Last winter I spent with my family in Idaho. It wasn’t exactly what I would have thought I would be doing with my life at 22, but it was really a great winter. Besides the numerous trips to the cabin and incredible job, in February I got a new puppy. A labradoodle named Daisy. (I know, kinda a girly name, but it fits her). She was the center of my life. Living at home when you’re 22 is a little boring and I needed something to keep me entertained.
Daisy is the most well behaved puppy you will ever meet. She rings a bell to go outside and was my constant companion. She would sleep on the floor of my bedroom and at 6:30 sharp would pop her huge head right in my face and scare me half to death. She always wanted to play ball and kept me on my feet. It was great to have some kind of responsibility to look after and take care of.
When I left for school in April, I think I missed her just as much if not more than my family. I always swore to myself that I would never become one of those “dog people”. You know the kind. They always have dog hair all over and pictures of their dogs all over the house. As I got to school and was unpacking my things a dog bone fell out of my bag, there was hair on my favorite sweatshirt and the first picture I put up was one of Daisy and I. As I realized what was happening , I realized, “oh no, I may be one of those “dog people”.
Throughout the summer, my mom would call and tell me of the funny things Daisy would do. She would jump up on the couch and when my mom came into the room and told her to get down, Daisy would pretend like she was asleep. No joke, she is smart! Whenever I go home, she doesn’t leave my side. If I sit down on the couch, she thinks she needs to sit in my lap(she is 100 pounds).
Sometimes these phone calls weren’t about the funny things that Daisy had done. I could always tell that something was wrong because my mom would say, “Hi how are you?” and just pause. I would ask what was wrong and she would always say “we’ve had an incident with Daisy”. Most of the time these were small things like she got a rash from hiking with my dad or my little brother’s friends had yelled at her. But there was the day that she swallowed rat poisoning or the worst day, the day that she broke her leg.
She had been playing with our other dog, the cranky old man as we call him. He didn’t want to play with her and she was getting frustrated and running all over the backyard. Being the big clumsy thing that she is, she ran into our fire pit. Daisy never cries. My dad has stepped on her and she didn’t let out so much as a whimper, but my parents said it was horrible this time.
I felt like a mother being called by the school nurse. Something was wrong with my “child”. It gave me a little insight into what a mother must feel like when something happens to her baby. I had a knot in the pit of my stomach and I ached for my poor puppy.
She had to have two surgeries and a plate and screws all the way up her leg. It’s been almost two months now, but she still doesn’t use her leg. She has learned how to run on three and is just as fast as she was before. She is back to getting into trouble and tormenting the poor cranky old man. And she does it all on three legs.
