Yellow

It was a January and without a plan we brought an 8-month old yellow lab into our lives.  It started with an overheard phone call at the Animal Refuge League as we were signing out from our weekly volunteer duties in the cat room.  The one-sided conversation we were privy to included words like young, yellow, lab, pure bred, rescued.   Each of these words caused my ears to perk up because I knew this was my chance to get Steve to make good on his promise that we get a dog.   He agreed and before you knew it we hopped into my 1997 Honda Civic and hauled ass to Raymond, Maine before someone else claimed her, or Steve changed his mind.

When we first saw her she was lying on the floor next to an arm chair.  Her eyes were sad, but if you looked closely you could see a sparkle just wanting to shine.  We listened and learned from her rescuer that she was very smart and would learn quickly.  That day we had no idea how totally unprepared we were for the nearly 15-year journey she would take us on.

Initially, she pushed our patience to the brink with her wild spirit and energy.  How that happened took on many variations, including incessant leash biting, trash diving, and mitten thievery.  She even took to running around the neighborhood looking for doors left open so she could visit an unsuspecting neighbor, and possibly find something good to eat.  There were epic incidents, including the blueberry pie incident, the turkey-poop fiasco, and the Cinco de Mayo scare.  It became clear that she had little interest in wooing us with good behavior, only with her free spirit wildness.

Everything about her was joyous and exhilarating and it was impossible to bridle her energy.  We kept thinking she would be calmer at 5, then 8, maybe 10, perhaps 12, most likely 14.   Her energy and zest never wavered.  Nearly 15 years old and still ready to play, interested in trotting down the driveway with her leash in her mouth, even interested in a game of catch and retrieve with a tennis ball.  Such a spectacular being.  

Throughout her life there would be early mornings when I’d wake up, dragging myself out of bed, sad, or mad, lethargic or depressed; and then, I would look at her.  She would peer up from her bed, smile with her sparkling eyes and wag her tail.  Ready for the day, always.  Ready to love me and make me laugh, always.  Teaching me that everything will be okay.   It will all be okay. 

She was also eager to spread the same joy to anyone who would pay attention.  A working girl she would roam the office looking for someone to play with, to entertain, to comfort, or annoy.   She turned non-dog people into dog lovers; neat as a pin people into someone who didn’t mind a swatch of yellow fur on their black pants.   She entertained at meetings by rummaging through open bags, begging for treats, and finally laying under the table so not to miss a word or an opportunity for some attention.

Phoebe’s life was well documented.  I loved to take pictures that captured her personality and spirit.  She was such an agile athlete, standing tall and lean and a pleasure to watch do all the things Labrador Retrievers are bred to do - swim, run, retrieve, console, love, play, provide companionship, and of course eat.  She had her favorite places to sit, and it never got old to see her laying in the sunlight streaming in through the front door.  There are still memories of her everywhere we turn which is verification of her “great dog” status.

Like all great dogs, the last lesson she taught us was how to find the courage needed to show love in the most profound way. It was excruciating to watch the effects of age on her physical being, and even more difficult to see that in spite of her pain how much she wanted to make us happy.   On her last day, we went outside and enjoyed a gentle May day and shared a rotisserie chicken.  The vet arrived at our house and in the most compassionate way possible we said goodbye.  In true Phoebe style, she wagged her tail until the very end.

For the last year, I have held back on the emotions associated with losing such a loving companion and teacher.  In many ways I have become adept at preventing true sadness to reveal itself.   So finally, as the year anniversary of her death approaches, I decided to open and finish the journal entry I started to write just days after she left us.  The moment I opened it up, it was as if she were looking up at me with those sparkly mischievous eyes letting me know everything is going to be okay.