I’m positive

Today I’m making a choice. Well, right now I’m making a choice. I can’t say what will happen later. But for now, I’m making a choice to see the positive. Notice the positive. Find the positive. Be positive. Here’s what I’ve seen so far.

·        It only took me three snoozes to wake up.

·        The coffee didn’t spill, despite me knocking the mug when I got in the car.

·        My commute was only 54 minutes.

·        I put the perfect amount of water in my oatmeal cup.

·        When I sat down, the long belt of my dress didn’t fall in the toilet.

·        I remembered to bring my lunch.

I’ll see what the rest of the day brings, but so far, I’m at least positive that I’m off to a good start. #makingupgoodkarma #newoutlook #findthegood

Now it's just for laundry.

He loved me. Of course he loved everyone in the family to different degrees, in different ways, and for different reasons. But I was his person. He loved me unconditionally. I didn't know what that meant, really, until he was gone. Oh, sure, I knew the dictionary definition:

I hate it when definitions contain the word you're trying to define. So, what's a 'condition'?

So, unconditional means not limited by prerequisites or contingencies. Without requirements.

Life-hack - When it comes to love, unconditional means that the one dispensing the love doesn't want anything in return from the one receiving the love. They give it freely, without reservation, without restriction, without expectation. Always. Without fail.

Do we? Do we love unconditionally? Do we give our love freely, without reservation, restriction or expectation? Without wanting something in return? Maybe. Some people might get that from us. Some people might give that to us. I think it's rare among human companions. I'm not entirely sure we're giving it to those who we think we are. That might require a few therapy sessions to analyze.

Unconditional love is rarer still among feline companions. Cats are jerks, after all.

Horses are questionable. You think you have theirs, and give them yours, but then they try to kill you.

But, dogs? They know how to do it. Cooper knew how to do it. 

My conscious day started before I even got out of bed, and my first thoughts invariably involved him. What time is it? Is anyone else up yet? Had anyone let Cooper out yet? How long had he been in his room? If I was alone in bed, many of those questions were answered. Dave would have taken care of him. If I was not, my ears instinctively tuned in to the sound of the PlayStation, dishes clanking, stockinged feet padding, the shrill yet nearly indiscernible whine of a little body plopped lifelessly outside my door hopeful with anticipation of my impending arrival. If there was no sound, the realization instilled a sense of urgency. His bladder was only so big, you know.

I tried to be quiet as I got up, found fuzzy socks, used the restroom, and put my hair in a clip so as not to rile him up and create a crying barking foot-stomping frenzy that would, in turn, wake up Brian who slept (hopefully soundly) on the other side of the wall from 'Cooper's room.'

Once I made my way out the bedroom door, the excitement was palpable. His energy flowed out of him like a raging current. So much so that his body bounced up and down, perhaps involuntarily, definitely joyfully, until I reached 'the gate'. His smile beamed like something from a Trident commercial. Yes. Dogs smile. With one swift and practiced movement, I released the locked arm of the gate and swung it to the side, making room for his speedy egress. But he only went about eight feet. He would sit patiently at the line between the carpet of the family room and the wood of the kitchen for the five interminable seconds it took me to do so before turning around, when he would bolt directly to the back door, sometimes barking, always eager. 

The trip down the deck stairs to the yard varied based on the year, season, time of day, energy level, and amount of time he'd been cooped up (no pun intended). He did not, as a rule, stay out any longer than absolutely necessary, unless of course I was out there, too. Where I was, he was, or at least wanted to be. The trip up the deck stairs was markedly faster, with a streamlined stance similar to a racehorse. He took them in three strides. Reunited, we went inside to see about wrangling up some breakfast. 

For the past year or so, Cooper had been taking medication for his heart - a murmur that had been identified a few years ago as a grade 3 (out of 6 and defined as a moderately intense murmur, that is readily detected and detected over more than one location) but had been upgraded to a grade 5 (a very loud murmur accompanied by a precordial thrill and the murmur is detected when the stethoscope is pulled slightly off the chest wall) on June 26, 2017. I cleverly disguised said medicine, pimobendan and enalapril - one inch-wide wafer that was broken into four pieces, and one tiny pill - in lunchmeat. He'd recently become wise to the trick, so I'd switched to Kraft singles. This was followed by one of a variety of dog foods of the meat variety. His brand du mois was Cesar, you know the one with the cute little white dog on the front? Mom liked the convenient single-served containers. However, he'd taken to only wanting half of it lately. As a result, at the same vet check up on June 26 at which his murmur was upgraded, his weight had notably decreased. By four pounds. Four. He only weighed 14. Well, now 10. We were so proud of his non-effort to get his body in shape. 

After breakfast, he either followed me around as I got ready for work, followed me around as I started my weekend chores, or followed me outside to sit in the sunshine on the deck, grow hot, pant a while, move to the shade, then move back to the sun. Sometimes he accepted my offer for a lap. Sometimes he accepted my offer for a chair of his own. Sometimes he wagged his tail as he wandered off to the sun or under a chair. If I went inside, he went inside. If I went to the bedroom, he went to the bedroom. Yes, he even followed me into the restroom. I know. Don't judge. On the rare occasion when he didn't have the energy to actually follow me, physically, he followed me with his gaze. In fact, his eyes were rarely focused on anything else. 

He wasn't a snuggler. Except with me, and sometimes Brian. He would grumble if anyone got too close for too long or kissed him too many times, and would run if anyone, including me, tried to pick him up. But he loved to sit on my lap and next to Brian. And occasionally next to Sarah. And once next to Dave. As he got older, his hot flashes would require him to move off of the warm lap and onto the cool leather of the sofa, or his arthritis would cause him to need to stretch out on the floor, or the backrest of the couch, or another piece of furniture all together.

He wasn't a heavy sleeper. We always joked that he slept with one eye open. Maybe he didn't want to miss anything. I think he didn't want me to leave without him knowing, or come back in the room without him giving me a proper welcome.

He wasn't particularly playful. Occasionally, he would chase a tiny tennis ball and bring it back to you after making it squeak a few times. Sometimes he would play bow. But always, it ended with a lot of barking and, later, coughing, which we could only take (or make him suffer through) for so long.

If I left the house, like actually left to go to work or run an errand, and he had to stay behind, he would sit by the back door, by my bedroom door, or on a pair of my shoes and wait for my return. However long it took. The family said he lost his will to live when he was without me. Upon my return, the crying barking foot-stomping frenzy commenced. The raging energy current and beaming smile returned. His commitment to life was renewed.

At the end of the day, he would respond to the click of the TV being shut off, the coffee pot being set up for the next morning, or me bringing my water jug out to the kitchen to refill by standing patiently by the back door and making a final trek down the stairs, and then returning and heading straight into his room. Since he was a puppy, and for his two brothers as well, the laundry room of whatever house we were living in was their room. We likened it to a large kennel, and 'closed' it with a baby gate across the doorway. A simple, get in your bed was all he needed if the aforementioned hints hadn't been noticed. His clicky little nails tick-ticked across the hardwood floor and he either climbed directly into his orthopedic memory-foam bed, which was covered with a Minky Couture blanket that he'd stolen from Brian, or sat on the cool tile next to the vent just inside the door. If coaxed, he would wander back to the doorway for a final pet or scratch or kiss. If this nightly ritual wasn't followed - say, if I went to bed while he was outside, or I didn't say goodnight before I turned in - he ran around looking for me, and then resumed his sulking, no-will-to-live stance.

Given the chance for an extraordinary activity, we went for car rides, got puppuccino at Starbucks, took the occasional walk, and even had a few play dates with doggy friends.

But none of that mattered. He still loved me more. Than lunchmeat or puppuccinos. Than play dates or walks. Without reservation, restriction or expectation, except that I stick around. That was my only expectation of him, too. And he did. For 12 years.

My sweet Cooper passed away on July 23, 2017 after suffering a stroke from which the vet assured us he could not recover. His heart was very enlarged, one atrium in particular, which looked on the x-ray as if it were about to pop. It was taking up much of his chest cavity, impeding his ability to breathe effectively. They gave him oxygen and Valium. And then we gave him peace. 

He was with us until the end, allowing us rare and cherished snuggles, kisses, and hugs, and wagging his tail when each one of us spoke to him. I held him as he left us, which I hope provided him with some comfort and relieved him of some stress. It was quiet and peaceful - well, except for the inconsolable sobbing - and we feel like we made the right, albeit heart-wrenching choice. 

For him. 

Because he loved us, and we all loved him. 

Unconditionally.

Now there's no reason to get up. No reason to go home. Nothing waiting. His room is empty. But his things are still there. I've been doing a lot of laying around with his blanket. We still call out when we get home, before catching the words mid-throat, as they collide with the memory that he's not here anymore. The loss of all three of our dogs is now being felt in its full measure. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I don't like it anymore.

This weekend, we'll put away his bed, pack up his treats and food to donate, and take his leftover medicine to the hospital for disposal. And his room will be emptier still. Now it's just for laundry.

Rest peacefully, dragonfly. We will miss you forever.

Turn on the sound.