Tag Archives: Doug

My love letter to Doug

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Dear Doug,

You are this life’s greatest gift. All of your brothers are bud, but for this moment, it’s you. My perfect boy. How did I get so lucky that the universe said, put these two together? That I even got a moment to love you, is everything. And you loved me back, so beautifully. I can’t imagine anything to be more grateful for. Some roads are paved differently. Ours certainly was. When I think of us, I still cry. It’s a slow heal. Some of that is sadness, but all of it is me being so fucking thankful that you arrived in my life. I would travel through this life, or any other life, with you, over and over and over again on repeat. I’d obviously like to change some of the circumstances, and I would take any struggle meant for you since you had to carry weight of the struggle this go around. I don’t think you know how grateful my heart is for you. You showed me how deep love can go. A love so pure that joy flows out of it wildly. A love so strong, it healed our little corner of the world. A love so deep, I will likely grieve it forever.  Our end broke us both in ways that continue to break my heart. But, Bubba, we still burned brightly every day. I am so proud of the ‘we’ you and I became. 

You are love and liquid joy. One glance and people fell in love with you every time. One look into those golden eyes was all it took. Your wiggly dance and your exuberance and dedication to food. Your wild child zoomie naughty moments. The way you’d melt into the people you loved. My most perfect boy. I can’t say that enough. Those months during the pandemic, when it was just us. The world was broken, and you had just been diagnosed with NCL, and then suddenly, you and I got all that time together. In so many ways, our love grew stronger in darkness. Not much of it came with a guide, but you and I penned one for NCL together. We made a promise to the universe that no family would get that diagnosis and have to be alone. And now there’s an NCL family. Now, we all have each other. More pages of our story included NCL than didn’t. I can’t change that. Oh, how I wish I could. Every day during NCL, you did everything I asked of you. I can only hope I never asked for too much. I can only hope I gave you everything you needed to cope and that you felt my love and adoration up to, and now beyond, your last breath. 

On our worst days, you were the very best parts. On our best days, you were the reason why. Caring for you was the honor of my life. Full stop. You and me and our tiny giant love. It’s where I store my heart. 

I miss you every minute of every day. I know you can see how much I’m struggling. It’s hard being here without you. I read something recently that resonated so profoundly with me. It talked about how humans and dogs regulate each other. That was us. You regulated me, and I regulated you. And I think I will always be a little unregulated without you.   

I thought I knew grief, but I didn’t. Losing you has not been the same as losing your brothers. None of those coping skills have worked. The weight in my chest says good night to me at the end of each day, and hello again, each morning. There are moments when that weight is so heavy, I can’t breathe. Losing you has felt beyond my capability. I spend my days trying to avoid moving further away from you. It doesn’t work. We missed out on the other half of your life, and I’m still here hoping for it. 

But we didn’t miss out on the other half of our love. That, was always whole.

Archie is helping me to heal. I remember when Jake died and you came six weeks later. I was so thankful that you were not like him. And in my grief over you, it has helped a lot that Archie is the opposite of you in so many ways, except, of course, the love. The love will always be the same. 

It is unlikely I will ever get over losing you. But I will keep the promise that I whispered to you when we said goodbye. That every single day, I will take our beautiful love and make sure that as many people and animals as possible feel it. I will pay our love forward until the day I die. And if one day people say, she had so much love to give, that love is you. Bud, at some point in our journey, I realized you are the reason I am here. Thank you for regulating me. You are forever the beautiful parts of me. I carry your perfect, sweet, gentle, loving heart in my heart. You made everything better, including me. I love you, Doug. Always.

Love, me.

Here we go again.

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Doug is 12 weeks post a complicated luxated patella and TPLO surgery.  Two weeks ago we waved goodbye to our surgeon. As of last week, we probably had about six weeks more to go until he was free to zoom. We had just come off of pen confinement and needing to be leashed in the house.  Our rehab had finally picked up in intensity to really start building his muscle back up. He was sleeping upstairs again.

In other words, we saw the light.

This weekend, Doug tore his other ACL. I’d personally like to live in denial of this.  But Doug can barely walk now and his second surgery is today, so it’s apparently time to take a bite of this reality sandwich.

I sorta wish we had not seen the light or given him more freedom. To have it given, then abruptly taken away, has left him angry. He now sits in the pen and barks at me non stop. Not ideal, for either of us. 

I don’t really have the words to describe how hard it has been to keep Doug’s activity restricted.  I know a lot of people probably say that about their dogs, but the people around us can confirm that Doug is not, most dogs.  He is constantly in motion. When he’s being held back, he goes into destructive mode.  And as much as that drives me nuts, it is way more taxing on him to have to live the life as an inmate. These leg issues keep Doug from being Doug. He should be going in and out of the house into the yard whenever he wants. He should be running zoomies. Instead, he’s been in jail and on tie down and the moment he starts to taste freedom again, the jail bars drop back down.

He holds me responsible for it all, and it definitely impacts our relationship building. 

I am not sure how we will get through round two, but I know we will find a way.  I mean, we have no choice. Hopefully since this one should only be the TPLO surgery and not the luxated patella fix also (please God), it may be a bit easier on him.  Not sure about that but I am holding onto that hope.

If either Melvin or Jake needed this surgery, or even if they both needed it at the same  time, we’d all probably be high-fiving.  Staying still and resting was their goal in life. They probably would have cut their own ACLs if they knew it came with months of inactivity.  This down time for Doug, goes against his DNA.

I have had Doug for almost 11 months. It is estimated he ran stray for about 5 months. I’m hopeful he thinks jail-city is still better than being stray, but I can’t be sure. I’m trying to focus on the positive: we can afford these surgeries, he has good insurance, he’s young so healing is faster. But the truth is, my little family needs a win. 

Last night when I was laying in bed saying no, no, nope, no to this happening, over and over like a crazy person, I had a vision of Doug running stray.  What if he had not been found? What if both of his ACLs blew out and he was dragging his bloody stumps around? What if, God forbid, someone found him and decided he was not worth saving?

He came to me for a reason. One of those reasons is to be mended. We all know he will get that. Another reason could be to test the boundaries of my sanity. This surgery may breach that barrier, but who knows, it might help us get through round two!

Is he going to test my patience?  Yes, absolutely.  Will he pick back up on planning my death? Probably.

Will we make it through? Of course we will.  We are joy warriors.