Thirteen and a half years ago, in those early days of the Internet, I located a new litter of Cocker Spaniel puppies from a breeder in New Hampshire. After exchanging a few emails with this stranger, I agreed to meet him at his home to see the pups. Some dogs were blonde, some were black, but I knew exactly what I was looking for: a healthy, honey-colored female, one that could make an older gentleman in my life happy again. From within a heap of sleeping dogs, a little blonde puppy walked toward me. The breeder’s young son picked up the dog, flipped it over for a gender check, and confirmed that the dog was female - I tagged her with a tiny collar and returned home, waiting for the day she could leave her mother and siblings behind.
It had been about a year since my stepfather’s chocolate brown Cocker Spaniel named Coco had died, and we were all devastated. In the neglectful hands of an amateur boarding facility she had been left outdoors on the hottest day of the summer. Coco died of heat stroke en route to the animal hospital. The only other time in my life I had felt such grief was when my father had succumbed to cancer, years earlier. I had come to really love Little Miss Coco, as I had never really had a relationship with a dog before. Growing up, we always had a cat in our house. The best part of this new relationship was, perhaps, that she wasn’t mine - she lived a few miles away, with my mother Pru and my stepfather Frank. Coco had been with Frank before he married my mum, and it was understood that they came as a package deal - much to the delight of my mother, who had had dogs growing up in England.
I had cleared the purchase of Honey with my mother (it made perfect sense to me to have, post-Coco, a dog named Honey). She said, “you know, I wouldn’t say no to another dog.” I took this passive response as a positive one, and the deal was done. I brought Honey over to their house on Father’s Day, 2001. I was so excited to present Frank with the basket that was holding his next pet.
His face lit up when he saw he was receiving a gift, and then it fell when he saw what was inside. “What is this? You’re giving me a dog? Take it away!” He looked away in disgust, and I was genuinely dumbfounded. “If you don’t take it away, if you leave it here… I’ll… I’ll take it to the pound to have it destroyed.” He crossed his arms like a child refusing to eat his vegetables. This was not what I had planned.
My mother, who was used to Frank’s occasional curmudgeon-like responses, picked up the puppy, snuggled with it for a minute, and plopped the dog in Frank’s lap. Honey looked up at him, with her sweet face and brown eyes, and it was all over. Frank smiled and started petting her, so small and vulnerable in his lap, and I knew that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They were both smitten.
Being many years younger than Frank, my mother was prepared to do the work in this new endeavor: the house training, the trips to the vet, obedience school and all the labors of love that go hand in hand with dog ownership. All Frank had to do was love the dog and enjoy her companionship. I had not predicted his initial refusal to take Honey, and at first I didn’t understand it. I came to realize that he had been hurt before, and didn’t want to love again. Coco was taken away abruptly, and so, he thought, it would be with Honey, too. He later told me that he was afraid to get too attached to another animal - he wouldn’t be able to endure another heartbreak.
Soon this fear fell away, and Frank was a full-time and enthusiastic caregiver to the puppy. He set up a dog run in the back yard and he regularly walked Honey through her new neighborhood. He built a special swinging gate to be placed between the kitchen and dining room, to keep Honey from her shameless begging at meal times when company was over. Honey grew to be his constant companion over the years, and when Frank’s health issues grew to be too much for my mum to handle, she brought Honey on her visits to the nursing home. Many times I would watch Frank sitting in his wheelchair, stroking Honey’s head, just as he had done at their first meeting.
When Frank was near death, my mother brought him home, and there were visiting nurses to help make him comfortable in those last days. I made sure that Honey was able to be in the room with him, and I lifted her up so that he could touch her head once again, even though I knew that he couldn’t know she was there.
After Frank’s death my mother’s own health was weakened with heart issues and lung cancer. She lived for a few more years with Honey by her side. In the last weeks of my mother's life, she was hospitalized, and then placed in a nursing home. She had a stroke that kept her in a coma for her final few days. During these tumultuous final weeks Honey came to live with me, in the home I shared with my then-boyfriend. After my mother’s death, it dawned on me that this little dog had outlived both my stepfather and my mother - something that I had not planned, at all. It was not possible. While I did not feel fully prepared to be the caretaker of an elderly Cocker Spaniel - I’d never had an animal of any kind, not one that I was totally responsible for - I knew I had an undeniable obligation to care for the one who had taken care of my parents for so long.
It had been about a year since my stepfather’s chocolate brown Cocker Spaniel named Coco had died, and we were all devastated. In the neglectful hands of an amateur boarding facility she had been left outdoors on the hottest day of the summer. Coco died of heat stroke en route to the animal hospital. The only other time in my life I had felt such grief was when my father had succumbed to cancer, years earlier. I had come to really love Little Miss Coco, as I had never really had a relationship with a dog before. Growing up, we always had a cat in our house. The best part of this new relationship was, perhaps, that she wasn’t mine - she lived a few miles away, with my mother Pru and my stepfather Frank. Coco had been with Frank before he married my mum, and it was understood that they came as a package deal - much to the delight of my mother, who had had dogs growing up in England.
I had cleared the purchase of Honey with my mother (it made perfect sense to me to have, post-Coco, a dog named Honey). She said, “you know, I wouldn’t say no to another dog.” I took this passive response as a positive one, and the deal was done. I brought Honey over to their house on Father’s Day, 2001. I was so excited to present Frank with the basket that was holding his next pet.
His face lit up when he saw he was receiving a gift, and then it fell when he saw what was inside. “What is this? You’re giving me a dog? Take it away!” He looked away in disgust, and I was genuinely dumbfounded. “If you don’t take it away, if you leave it here… I’ll… I’ll take it to the pound to have it destroyed.” He crossed his arms like a child refusing to eat his vegetables. This was not what I had planned.
My mother, who was used to Frank’s occasional curmudgeon-like responses, picked up the puppy, snuggled with it for a minute, and plopped the dog in Frank’s lap. Honey looked up at him, with her sweet face and brown eyes, and it was all over. Frank smiled and started petting her, so small and vulnerable in his lap, and I knew that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They were both smitten.
Being many years younger than Frank, my mother was prepared to do the work in this new endeavor: the house training, the trips to the vet, obedience school and all the labors of love that go hand in hand with dog ownership. All Frank had to do was love the dog and enjoy her companionship. I had not predicted his initial refusal to take Honey, and at first I didn’t understand it. I came to realize that he had been hurt before, and didn’t want to love again. Coco was taken away abruptly, and so, he thought, it would be with Honey, too. He later told me that he was afraid to get too attached to another animal - he wouldn’t be able to endure another heartbreak.
Soon this fear fell away, and Frank was a full-time and enthusiastic caregiver to the puppy. He set up a dog run in the back yard and he regularly walked Honey through her new neighborhood. He built a special swinging gate to be placed between the kitchen and dining room, to keep Honey from her shameless begging at meal times when company was over. Honey grew to be his constant companion over the years, and when Frank’s health issues grew to be too much for my mum to handle, she brought Honey on her visits to the nursing home. Many times I would watch Frank sitting in his wheelchair, stroking Honey’s head, just as he had done at their first meeting.
When Frank was near death, my mother brought him home, and there were visiting nurses to help make him comfortable in those last days. I made sure that Honey was able to be in the room with him, and I lifted her up so that he could touch her head once again, even though I knew that he couldn’t know she was there.
After Frank’s death my mother’s own health was weakened with heart issues and lung cancer. She lived for a few more years with Honey by her side. In the last weeks of my mother's life, she was hospitalized, and then placed in a nursing home. She had a stroke that kept her in a coma for her final few days. During these tumultuous final weeks Honey came to live with me, in the home I shared with my then-boyfriend. After my mother’s death, it dawned on me that this little dog had outlived both my stepfather and my mother - something that I had not planned, at all. It was not possible. While I did not feel fully prepared to be the caretaker of an elderly Cocker Spaniel - I’d never had an animal of any kind, not one that I was totally responsible for - I knew I had an undeniable obligation to care for the one who had taken care of my parents for so long.
Honey is a senior dog now (13½ years), and she has had more medical procedures than I’m prepared to recall. Some of them were relatively minor, like ‘cherry eye’ in both eyes. She has had a cancerous lump removed, and she is completely deaf. Her back legs are weak with arthritis, and she had surgery to repair a torn ACL, so she has a tough time with stairs. Honey takes medications for high blood pressure, chronic pain, and dry eye; she eats a special kind of food for kidney issues.
One October night I put Honey out on the dog run in the backyard. She usually takes her time, sniffing every inch of the yard to be certain all is in order. I was in the kitchen doing dishes, expecting to hear the slam of the back porch door, and then the scratch at the kitchen door to be let in. After some time I went outside to bring her back in, and she was gone. I saw the broken dog run on the lawn and I panicked. I felt such a sickening wave of dread as I screamed her name; I started running around the house toward the street, terrified that she was long gone—or worse—hit by a car on our street where people regularly tear along, exceeding the speed limit, not looking for deaf Cocker Spaniels. Then I saw her, not even 3 feet beyond her usual range on the dog run—she had her nose in the last of my tomato plants, gobbling up all the overripe tomatoes I had neglected to pick up. I squeezed her tight while she continued to eat. I had never been so thankful for her inquisitive nose, or her love of tomatoes.
How do dogs make our hearts melt? What is it that makes us bend down and pick up their poo? Why do we not only tolerate bad behavior, like the time Honey stole an entire Kelly’s Roast Beef Sandwich from my brother when he wasn’t looking, but also forgive it unconditionally? All dogs have their individual characteristics that make them especially endearing (and we ALL think OUR dogs are the best). Honey is no different - she has her own, very special personality. There's the way she sits as close as possible to your chair as you’re eating, and rests her chin on your thigh with the saddest “feed me” eyes; the “rawrrrrrrrooooo” she greets me with when I come home from work (she addresses no one else this way); the twitches and growls she makes when she is dreaming; the hilarious way she will stand on three legs and close her eyes in ecstasy when you rub her underbelly; the way she shoves her face into a snowbank, and looks back at you as if she's trying to make you laugh; her bullying bark when I am chopping salad (she adores tomatoes); her endless butt wiggling. Dogs inch their way into your heart and fill it completely, making you realize that, before this little animal came along, you had a pretty big void there.
One October night I put Honey out on the dog run in the backyard. She usually takes her time, sniffing every inch of the yard to be certain all is in order. I was in the kitchen doing dishes, expecting to hear the slam of the back porch door, and then the scratch at the kitchen door to be let in. After some time I went outside to bring her back in, and she was gone. I saw the broken dog run on the lawn and I panicked. I felt such a sickening wave of dread as I screamed her name; I started running around the house toward the street, terrified that she was long gone—or worse—hit by a car on our street where people regularly tear along, exceeding the speed limit, not looking for deaf Cocker Spaniels. Then I saw her, not even 3 feet beyond her usual range on the dog run—she had her nose in the last of my tomato plants, gobbling up all the overripe tomatoes I had neglected to pick up. I squeezed her tight while she continued to eat. I had never been so thankful for her inquisitive nose, or her love of tomatoes.
How do dogs make our hearts melt? What is it that makes us bend down and pick up their poo? Why do we not only tolerate bad behavior, like the time Honey stole an entire Kelly’s Roast Beef Sandwich from my brother when he wasn’t looking, but also forgive it unconditionally? All dogs have their individual characteristics that make them especially endearing (and we ALL think OUR dogs are the best). Honey is no different - she has her own, very special personality. There's the way she sits as close as possible to your chair as you’re eating, and rests her chin on your thigh with the saddest “feed me” eyes; the “rawrrrrrrrooooo” she greets me with when I come home from work (she addresses no one else this way); the twitches and growls she makes when she is dreaming; the hilarious way she will stand on three legs and close her eyes in ecstasy when you rub her underbelly; the way she shoves her face into a snowbank, and looks back at you as if she's trying to make you laugh; her bullying bark when I am chopping salad (she adores tomatoes); her endless butt wiggling. Dogs inch their way into your heart and fill it completely, making you realize that, before this little animal came along, you had a pretty big void there.
Header art by T. Guzzio. Original image by the author.
CONNECT WITH CECILY:
Cecily Pollard is a newlywed Museum professional with a weak spot for Italian art, Dark and Stormy cocktails, and blonde Cocker Spaniels. She and her husband share their Massachusetts home with Honey. You can find her on Twitter @CecilyPollard.
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