What's Not to Love About My Beloved Katie

Katie had many nicknames: Doodle Dog, Katie Bug, Doodles. She didn't care. She would come at the sound of any of her names. She grew from a black and white furball into a ninety pound dog with soft flowing fur, deep brown eyes that could touch your soul, and a heart full of love. She followed me from room to room, even as she grew old and feeble. Her job was to be near me, to protect me. She'd wait patiently outside the bathroom door until I came out. She'd lay on the floor beside the bed while I slept. And when I'd sit in my office to write, she lay at my feet, her nose on her paws, her eyes watching me. I loved her.

As arthritis claimed her hips and she could no longer climb up and down the stairs of our bi-level, my husband built her an elevator. The elevator consisted of a box attached to a boat winch mounted on our railing. Katie would go onto the deck, into the box and we'd winch her down to the ground. She could enjoy the backyard, do her duty and when she was ready, she'd climb back into the box for us to winch her back up.

Katie and I talked about her pain, about getting older, and about being together again one day. When she had her stroke, she understood. Her eyes held mine telling me it was time to let go. I didn't think I could bear it. But she spoke to me, telling me it was time and that she'd be waiting for me. So I held her close, hugging her and talking to her as the vet administered the meds that would ease her pain forever.

Katie's cross is in my back garden where her ashes are buried. I still cry when I remember her and how special she was. She showed me unconditional love.

What's not to love about a friend like this?



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