My family, we kept her. I was eight years old when we bought her as a floppy little puppy. Her paws were so big she would slide around our kitchen tile floor, spread-eagled out as she comes bounding towards you with no hesitation or intention to slow down, toy in mouth. She was clumsy and curious, bold but skittish. She’d chase the beam of a flashlight around in the dark, pounce on it with satisfaction to only look at us with tilted ears, face of innocence, when it disappeared and then reappeared five feet away. She always had so much energy.
Over the years, I taught her so many things. She’s one of the most obedient dogs I’ve ever interacted with, and yes, I may be biased because she’s mine, but the dog I had before her in no way compared to how attentive Zoe is and eager to do what you ask. I taught her to jump over gates, to speak, to roll over, to do all those dog things. She will sit and wait for you to say it’s okay before running to her bowl to slop up the leftover steak fat trims from dinner. I will take her outside, and immediately she will grab the field hockey ball I gave her, look at me with big eyes and stand by the door, waiting. Back and forth she will sprint to get the orange ball, barking at me until I smack it again into the woods. Sometimes, she’ll get in the way, the hard ball hit her right in the ribs, and she won’t even wince, as if it never even happened, pick it up and come running back to me, confused when I put my stick down and ask her if she is okay. She’s tougher than most people I know, definitely tougher than me.
She’s 12 now. That’s older than any Springer Spaniel my mom has ever had (she’s had many). And she’s still kicking. Still full of attitude in her cute way. Still has bursts of energy, wants to play, just not as much anymore. She walks into walls, doors, people, really anything. Her right eye is definitely gone, clouded and caked. Her left eye isn’t so great these days either. I will drop a treat on the floor and it will take her a good while to shuffle around and find it, even though it is literally right there in front of her. When I come home these days, she no longer is waiting in the window already barking because she smelt me, saw my car, or whatever it was that triggered her to just know. She’s sleeping. And she stays sleeping sometimes for an hour before she realizes I’m home. Usually it’s because she will smell me eating food, her head pops up and then she will gingerly get up and slowly come over to sniff me, give me a kiss, before heading back to bed. She can’t do all that she used to. All those things that people claim dogs to do, the reasons we have them—play, greet us, cuddle with, and so on. She’s not the same, not as her old self, and certainly not as most other dogs that are pets.
But we’ve learned to love on her in other ways. To take her as she is. It’s not always easy. Sometimes I look at her and want to curse her out for being so dang cute, simply wanting to throw my arms around her. But I can’t, and that’s okay. I’ve learned to show my love to her in other ways. She’s taught me that we all are capable of being loved, given time, given space, appreciated for our strengths and quirks, forgiven for out faults, but all the same a part of our lives.
