To my Abbie

It was like she chose us, and as cliche as that sounds, it was almost serendipitus the way she entered our lives. Tired and disappointed from a day of puppy searching at the local shelters, my family and I had accepted defeat and given up, but then out of nowhere there she was. A happy, bounding, white ball of energy on her way back into the shelter. Jenny, her name at the time, was about to re-enter the Salem Animal Shelter because her owner realized she didn't have the time to care for her, but lucky for her she was quickly scooped up and accepted into the Angelo family. Now, when you're an Angelo dog you are no longer just a dog, you are a new and welcomed member of the family. You are spoiled and loved like any other human child. We are no "speciests" in my household, if you are alive you are loved.


Jenny became Abbie, and even on the car ride home, we realized that we were in for one hell of a puppy stage. She had endless amounts of energy and always seemed to be chewing on something, especially my hand. She had many accidents in the house, but lucky for us she was smart, most likely due to her Border Collie genes. Soon enough she was trained, and joined by two other massive, fluffy white dogs. We were a family, dogs and all.


Two days before Thanksgiving I received a call from my mother informing me of her deteriorating state. Coombs disease, she said. While I was concerned, I was very optimistic. She was only nine years old, all the Angelo dogs have lasted until they were at least fifteen. Abbie was sick, not dying, and this "wonder pill," as it was so called, would fix her. With no real doubts in my mind, I hung up the phone and kept my dog-sister in my thoughts.


Thanksgiving came and only then did the doubts start to come. Our once very energetic, alpha dog lay motionless and tired on her bed. I sat with her for a while, gently petting the graying fur on her face, hoping to somehow psychically take away her pain and make her better. The bones on her head, which I had never felt before, were very apparent, and obviously due to very rapid weight loss from the disease. My own dog, Valo, must have sensed something was wrong because even in her excited, puppy romp, she avoided touching Abbie when she was usually the first dog to get a big dose of Valo in the face. But still, even with the minor doubts I was feeling after seeing her, I still kept an optimistic view on the whole situation. The "wonder pill" will work, no worries. So as Corey and I left for his parents, I realized I had forgotten to say goodbye to the dogs, which is my normal routine. I thought of Abbie, and for a brief second hoped it wasn't the last chance I had. No, everything will be fine and I will visit on the weekend just to be sure she's feeling better.


But only a mear 24 hours later, that wasn't the case. She had died the day after Thanksgiving surrounded by my family. I know most people think, "Oh it's just a dog," but not to me. No dog I've ever owned was just a dog, they were my family, someone I loved with the same intensity I have for any other human being. Her death leaves an empty hole in my heart just as it would if I had lost anyone else. I feel guilty for not saying goodbye, something I do every time I go to my parents. What possessed me to break routine then? Still, I am happy she is no longer in pain. The disease crippled her, made her into a dog I could not bare to see suffer. Though in my selfish heart, I wish she had more time. Nine is much too young for a dog to die.


So this is my memorial to my dog, my sister, who, though she is no longer living, will always be in my thoughts. I will still love her everyday my soul is alive, with the same intensity I had while she was alive. I love you, Abbie, and I'll see you again someday.