Loving Harley for who she was

It's been six months since I lost Harley. I still cry every day but it doesn't last long. It's like a little cloud that blows through and sprinkles some emotion into my day. I feel guilty. I feel grief. I feel regret. I feel gratitude. I feel love. I feel a longing. The more I open to it, the more manageable it seems. Instead of bracing against it, not knowing how long or deep it will go, feeling my grief is just part of my day.

When I feel sad, I'll talk to her. I want to believe that she's still here, that she can still hear me. I tell her what I miss the most. That I miss holding her, I miss kissing her head. I miss her beautiful coat in her soft ears. What I say to her from the bottom of my heart is “I loved who you were.” 

When I got Harley, there were so many things that I needed her to be. I had a picture of what owning a dog would be like and that picture was what I wanted. She was a character in my fantasy. All evidence that it wasn't working be damned. I wanted the relationship with a dog that Disney advertised. If we weren't fitting it, there was something wrong with us and not the picture. 

Her separation anxiety seemed to be there from the start, but her fear based aggression came after a dog bite. For years I tried to manage it without really rocking the boat of our lives. Harley's behavior got bad enough to make me willing to try anything. Of course the answer was in the last place I wanted to look: Me. Harley didn't trust me because I wasn't taking care of her in the way she really needed. She didn't respect me because I didn't really give her a reason to.

I thought I was already the best owner possible. I was already a dog trainer. I had built a business so I could spend all day with her. What better dog owner could there possibly be? Unfortunately I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I wasn't doing the things I didn't know that I needed to be doing to earn the trust and respect I thought should have been a given from my dog.

Harley's struggles lead me to learn and change. Not willingly, but because my back was against a wall. When I stopped needing her to be something for me, when I took a step back and gave her room I was able to see who she was. When I stopped projecting on her, when I stopped being needy, when I stepped into the role of boss and out of the role of mother or friend or accidentally servant she had space to show me who she was. 

I'm only partially joking when sometimes I say that Harley was a huge disappointment to me. I wanted a dog who I could love on. I wanted a dog who would listen to me and trust me no matter what I did. That was not the dog that Harley was.

Harley didn't love to cuddle. She would listen to me - if she thought my idea was better than hers or if she knew she had no other choice, and not out of any sense of loyalty. She listened to me because she didn't like the consequences of not listening to me, which I delivered softly, consistently, and usually laughing to myself at her defiant spirit. 

Going through my healing journey I needed a lot of love and support. Harley’s calm company was invaluable. I cherished just being with her, but she was not a cuddly dog. Sometimes she would lay on the couch with me. When it was cold she would sit under a blanket with me or cuddle on my bed, but usually she had her own fur blanket that I would wrap her in at night on her little dog bed. She only wanted to sit on my lap if it was the most comfortable place available.

She loves to give kisses, which was not my favorite way of interacting with a dog, but that was okay. She loved it and I let her do it. When her excitement was tinged with anxiety, instead of meeting my own need of having an emotive excited and joyful reunion with my dog, I met her need for me to reinforce the calm mindset that I wanted to foster in her. I know that Harley loved being with me, but she would often show preference to anyone else who happened to be around - a partner, a friend or roommate. Harley would cuddle up, sit on, and relish in being pet by these other people. Sometimes I swear she would look back at me to make sure I was watching. 

Many of us have part of our self worth wrapped up in our relationship with our dog. We need for them to choose us, to be excited about us, to prefer us. I know that Harley loved me. I know that she needed me. I know that she appreciated my company, but she also loved to share her sweetness with and get affection from almost anyone else. As my friend said to me the other day on a call to commemorate Harley’s birthday, “between you, me, and Harley, she loved getting attention the most and not saying something.” 

Harley knew exactly what she could get away with and she loved to play with that line. On the summer hikes she ran ahead of us to go stand in the shade while I made my pack walk behind me in a heel. She would literally back out of group photos after I placed her in my line up of off leash dogs, as if I wouldn't notice. She didn't like being so close to the other dogs or waiting in the sun. Sometimes I would call her back. Sometimes I would let her do what she wanted. I had nothing to prove. I didn't need a perfect dog. I needed a relationship that worked for us, one where we could both be who we were and safely enjoy the things we loved doing together.

Harley was a smart, independent thinker when I would tell her to come along, especially at the barn where so much of my time was spent riding in circles she would understand the command, evaluate it, watch my next move, and decide if it really was in fact, the best course of action. 

Harley was an amazing dog, but that doesn't mean she was an angel. I would fuss at her really regularly. She would push the limits regularly. I didn’t take this as a censure on our relationship, my training, or her character. This was who she was: sassy, defiant, strong willed, intelligent. She was a dog that would make me earn my authority over her, not give it over out of loyalty or let me ride on the credit I’d accrued over the past decade plus. 

In all the ways that Harley was a disappointment were also ways that she was a gift. Instead of getting the ‘perfect dog,’ I learned how to love my dog perfectly. We both benefited and grew from our connection. I could guide her, but I couldn’t change her. Once I was able to see the real her, I never would have wanted to. I got the greatest gift a lover can hope for, that of seeing and appreciating her for exactly who she was.

The beach dog who walked me through grief

I got to the beach before sunrise. The dog was a light, sandy brown. I could have tripped over him. When I saw him sleeping in a ball I respectfully crossed to the other side of the path to the beach. To my surprise he got up and followed me. I waved my hand back and forth, as if to shoo him or dissuade him from getting too close to me, not knowing what his intentions were. 

I walked west towards apartment I rented last winter, towards my friend’s restaurant where I used to go. I was hoping to find the Englishman with the red hair and the dog who chased coconuts into the ocean. To my surprise the dog followed me and kept following me. He kept pace right next to me, pausing every now and then to search for crabs. As we walked, he ran up and barked at a Mexican man on the ridge of the sand carrying a stick, probably having had negative experiences with Mexican men with sticks. Wanting to help my dog friend, I fussed at him even though he had no control, even though I had no control as we don't really have a relationship. 

When my sandy dog would pause to hunt crabs I would stop and wait for him, watching the hunt. One time I saw a crab that didn't got his attention and I indicated with my hand where to look.  When it moved he went after it. I felt like this endeared me to him; he could see we were on the same team. I found a washed up reed on the beach near a smooth spot of sand. Walking, thinking about making this walk with Harley, thinking about being back in this place without her. This time I don't need to worry about her daily exercise schedule or the heat carrying her on my other shoulder along with my heavy computer, or worry about how each dog we passed would react to her and if she was safe. Even with her exquisite social skills, the dogs here have a code neither of us quite understood.

Alone on that section of the beach, I let myself cry, the kind of crying that changes your face in a way you don't want anyone to see. The dog, who had been staying within a bubble around me, but not coming too close, looped near me as if to check in. I reached down and scratched his head once to let him know I was all right. As he walked on I was grateful for the company. It can be hard to feel alone. I realized when we read that you'll probably misinterpret it. What I mean is it can be hard to feel when you're alone. We aren't really designed for it. His being there helped me release in to the sadness more than I would have on my own. 

Grief breaks us down and makes us want to believe a lot of things. I want to believe he knew that I needed the company before I did. I want to believe Harley is watching over me and she sent me a friend. I want to believe that of all the people who walked by, he chose me consciously and for a reason that means something about me. I think I believe that even though we're strangers because of what I know about dogs. We built a language - one where I can show him crabs and ask him not to bark when it might get him in trouble, one where we seem to have an understanding that we would wait for each other and work together. I want to believe, but I don't know if it's true.

This is part of why we get dogs. They're dependent on us. We can train them. We can let ourselves believe that they need us.  People get partners, get married for the companionship, to be chosen, to feel less alone on this earth. Children are dependent on us. They want our love. They need to ensure it for their survival. As they move through the world, we are the one constant. They reach for us. They reach for us. They reach for us, but we can't always be there. 

Perro, the uncreative name I've given my new dog friend approaches another dog, his body language stiff. I take a video, curious what he'll do, curious how the other dog will respond, if it will confirm my suspicions about his authority in the street dog world. The other dog politely sits, dips their nose down and away. He's pleased that his seniority has been recognized. After a quick sniff we walk on. I coo "good boy, good boy" because I’m pleased he moved on when I did. He wags his tail. You don't have to speak the same language to understand that happy, positive energy is a good thing. 

I love that about dogs. I want to say they don't hide their emotions, but then I think of Harley being tired, being sick, being in pain and so stoic. I wonder if she was worried about me, so obviously worried about her. I wonder if she was hiding what was going on inside of her from me to protect me or because she loved me or just because that is what animals do. 

I can tell from Perro’s wide head, from the way he carries his tail, from the way he approaches other dogs asking for their respect, that he moves through the world in a leadership role. When he spots another Mexican man I step towards him, trying to prevent a repeat performance, closing my hips, broadening my shoulders, making a sound that says no like the rumble strip on a highway. I annoy him until he decides it isn’t worth the trouble and he's back on track.

Perro has followed me quite far from where I found him, but I imagine he knows this simple long beach and can find his way back. I hope I'm not disrupting him as I indulge my deep desire for company, companionship. Me, usually so proud to be so fine alone, but I’m grateful he chose me, especially this morning, walking this beach without Harley and being unprepared, even though I knew it was coming, by how it grips my heart.