JuJu

I remember the first time I passed by your cage. And yes, I’ll call it a cage. Not a crate or a pin. You were in a cage. We had lost our beagle, Hank, of 16-ish years about two weeks prior and were at the Atlanta Humane Society looking for a new friend to bring home. My husband Bret had picked out Romeo, a 7-month-old tri-color hound that looked like a good fit. After spending some time with him in the play area, our Humane Society guide let us know that Romeo had a sister. They had been found together as pups in Dunwoody, GA and taken to a kill shelter in that area and were recently relocated to this current location. Romeo had spent some time in foster care, so he was familiar with people and housebroken. You, on the other hand, were having a hard time. But we weren’t filled in on that just yet.

“Would you like to see her?”

Having two dogs wasn’t in the equation. Having one dog was barely in the equation. I had just started a new, challenging position with Cartoon Network and Adult Swim. Bret was a gigging musician in the studio or on the road which meant our schedules were far from normal to allow for training and the basic needs that come with pet adoption. Putting logistics aside, he and I had made a deal in the parking lot. “We go in, and if either one of us needs to leave, we go – no questions asked.” We were both still feeling the loss of Hank and wanted to be open with each other should it get too hard to be around other animals.

So, we looked at each other and said sure we’ll take a look at Juliette. I mean, the names and story of their survival were reason enough to see her. I went back inside and walked the maze through the facility and there you were, in the back, furthest corner of the cage. You were sitting down but shaking so bad it made me uncomfortable. There was no eye contact. There was nothing. I couldn’t see any connection between you and Romeo. And I had no desire whatsoever to take you on. I turned and walked out with one last look back at you, hoping that one day someone would take you on. We adopted Romeo that morning.

Two months later, I found myself checking the Humane Society website daily to see how you were doing. Had anyone adopted you? Any new pictures? Any updates? Romeo had turned out to be a great addition to our household, and I couldn’t get over the fact that the two of you had survived. And I just felt like you should be back together. I also just kept seeing your eyes from when I’d seen you in your cage. Something was calling me to you, and I soon found myself driving to the facility on my lunch break to see if you were still there. I parked and my phone rang. Bret. Uh-oh.

“Hi, what are you up to?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” I respond. “Just at the Humane Society checking on Juliette.”

Somehow I had to explain how I was just going to look and not adopt, something that usually never happens to a person like me. Bret was kind and asked if I could just call him before I made any decisions and then let me be on my way. I think he understood too something bigger was happening.

I arrived, went right to your cage, and you weren’t there. My heart sank. Where were you? Was I too late? How did I miss it? I had just checked the website! I went to the front desk and asked around. It turned out you were out with other dogs trying to socialize. You were then brought out to me, and I was able to meet one of the volunteers named Christine. She let me know that you’d been having trouble showing to people as you weren’t very warm and friendly and were pretty terrible on walks. But she said that once she finds her person, “She’s going to be amazing as she really is loving and kind.” At this point you were lying on your side and letting us pet your belly. I then took you on a walk and she wasn’t kidding, you were terrible. Your back was humped from shaking so much, and your back feet wouldn’t go down straight as you sat so much. You were also overweight. And you had this cold fear in your eyes. But I knew.

I knew, Juliette, that you needed to come home with me. Did I know that it would be nearly six months before you relaxed and I saw the real you? No. Did I know that you would destroy some carpet, pull me down some stairs and bark every time we stood up during that first six months? No. Was it worth it? Absolutely. I remember asking our vet how long until she chills out and accepts me and the house. She said to just give it time. That it will happen and that you’ll just know. So we gave it time. I did my best to let you be you and give you space. Yet I was firm and set boundaries. I didn’t let you pull me down any more stairs. And you got to be really good on walks. You eventually relaxed, and your legs started to straighten out. Your back didn’t have as bad of a hump. And suddenly we noticed that you didn’t bark as much when we entered the room.

I had a trip to Australia on the horizon. I was swimming in the Masters World Championships. Bret and I had decided it was a once in a lifetime trip and to do it. We would be gone a month. As freelancers, it was something we could do. As dog owners, we needed to board you and Romeo. I wasn’t sure how you would do. We were making such progress, but you were still timid and not quite settled. Was I going to lose what I had started? Would you know who I was? Were all of these questions ridiculous? You were just a dog, right? And I still hadn’t had that connection yet. I was still waiting to see if there was anything really there and if all of this was worth it in the long run.

Your coming home was my decision. I know that sounds odd, but my connection to you was unique and something that the two of us shared. It’s hard to explain, but when you decide to get married or have kids, that feels mutual. Getting you was between you and me. And then a month before the trip, I knew. There was a moment when I first saw you and looked into your eyes and I saw nothing. This moment though, you looked at me and I saw everything. The veil was lifted and I saw you – your kindness, your love, your spunk, your independence, your strength. You came to me as if you were thanking me and we have been forever connected since. I knew we could take the trip, and you would be fine. You would be okay in someone else’s care, and we could return and you would be you. That you now knew love and could give love.

Making the decision to adopt was my first solo and one of the biggest decisions in my life so far. You would change my life in many ways. Although you were evolving each day, I too was changing. I honestly don’t know how to capture in words the next 14 years or so, how-to put-on paper our relationship, the way you touched me and allowed me to become the person I am today. Probably the one thing that consistently comes to mind is how steadfast you were when we had kids. We weren’t sure how you would be with babies, knowing initially how much trouble you were in the house. We talked it over with our vet and learned what we should do to introduce you and Romeo so that it would be a comfortable setting. Mostly so that it would be a situation that would be inclusive, one that you would feel as welcome as the new baby. Come to find out, you were amazing.

Little did I know you would become even closer to me. At night when the baby would wake, you would quietly wake me up to let me know. You were always at my feet for each nighttime feeding. You slept patiently at the end of the hall while I walked them to sleep and then made sure I got to bed. Every night. I can still hear your paw hitting the side of the bed the nights I was so exhausted I could barely lift my head. Yet you were so steady and always there.

We always vacationed together, making sure the beaches allowed dogs and rental vans could fit our crew. Two kids and two dogs in tow, we made it work. Jekyll Island will forever have a special place in my heart as we walked many a sunrise together.

When we lost Romeo, you again knew just where to be, and that was right by my side. Your intuition has always amazed me. Just enough to be close and say, “I’m here when you need me,” but giving enough space to let me be me. Yeah, we knew each other well. Losing Romeo was hard on you, too. And we could sense the loss as you slowed down a bit and lost some of your joy. You were still you, but your companion was gone.

Then this thing called COVID comes along, and everything shifted. You set up shop near me while I worked from home. Your new pace suited me as I was on a video conference call most all day and enjoyed the constant companionship. We adopted a new dog, Eddie, and once you two sorted out the house order, things seemed to settle in at home. I think too his youth helped keep you going a little bit longer. Me though, I wasn’t doing too well.

I started to fall a bit apart. My health started to decline from my trigeminal neuralgia. Battling that along with the stress of COVID and the realization that it was time for me to move on from Adult Swim, there was a lot going on. I had been with the company as long as I had known you, so this was a big decision. But it was a necessary decision. When you hit that moment, it’s almost as if you’ve known it all along. And that’s when you know it’s right. Just as when I knew it was right to adopt you. So I decided to resign and go back to being me. Back to that place of independence and of peace.

I realize I’ve been grieving you and so much this past year. To be grieving the end of my career at AS was the start of 2022. Well, I started that when I hit rock bottom and decided to resign. I honestly thought you were going to leave me the day after my last day. That you would have held me through my transition of getting out and on January 1 would have said “you did it” and quietly taken your last breath. But I think you knew I needed you a bit longer. I was in a lot of pain and feeling a lot. And you were right there beside me. You went with me to the lake house. We walked together, were still together. I took it in and just let the world spin. It’s not lost on me that I was finishing Untamed that week by Glennon Doyle, author, activist, and founder of Together Rising. The book focuses on how women hold the keys to unlock their truest selves; about how to be brave. Doyle speaks of cages and our need as women to break from them, that we need to see that at times the door is already open, and we just need the courage to walk through it. I believe in my heart you were with me during this time to help me see this and give me a little push, to let me be still with myself and lift the veil on my own life.

A couple of months later we had a family trip planned to Joshua Tree National Park. This was our first venture out into the world in this new era of COVID. We knew you needed to be boarded, and it would be a long week for you based on your advancing age. But the trip was important for the kids, the family unit and me. In a way, it was my celebration trip. A celebration that I had taken a step in the right direction of life – walking away from something that was nearly killing me and making a choice to choose a life with intention. We dropped you off the night before, and I gave you a big squeeze before you were walked to the back of the facility. I had trouble walking away as I felt something pull inside. It was as if I knew you were letting me go. I cried quietly in the car on the way home so as not to upset the kids. The moment was between the two of us. Maybe I was just reading too much into it.

Joshua Tree. How to explain this. It’s like it was the first time I was able to breathe in three years. I think the whole family felt that way, honestly. It was a place I had always wanted to visit; I just didn’t expect to be so moved by it. One afternoon hiking I looked out over the rocks. You can see for miles and miles. A smile crept over my face, and hope rose through me. I was overwhelmed by it and then I knew, I knew I would get through this transition. I would be okay. I would figure out whatever it is I needed to figure out. I knew it might take some time, maybe a year. I knew I would keep doing whatever I needed to do, and that would be okay, but that I had made the right decision and I was with my family, and I was loved and I would be okay. I was at peace and was so filled with hope. Going home was going to be okay and I was ready to see things through.

The night we got home, I woke up with a shooting pain in my face at about 3AM. This was a new feeling of pain and in a different area from the usual trigeminal neuralgia shock. I couldn’t get back to sleep and wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was just a ridiculous amount of pain to come on so suddenly. We went to get you the next morning, come to find out you’d had a stroke the night before. You could walk but you were stumbling all over the place. You wouldn’t eat and couldn’t hold eye contact. I couldn’t believe it. I had so many emotions running through me that I couldn’t speak and could hardly breathe.

How could I go from being at complete peace to feeling absolute guilt? As much as I was told to not beat myself up over you having a stroke, that it wasn’t my fault, how could I not feel that way? The trip was my idea. Almost as if I felt punished for finally feeling good.

But in that moment, I knew I needed to comfort you and I knew in some way you did hold on until I returned. Being that it was a weekend and the vet’s office was closed, we spent two days comforting you and giving you as much love as possible. I didn’t leave your side. On Monday we went in and had the talk that is possibly the worst talk you ever have to have as a dog owner. It was your time though and you needed your own peace. We stayed with you through the procedure and loved on you and kissed you. I would have stayed all day if I could.

I can see now that you knew it was okay to leave me at that time. We were connected, are still connected, in a way that is somewhat indescribable. You had stayed with me to get me to Joshua Tree. And I believe you felt that moment of complete and utter peace with me. And that’s when you knew you were okay to go. Little did I know that while I had been able to rescue you from your cage 14 years ago, you were now rescuing me from mine.

I’m not sure I was prepared for the grieving that was to come from losing you. I had lost pets prior to you, so I knew loss. But this was a hole. This was like a part of me had died. And with it being a dog, the grief period that is expected from society isn’t very long. But as with most parts of my life, I said screw society. You were a part of me and I’m going to grieve how I wanted to grieve. And I just let it in and accepted the fact that this will be a lifetime thing. As leading grief advocate Marisa Renee Lee reveals in her book Grief is Love, grief is not about moving on, it’s about creating space for your grief. She states, “We are conditioned to view death as the end of the story, but that’s a half-truth. Death is also a beginning. It’s the beginning of your life without your person physically beside you here on earth, and it’s also the beginning of a new relationship with your person.”

Once the guilt of losing you started to reduce a bit, I realized I needed to talk with someone to start processing my feelings. Therapy has been a huge help. Meditation and walks help as well. We have a wind chime in your honor, and you seem to talk to me on the most still days. I truly am rebuilding and finding the space to see what I want to do next. I think of your independence, strength, kindness, integrity, and love when I don't know what my next move needs to be. These are the qualities of my true voice that I’ve been able to uncover, that you have helped me to find.

It's been six months since I lost you. Fourteen years and 10 months since you came home. I guess I could forever keep listing timestamps for our relationship.

Or I could simply say, “I’ll love you forever, sweet girl.”