My dog died. I won’t go into the terrible details. I will tell you, he was a constant, lovable companion. It took awhile for him to get past his Master’s death. This was Scott’s dog. Sam was a Great Pyrenees. We had rescued him from a family who had come on hard times, having lost their home to bankruptcy and were moving into a two family in the city. I can’t remember if this happened when Scott was in hospice or after he died. Sammy kept running away, looking for Scott. It happened multiple times during the summer of 2011, just when I thought life was stupid and painful and not worth the hassle. This giant, white dog kept doing what I wanted to do. Run away.
The Providence police were wonderful. Our neighbors were wonderful. Everyone who tried to help was wonderful. This dog wanted to bolt, and it may sound easy to keep a one hundred and sixty pound dog inside. Trust me, it is not. If he wanted to get out, he got out. Galloping, really. Like a small Shetland Pony. There was no way I could keep up with him, you needed to be in a car to keep the pace. As irony would have it, keeping up with Sam was that was the very thing I needed to do. Keep up with him. Keep him in focus and active and busy. He had to be loved. Actively. Fully. So I loved him, even more than before.
And it got better. Slowly, without me even realizing it was happening. Sam was there when I was alone. He didn’t mind if I had a red nose from crying, or if I stayed in the same sweatshirt all weekend. His favorite thing was to walk through the house at night, on patrol. He would walk from room to room, pausing long enough to listen for any unfamiliar sounds. I knew no one would mess with us, just my daughter and I alone, husband gone and son away at college. Not with a giant white polar bear sleeping at the front door.
Now he sleeps at a different front door. Back at home with his Master. Thank you Sam. For being there for me, when I didn’t even know what I needed. You knew all about unconditional love and had enough to share with everyone, ten fold. Sleep well, my Bubba.