good dog. 

There’s a reason god is dog spelled backwards, I think. 

In memory of Benelli, the best, goofiest bird dog there ever was. I’ll love you forever, Roo.