Love Me, Love My Dogs

Four dogs. Four love stories. From my first Sheltie to a Pit-Mix rescue, here’s how each one shaped my heart and my life.

Chelsea: Shetland Sheepdog

I had a Sheltie named Chelsea when I was little. She died when I was 10. And that hit me hard.

Chelsea was particular.

She was very calm, very small, and very much mine.

She offered comfort whenever I was feeling low. I’d sit on the floor and pet her ever so carefully so she wouldn’t snap at me (she was very sensitive about getting spayed, she deserved to be a mother).

I was living at my aunt’s house with my family while my dad was away for a year on deployment. My mom wanted extra support with raising five kids, three of which were under five.

I found out Chelsea died while I was at church one wintery Saturday night. I looked up at my aunt and saw a tear running down her face. She had just hung up the phone with my mom.

Chelsea had disappeared. My mom found her in the back alley, peacefully at rest in the snow. She lived to 13 — that’s a generous life for a dog.

Chelsea’s passing was my first experience with grief, and my mom ingrained the memory within me by making us all watch Because of Winn-Dixie. To this day, I will not watch that movie.

Eli: Australian Shepherd

When Chelsea died, my dad was still on deployment, and my mom got it in her head that we needed another dog before he got home. We all missed Chelsea tremendously, and my mother is an independent woman.

She found Eli, and I’ll never forget riding in the car after picking him up. He was a red Australian Shepherd, looked like a teddy bear, perched in a brown, cardboard box. He was absolutely the most perfect puppy I could have ever dreamed of.

I told myself that he wasn’t replacing Chelsea, just adding to our family in a new way.

I spent every waking moment with him.

Eli was energetic, rambunctious, and naughty. I loved him.

I “helped” my mom train him. I threw the ball for him. I pet him. I groomed him. His first bath? A perfect disaster.

Little did I know he’d soon be exiting my life; or, more so, I’d only be granted visiting rights.

My sister was two at the time. Eli had just been neutered. He was eating, stitches still fresh. And she decided to yank on them. He snapped.

Eli didn’t really bite her, or at least that’s what I told myself.

It didn’t matter what I said to my mom after that point. She called my Opa, and he came over straight away. He agreed to take the dog to the farm (a real farm, not the metaphorical farm Chelsea found herself in).

To say I was devastated is an understatement, but I conceded. Resigned in the understanding that we couldn’t have a dog my mom could not trust.

Eli lived to 16. His life was full of love, the outdoors, and companionship. He found the right home, and I’m grateful my mom gifted me precious months of him being mine.

Fritz: Shetland Sheepdog

We went some time sans dog. We moved back to Butler, PA. I started the fifth grade.

I don’t remember much from our time in that house, but I do remember Fritz. Snickle Fritz, if we’re using his government name.

He was a runt my mom found online from some sketchy guy on some sketchy website. We had looked at golden retrievers as a family, but they didn’t exactly match our vibe.

Fritz? He was a perfect fit.

He was so tiny when we first got him. We quickly learned he was a maniac, in the most lovable way possible.

He barked nonstop, hated strangers, didn’t get along with other dogs. But he was ours.

He held me through some of the toughest years of my life. Middle school. High school. College. Post-grad.

Fritz was an anchor for me. He, like Chelsea, was particular. He had a personality. I adored him.

My grandpa passed away in 2020, and Fritz followed suit two years later.

I was living in DC at the time I got the call. My mom informed me Fritz was close to his last breath; I came straight over.

I cried on the stretch of 295 leading me to northern Virginia. I will never forget the clouds. The way the sun shined through. It was like my grandpa was speaking to me, telling me it was going to be ok. That Fritz was tired, he did his job as our family dog, and he was ready to go.

I sat with Fritz. He held on long enough for me to say good bye. And then he was gone.

Fritz lived to 16.

Cher: Pit-Mix

Fritz died in May, and I found Cher in August that same year. I fully believe all the dogs I’ve loved before led me straight to her.

I brought her home with me after an impulse adoption, and I cannot stress this enough: I had no idea what I had in store for me.

In case you’re new to the dog world, you can choose to adopt or shop. You have the option of choice — breed, gender, age, pedigree — depending on your preference.

I opted to adopt. I opted for a “lab-mix” that looked strong, calm, and perfect for me. Plus? She was stunning. Beautiful. With the soulful eyes of a girl who lived too many lives at the young age of two.

She had been taken back to the shelter three times before I found her. One family had children; it didn’t work out. One family moved out of state and couldn’t take her with them. I suspect the last family or one in between was low-income and couldn’t take care of her.

Lucky me. My angel was available and alive.

She was never good on the leash for me. She was strung out from the beginning — afraid of noises, afraid of people, afraid of other dogs.

She was mouthy at first. She’d gnaw on hands and feet.

We worked through her quirks together. Admittedly, to this day, walking on a leash is still a rough ride for us.

Cher lit my world up. Lights my world up. She is love. Unconditional and fierce.

In January, I opted to amputate her leg after she sliced her achilles tendon.

We’ve made it nine months on three legs. It’s true what my vet said — they do recover. They find a new normal.

I’ve been experiencing a different type of grief, and sometimes it compounds because I sense Cher feels it too at times. The loss of a leg. The pain of recovery. The pain of choice.

She runs like any other dog. Jumps on furniture. Does stairs. She gets tired more quickly, and my anxiety has ebbed and flowed throughout this process.

She’s happy. And so am I. Full of love. Full of gratitude.

Thank you for stepping into this little pool of grief with me as I process and look for the joy and the love.

It means the world to me.

XOXO, Lucy