When Heaven Is One Long Belly Rub

On Monday night, my Mom texted me, saying, "Please call me when you get a chance." I immediately knew that something was wrong. You see, my mother knows that of all the things I do, I am probably best at worrying and immediately assuming the worst whenever the possibility of SOMETHING BAD arises. She knows that I can go from zero to panic in record time, and I knew that if something were not wrong, she would have qualified her text message with a reassuring "But no rush!" or, "Everything's fine!"

I picked up my phone and called her back; the tone of her voice immediately confirmed my fears. "Hey honey," she said gently. "Mom, what's wrong?" I asked, already well on the way to panic.

And as she told me the story of how our not very well fourteen year-old Cairn terrier (think Toto from The Wizard of Oz) Pepper had gotten into a sudden accident that day, and was now under oxygen at the Emergency Vet Clinic in Richmond, my eyes quickly brimmed with tears. For the next ten minutes, with Preston beside me, slowly rubbing his hand in circles around my back, I stayed on the phone with my Mom. As she explained that there was really no hope for our beloved dog, the tears trickled down my cheeks and into my lap in a steady stream.

She had wanted to talk to all three of us (my two brothers and me) before making the decision to put Pepper to sleep, and I appreciated that. We got Pepper when I was nine, and although my Mom now has three other dogs, Pepper was the one I grew up with. Pictured next to my Mom's three labs, Pepper more closely resembled their chew-toy, but she was anything but.

Pepper was queen, and those big dogs knew it: The Pepper was not to be messed with. At twentyish pounds and about eight inches high, she held her own against the labs (not to mention two screaming litters of lab puppies). With her sharp, yappy bark, or a quick snap with her jaws in their direction, Pepper could make any of them turn on their heels so fast they'd leave screech marks. She had gone mildly blind in the last few years, but continued to stand on the deck looking onto our backyard, barking shrilly and persistently at air, dirt, or the squirrels in the trees that she could not see (our neighbors loved Pepper).

Whereas the labs' tails, made of half hair, half STONE, could knock down buildings when they wagged, Pepper's little tail would delicately flutter when she saw you approach. And as soon as you got close enough, she would drop down onto her side, sticking her little potbelly into the ear--her subtle invitation/command to "RUB MY BELLY. IMMEDIATELY." When you stopped rubbing, she would raise her head up inquisitively, as if to say, "YES HELLO. I AM STILL HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?" And when we (inevitably) started rubbing her belly again, she'd flip totally onto her back, belly straight up in the air and legs splayed, groaning contentedly.

In the last few years, however, Pepper's health had declined noticeably. She had trouble climbing stairs, her sight was very poor, and she was on medicine for her throat, which was in bad condition. So I can't say that the news on Monday night came as a total shock. I had made sure to give Pepper extra kisses each time I'd left the house over the last couple of years--I never wanted to feel as though I hadn't said goodbye.

And it's not that I feel as though I never said goodbye, because I did say goodbye. It's not that I feel dumb for enveloping myself in an emotional bubble over the last few days just because my dog died, because UM HELLO have you read this website? I am the first to say that I love my dogs more than I love most people (except for you, of course). So no, I don't regret taking a few days to mourn my beloved friend.

It's that my childhood dog has died, and that it feels wrong to envision my childhood home without her. The thought of a Pepper-less home makes my mouth feel dry and metallic, and sends a shiver up my spine. Without Pepper there to waddle through the kitchen and roll over, in anticipation of a belly rub, it will feel less like home. It's as if a thread that connected me to that house has been suddenly and irreparably snapped, and that leaves my stomach feeling alternately hollow and nauseous. I dread walking in the front door for the first time, only to find that our little dog is no longer there to greet me.

That said, if there's any reason at all that I believe in heaven, it's because I want to know that the people and pets I love are there. I need the comfort of knowing that the people (and animals) who enriched my life are somewhere where they have found new life. So for now, I'm going to imagine Pepper, lithe and lively as when we got her as a puppy in 1995, running all over the place, barking at the air, and chewing on Greenies that don't need to be guarded from dopey labs. I'm going to imagine her chasing squirrels and flies, and anything that moves, and wagging her tail with delight when she finds out that in heaven, the belly rubs are ENDLESS.

Pepper brightened our lives and strengthened our eardrums for fourteen years, and she will be missed. I've given Callie and Ness extra love over the last few days, burying my face into the soft spot behind their ears, gently kissing their foreheads, and, with Pepper at the front of my mind, rubbing their bellies.

In loving memory: