At five years old, my twin sister and I walked into the animal shelter hand-in-hand. We weren’t there for five minutes when Mom and Dad pointed at a dog and asked if we wanted to meet her. Of course, we did.
She was a scruffy blonde terrier with a docile demeanor and an insatiable love of tennis balls. Her energy was warm and friendly. The animal caretaker placed us all in a playpen and let the little puppy off her leash. She darted towards my sister and I, playfully jumping and licking our faces. We threw her the tennis ball and realized that she wasn’t much for fetching it back.
“She could do this all day,” I remember the caretaker saying.
She was everything I could have ever wanted in a best friend. I was so enamored. It was only right that I got to name her. After a brief deliberation, she became Kerrie. She was a Cairn terrier, and as a child, I thought the name was a delightful play on words.
On her first car ride home, Kerrie sat in my lap. Two minutes later, she was profusely vomiting. For the hour-long drive home, I had to sit with dog bile between my legs. It was at that moment when I realized how special our bond was. How could we not be soulfully intertwined after something so hilarious?
Kerrie and I spent the next ten years roaming around the backyard, collecting twigs and chasing bunnies to their holes. She would deliver half-eaten birds to the doorstep, and I would scream in terror for someone to pick them up. We would give her baths and watch her run wild through the house, trying to dry herself off. When Christmas time came, Kerrie would sleep in our room, so as to not scare Santa away.
Once I got to high school, I realized how large of a role Kerrie played in my emotional regulation. Outside of being a naturally angsty teenager, there was a lot of turmoil going on at home. Cancer, poverty, addiction and verbal abuse were all themes that made an appearance. Being subject to all of this, I often felt like there was no escape. Besides a couple of hours at school and the occasional sleepover at a friend’s house, I was confined and secluded by cigarette-stained walls. Walking downstairs to greet the family became a chore. I would perk my ears at the top of the stairs, trying to detect who might be in the kitchen. If I heard my father’s voice, I would retreat back to my bedroom.
Whenever Kerrie noticed me at the top of the stairs, she’d stare up at me and wait. No matter what was transpiring in the living room – fighting, vomiting, crying – she remained unbothered, prompting me to come sit beside her. It seemed that Kerrie insulated her feelings to provide me with support. I could sometimes feel her fear as she shook and jumped at the slightest of noises. She was never certain if somebody was falling apart behind her, or if it was simply a cabinet closing. Through her fear, she wagged her tail and always looked for me.
Through all the moments of humiliation, shock and sadness, Kerrie gazed up at me with loving grace. She whispered to me through her docile eyes, never crying, just winking and assuring me that everything would cease eventually. When it was just the two of us, I would kneel down next to her and sob quiet tears on the kitchen floor. I would tell her all the secrets I’d been hiding, describe the pain I felt and apologize for soaking her fur in tears. She knew where I stood in moments of grief, and she offered me solace. Not once did she walk away or hide when the world around her got loud and scary. She stood strong, resilient and wiser than the rest of us. She knew she had a job to do.
It is through these invaluable acts of love that I’ve come to understand Kerrie as a true friend, someone who practiced loving-kindness and compassion. In social work, we talk about unconditional positive regard. This is the acceptance and empathy we provide to clients despite their wrongdoings. It’s a ceaseless practice of maintaining love for somebody through their hardship, while simultaneously avoiding judgment. Kerrie was a natural prodigy at finding beauty where there was none, of becoming stoic when she knew others needed it. In a house barren of a home, she was peace. She taught me everything I know about service to others.
Kerrie’s old age wore her thin. After thirteen long, golden years, she grew ill with a cough. There was one Friday in particular when she was especially sick. I was getting ready for a party scheduled later that evening, and as I was putting on my makeup, Kerrie was barely able to breathe. I could hear her, paralyzed from a hacking cough in the next room. I knew instinctively that this was the end. I laid down next to her and kissed her head, trying to take in her smell. I was bawling, drenched in tears of insurmountable agony. I knew the time was coming. I thought I had prepared, but no amount of forethought proved soothing. I only had an hour left before it was time to leave for the party. I took out my journal and read aloud a poem, one which I had been writing for weeks, a two-page epic about our time well spent. I was blubbering harder than the days on the kitchen floor, spewing verses that I knew she couldn’t understand. Kerrie sat there staring up at me, like she always did, in silent consolation. She had no idea what I was crying about, no ability to understand that it was really about her. She just wanted to make me feel better.
Kerrie passed away in my cousin’s arms at the animal hospital that evening. I often wonder if she was looking around the room for me. I’d like to believe that she wasn’t scared in my absence, that she recognized my poem as a farewell and thank you. I wonder if she understood the last words I said to her, or if she watched me leave for the last time, shutting the back door behind me.
Kerrie didn’t need to earn her angel wings; she already had them here on Earth. In the glow of growing up together and the morbid beauty of letting her go, I feel as though I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes. I don’t know where she is, but I hope that she is protected. On spring days, I can feel a hug in the wind and smell the sweet pine that used to emanate from our adventures in the backyard, and I swear that she’s with me.
When discussing the lessons with which animals gift our lives, every person can say something different. Because of Kerrie, I have learned to appreciate the empathetic part of myself and devote my life to benevolent service. So often was the sensitive part of me used and abused by certain individuals, I began to see my inherent emotionality as a hindrance and a burden. Kerrie proved that spiritual and emotional expression was not something to hide, but rather, something to embrace. She taught me that selflessness does not make someone selfless, but rather, it nurtures their capacity for love and self-knowledge. Any good mother, artist or therapist knows that love is the only answer. It never mattered how many times Kerrie was screamed at for a bad day at work or a broken coffee pot, petrified from a violent tone that she couldn’t rationalize – she would still approach the abuser with a wagging tail and a kiss. It is with her energy that the Earth continues to spin. She is my ultimate inspiration. She recognizes that healing can be fostered with silence and a bent ear. If I am to be anything successful, I am to be just like her.