The Four Nguyens: A Four-Legged Angel

Sweet Ellie, Christmas 2013

When I first saw these eyes, fourteen years ago last week, I knew they were coming home with me. A furry little black puppy with milky white paws played hide-and-seek with me from behind a chain link fence. I had Christmas money in my pocket. Her dark and loving eyes beckoned to me. Resistance never crossed my mind.

They melted my heart.

They still do.

You know I brought her home. I knew nothing about puppies or taking care of one. I had no food for her, no toys, no bed or crate, not even a leash, let alone a collar, with which to walk her. But none of that mattered: K-Mart was on the way home, and K-Mart had everything I needed to care for my new little black puppy. Those first nights were really hard, and my heart was not made for keeping her in a crate. I was a bad mommy, giving in to her cries almost instantly, bringing her close to me to sleep. She was a blessing. She eased the loneliness. She was a faithful companion, a friend filled with unconditional love for an imperfect girl. She was the joy in my days, bringing light back to my life, healing my soul. Because of her, my life became filled with gifts I could never have imagined I even deserved. Were it not for her, there would be no Chi. There would be no Betsy. There would be no Little Nguyens. One coal black puppy from the dog pound was sent from above to lead me in the right direction.

I named her Ellie. I thought she looked Irish.

She was my first baby. She knew it. I loved her instantly.

In dog obedience classes, she learned to sit and obey, but those things were of no importance to her. Sit? Me? Why? She had my number. Everyone who met her loved her. She would move from person to person and stare as if to say, "You may now take your turn to pet me." She had a sparkly, happy personality and sadness never crossed her mind. At her first vet appointment, the nice vet advised me "not to cut her tail". Cut her TAIL?! WTH? He said some breeds typically have their tails shortened, but he didn't recommend this as he thought it was essential to her personality. I agreed.
It was very waggy. She never just wagged her tail. She wagged her whole butt.

Ellie's first friend was named Jewel, a giant mixed breed that belonged to my roommate, Catherine. Together, they spent their days playing or curled up together in our duplex on St. Mary's Street. When I moved out, I continued to take her there every morning before work, dropping her off to "play" with Jewel until school was out. Until her dying day, I could utter the words, "JouJou?" and her ears would perk up. She loved those days of Third Place Coffee and Lilly's Pizza and getting lost during evening walks amidst the brick houses inside the beltline. I did, too. Before long, we had a walking companion named Chi. He once commented that, "I knew the real test for me was if your dog liked me or not." So true.

She was really pissed off when her sister came along. Betsy was a birthday gift for Chi, who wanted a puppy. Ellie wasn't sure what to make of her, but she asserted her position as The Boss early on. I likened the two of them to the curious and very mischievous Peter Rabbit (Ellie) who disobeyed and went into Mr. McGregor's garden and the good Little Sister who had bread and blackberries for dinner (Betsy). The characters in the age-old tale fit them perfectly. I love them both dearly, but for different reasons. They became friends and then siblings, eventually, but not without the occasional spat.

I married my walking companion, and almost two year later, a human sibling came along. I remember bringing baby Benjamin home. Careful parents that we were, we were wary about letting the dogs around him, transitioning them slowly. Eventually, Ellie forgot about him while Betsy slept protectively under his crib. Ellie only had eyes for me. Not much changed, and she was still my constant shadow.

Sadly, those "baby" years are a blur. I remember moving here to our new house. There was so much space! So many rooms to sniff around in. So many accidents to be had! We purchased a brilliant invention: a carpet steam cleaner. Baby Thomas came along, and then there are a few more years I don't remember. I probably wasn't the best Dog Mommy during those years, and for that my heart weeps. There were lots of missed walks. I wish there had been more. But we had a fenced yard in which to run, and it got easier.
With both Little Nguyens in school and preschool, I had more time to spend with Ellie and her sister. There were more morning walks after drop-off. More treats. More rides in the car to the grocery store or to return library books or go through carpool. She loved a good car ride. Maybe it was pure concidence, but she learned to step on the automatic window button to roll her window down. With her head out the car window, eyes closed, soft black ears flapping in the breeze, it was as if her soul was free. She loved that.

I lived in fear of these days coming, but I tried to keep the thoughts far from my mind. Ellie was healthy and without a care for so long. She didn't "require" much and was happy with those hours spent curled up beside me on the sofa after the Little Nguyens went to bed. We loved those snuggly hours. I talked to her a lot, as if she could really understand. As her age progressed, her hearing gave way. But despite that, her cocked head and perky ears always made me think she really did know what I was saying when I spoke to her.

She loved to "help" me cook. Often, this meant that she would stand directly beneath me in the kitchen or follow me to the pantry or stick her nose into an open cabinet to sniff around. When she was hungry, she helped herself, learning to open the top on her dog food bin. Determination was a strength for sure! She loved all kinds of food. Pumpkin and bananas and pancakes and scrambled eggs were among her favorites. She also loved peanut butter sandwiches in Ziploc bags and pulling banana bread off the counter. She once had an illict affair with the carcass of our Thanksgiving turkey. One year, when I went upstairs to give the boys a bath, I left the carcass on the breakfast bar to cool. She managed to climb onto a barstool and step up onto the counter. The turkey made a resounding thud that could be heard from upstairs. She was very disappointed when I wouldn't let her finish.

I noticed a cough developing late last summer. Her vet said it was old age. When it worsened after Halloween, he said it was "tracheal collapse", a common ailment in older dogs. On Christmas morning, she spit up a little blood. On December 28, fourteen years to the day since her adoption, x-rays revealed three large tumors in her chest. I arrived at the vet's office that afternoon thinking we would leave with medicine to help ease her cough. I left in utter shock. She begged me to leave, and you would never have known she was sick. I cried in the lobby as the vet tech hugged me. Ellie jumped for treats like her circus dog self.

She never went back.

I spent last week conducting hospice for Ellie here at home. Ellie Hospice was therapeutic. Ellie Hospice was a weeklong blessing from above, a chance for me to love her and let her lick my face and let her curl up with Betsy. We took walks and lots of rides in the car. She continued her usual high demand for treats. She was her normal self, other than the cough. We went to Unleashed for a treat and she picked out a $16 bag of doggie yummies from the bottom shelf of a display. She never ate them. Her cough got worse.

Early Saturday morning, I discovered her next to her water bowl on the tile floor of the bathroom. I carried her downstairs and, in the wee hours of the morning, sent an e-mail to Dr. Jennifer asking her to please come today. She did. At 10:14 AM, Ellie died in my arms. Here in her home. Here on our soft rug. I wept. I still am.

The message in my devotional early Saturday morning teaches that I should say, "I trust you, God." To trust Him in all things. To give thanks in all things. Always. Even when I hurt. Even when it seems impossible. Again, at a difficult time in my life, I am reminded of how important that is to Him.

So I am. And I will. And I do trust You. And I will keep trying to trust me less and You more.

You gave me so many gifts through this experience. You allowed me to comfort Ellie. For a whole week. Knowing. You helped me find a way not to let her suffer. You helped me listen to what those dark and loving eyes were saying. You helped me find Dr. Jennifer, who shares my faith in You. You helped Ellie show her joy and wag her tail as she greeted Dr. Jennifer at our door on Saturday. You helped me be calm and make the right decision. You helped me let go and let her come to the safety of Your loving arms from the safety of mine. You will keep her sweet soul safe forever and love her more completely that I ever could.

My heart is broken. I will miss her every day, and I wish so much to wrap my arms around her little body covered in that soft black fur. I wish to be able to look into the dark and loving eyes one more time. That is the hardest part to accept. I hope she knows how hard it was to do what I did, how hard it was to let her go. I hope she knows how much I loved her...how much we all loved her...and how much we still do. She was the best Christmas gift I ever got. Truly.

Heaven has a beautiful new four-legged angel dog now. She has milky white paws and dark, loving eyes. Her black fur has soft waves in it, and I am sure her whole butt is wagging with joy. Run free, sweet Ellie girl. I can't wait to meet you at the Rainbow Bridge. It might be awhile, it might not be. I will never know. But of this I am sure: I will never forget your sweet face or how good it feels to love you. That, in itself, is a gift.