I loved that dog, and in giving a scared, abused, imperfect Emily a home, she loved me back, and together our lives both bloomed. The loss of that joy is why the pain is so acute – and why, at some point in the maybe not so distant future, I’ll go back to that animal shelter with a brand new leash and do it all over again. Jen A. Miller

A few weeks after we had to put our dog down in late January, I went to say thank you to the person who made life with Buster doable.

Dawn and I had been chatting for a while when she paused abruptly and said, “Oh, by the way, I have your dog.”

“My what?”

“Your dog. I have your new dog here. I know you may not be ready for her yet. I’ll keep her until you are. And if you and Dan decide you don’t want another dog or don’t want this dog, that’s fine; I won’t have any trouble placing her. But I think she’s yours.”

“Dakota” had arrived at Dawn’s just the day before. Her owner had adopted the pup at eight weeks, but when the woman’s Alzheimer’s began progressing rapidly, her daughter had to move in, and Dakota began spending most of the day in her crate. After a time, the daughter reached out to Dawn and asked her to find Dakota a new home. Dawn knew several people who would eagerly take Dakota, but she was ours, if we wanted her. I just didn’t know in the moment if we did.

*****

Buster’s death had inspired a swirl of conflicting emotions. Relief that he was free of pain and that I no longer had to change his diapers, clean up after his accidents, take him to the vet twice a week for wound care. Grief at both saying goodbye to the pup who helped me survive Jimmy’s death and losing yet another living tie to my son. Guilt that we hadn’t kept trying to save him, even though the vet assured me we had run out of all viable options. A hollow feeling every time I came home to our too quiet, empty house.

Anxious and frenetic from the get-go, Dan and I had been ill-equipped to manage Buster’s boundless border collie energy. The kennel that had happily taken our mellow yellow lab made it clear early on that Buster was not a welcome guest so after some searching, I found Dawn.

Although Dawn does care for dogs in her home when their owners are away, she is first and foremost an exemplary trainer. Every one of the dogs she’s owned during the ten years I’ve known her is/was beautifully behaved. Educated and inspired by Cesar Milan, the Monks of New Skete and a host of other experts, she was exactly what Buster and I needed. Dawn taught our wild little pup manners and boundaries; she taught me how to maintain them. Although I never came close to fully mastering the management of Buster, I did learn to work with Buster’s adrenaline-fueled nature instead of feeding or fighting it.

It was Dawn who advocated for getting a wheelchair when Buster was recovering from the burst disc in his spine, not just to lift his spirits but also to strengthen his back. Over the objections of the veterinary physical therapist who argued it wouldn’t help, we bought one. Within a few months, Buster was walking four miles with me, his back legs suspended in the air, flutter kicking the entire time.

When the PT proclaimed that Buster would never walk again, Dawn dismissed his gloomy prognostication with a wave of her hand and continued working with Buster every time he stayed with her. Five months later, when we arrived to pick him up after a week-long vacation, Buster walked out her front door to greet us.

No matter how hard Buster’s care got, Dawn never gave up on him or stopped welcoming him in her home. She changed his diapers, got him out to play in the backyard with her dogs and loved him as if he were one of her own. Although I will never earn any gold stars for my dog discipline skills or consistency, Dawn had a front row seat to how fiercely I loved that crazy little pup and how shattered I was about having to put him down when, despite the vet’s best efforts, she couldn’t rid his body of a months long systemic infection.

*****

It didn’t take Dan and me long to fall in love with Dakota, a gentle, loving black lab retriever mix and say an enthusiastic “Yes!” to Dawn, who by that point had fallen in love with Dakota, too, and would have happily kept her had we said ‘no.’ Dawn even offered to nurse Dakota through spay surgery so that I didn’t have to spend the first few weeks of our time together back in the vet’s office and tending to a surgical wound.

After some discussion, we decided to rename our girl “Lucy.” The choice was inspired by a Grateful Dead song and my fondness for “I Love Lucy” as a child. But I knew we had landed on the right name when I looked up its origin and discovered that Lucy means “Of the light; bringer of light.”

When we chose Lucy’s name I was focused on what her exuberant energy and sweet, easygoing nature would do for our bruised hearts. It is only as I write this that I realize we named her for Dawn, too, whose name means “daybreak” or “the first appearance of light.” Like us, Dawn builds her family with beings who lives are shorter than her own. She understands all too well the heartache that their deaths leaves in its wake as well as why we turn around and do it all over again anyway. She knew within hours of meeting Lucy that she was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits, make us look up and find the light.