Debby Does…

Because I’m a musical theatre person, people always think we named our dog, Matilda, after the musical. Well, we did not. Truthfully, we had gone to adopt a puppy—her puppy—and that dog was called Tilly. We liked it, so we paid tribute to the puppy that gave us her darling mama and named her Matilda. The song we always sang to her was Harry Belafonte’s Matilda, but we had our own lyrics.

“Matilda, Matilda, Matilda, she takes the monkey and runs ’round the living room.”

At the start of her time with us, Matilda, from here forward referred to as Tilly, had a lot of monkey babies—hurricane monkey baby, a hand me down from Scout, who received it during our hurrication of Irene; gigantic monkey baby, bigger than Tilly and quite challenging to maneuver; and a few other, easily destroyed and short lived, monkey babies.

Tilly came to us from Puerto Rico, by way of Bideawee rescue in Manhattan. She was just a young mom who had been dumped with her four pups in a cardboard box at the gate of a shelter. She was scrawny, with droopy nipples and a skin condition. She had a bottle of skin care soap labeled, “Nina,” her name at the shelter. She was pitiful looking, terrified of my husband, and ran away the first night we brought her home.

I could tell so much more of her story, but I think it’s important to share what she taught us over these past ten years. Some of those lessons were just helpful reminders, but others were quite powerful and gave us additional tools to deal with the people in our lives who felt lost, abandoned, and like running away was the only answer.

Trust. Trust is earned and you have to maintain it. It’s not necessarily permanent. With the exception of shelter staff, Tilly only knew that humans threw her away like trash. Lady people might be okay, but men types were not to be tolerated. For nearly a year, Jim slowly, sweetly, and determinedly worked to gain her trust. He took over all of her care—long walks, treats, kibble, and, the most important, talking to her in his baby voice. She wanted no parts of him, but, finally, she gave him her belly to rub, snuggled up to him in bed, and told him, in no uncertain terms, that she was his. He earned every ounce of her love and faithfulness.

Independence. Tilly had to figure out how to be a pet. She knew how to be a dog, a survivor, a warrior, and a fighter. She often chose to be in a different room from us. We might be watching television in the living room, but she would be on the sunporch, in her rocking chair, sleeping in her own space, on her own terms. When the scary thunderstorms or fireworks started, she took herself to her safe place. She did not ask for comfort from us. She comforted herself. She knew what she needed. While many dogs come to their humans for reassurance and safety, Tilly knew that she had all of that inside herself. Even though we would have loved to snuggle on the couch with her, we respected her need to claim her own space.

Fortitude. My lord, this dog had a high threshold for pain. She had many surgeries and procedures during her life, having had six bouts with cancer. Sometimes her incisions were more than 10 inches long, seeming to cover her entire belly. She never cried out in pain, never whimpered, and never needed all of her pain medication. The first time, she even took out her own staples and, according to the vet, did a very nice job. Even on her last day, with her insides betraying her, she never cried. I cried. She soldiered on.

Humor. Tilly knew she was funny. She also had an innate sense of timing. She knew when humor was needed. Marital squabble? In comes Tilly with some kooky antics. Dementia related breakdown? Tilly enters stage right to distract and diffuse. For such a serious and intense little dog, she had a lightness about her and the ability to put together a routine on the fly that got everyone laughing and loving again.

Tilly was unlike any dog we had ever known. In many ways, she was like a cat, prone to hitting you with her paws, aloof, and, sometimes, solitary. When you looked into her beautiful eyes, she stared back at you like a human. Her soul had known sorrow, joy, pain, and love, not unlike my own. Some nights, she would hop up into the bed and press her warm body in the small of my back. I would reach out and bury my hand in her soft, soft fur. She was the softest dog I had ever known and her tail had strands measuring up to 14 inches. Her toe floofs, as they were known, were like little built in Uggs. She had a green tattoo on her belly to indicate that she had been spayed. And, my favorite bit, was a tiny pink spot on her black nose that was shaped a little like a heart. When we first brought her home, her whiskers were her finest feature, but love and nutrition and safety allowed her to blossom into the stunning creature that she was. People continually stopped us to ask what kind of dog she was and tell us how beautiful she was.

As she drifted away from us, under the haze of medication, her heart beat slower and slower, until it finally stopped. She took her time. She stayed with us as long as she could. In that final moment, she needed us more than ever to take care of her and show her the true meaning of love and devotion and compassion. Her body could no longer withstand the ravages of cancer, though, if we had asked her to stay longer, she would have done all that she could to fulfill that wish. Her love for us was deep and steadfast; her loyalty unwavering.

Our trusty sidekick on vacations, she sunbathed at “deez beach” on Sanibel, road in the “buggy” (the car) to Florida, intently watching the road for hours until she recognized her surroundings, Tilly had one hell of a life. She was a supermodel who raised thousands of dollars for her shelter in Puerto Rico. She graces the cover of a coffee table book and has friends on Facebook that I don’t even know. Dozens of lovely Puerto Rican ladies love her and follow her. She is an ambassador of love and resilience and hope. She has inspired many friends to adopt and not shop, including at least six who adopted from the Santuario de Animales San Francisco de Asís, where she was left in that infamous cardboard box. Through Tilly and Jim’s walks, we got to know our neighbors better and showed people that shelter dogs are the best dogs and rival their full bred cousins in beauty, brains, and loyalty.

When you rescue a dog like Tilly, you turn the first page in the greatest love story ever told. Even in the heartbreaking sadness of her loss, I am so lucky to have been loved by such an extraordinary creature. I got to be her mama for ten years. She changed my life, my heart, and my very being. She was my baby. I’ll miss her every day in every way. I know that I’ll continue to reach out for her in the night and, though she won’t be there in body, I know that she’ll send me her warmth and abiding love from the next life. I hear there’s unlimited sweet potato treats up there, fed to you from the sweet hand of her dearest friend, my late mom, fondly referred to in Tilly speak as “Miss Laydee.” I hope the Amazon truck goes by daily so she can get her barks in and that there are unlimited squeaky hedgies for playing.

Meanwhile, I’ll turn my attentions to this little orange dog that Tilly begrudgingly accepted into our lives. She needs to learn that the outside world isn’t as scary as she thinks and new people can become friends. Tilly will guide me as we find trust and love and confidence in yet another furry baby rescued from Puerto Rico. Our darling Adelaide will find her way, just like her big sissy.

Thank god for a dog. I think it’s no coincidence that dog is god spelled backwards. It’s the greatest love I’ve ever given and received. The memes are right. There’s nothing better, nothing truer, than the way your dog looks at you and loves you.

You ought to get yourself one. I know a great shelter!

Long live the dogs.

I love you, Tilly. Thank you.