Hope

My family tree has always included branches just for dogs.  It started with my dad’s granddad more than 100 years ago and is true to this day. My great-grandfather grew up in rural Tennessee when times were tough and money was tight. As a boy, he would relentlessly ask for a dog, but each time the response was the same: there wasn’t money to feed an extra mouth—especially if that mouth was on a dog. 

It might have been his dad’s new job or just the persistence of a ten-year-old boy, but his mom finally relented. The new family member was a Bluetick hound that my great-grandfather called Tick. This started two traditions that have lasted through four generations. Since then, my family has always had dogs, and all of them had Tick in their name. The original “Tick” was followed by Luna Tick. Then came Gigan Tick and Roman Tick. They were followed by at least 10 other “Ticks” before Fran.

Fran Tick, a hyperactive border collie, came on the scene seven years before I was born. I hadn't been there to name Fran, but for the eight years I knew him, he lived up to his moniker. On more than one occasion, Mom, Dad, and I would spend hours playing a game Fran invented called: I’ll-let-you-get-close-then-I’ll-run-away-again. Fran seemed to like the game more than we did, but when we would inevitably catch him, we could never be mad. He only wanted to play.  

Little boys tend to make friends easily, but there is no friend like your first best friend, and my first best friend was Fran. From the time I was a baby, I would fall asleep with my head on Fran's belly. And, when I was old enough to have a “big boy" bed, Fran would jump in every night and lay next to me as we both fell asleep. The only exceptions were the nights I would spend at a friend's house. On those occasions, Fran would climb on the couch and place himself on the back cushion in such a manner as to be able to look out of the front window and wait for me to come home. 

As Fran got older, our routine started to change. He still slept in the bed with me, but he couldn’t jump up anymore. I had to pick him up and put him in his special spot.

The morning I woke up and found he had peed on my bed, I wasn’t upset. I was scared. Although I didn’t fully understand it at the time, my parents had been preparing me for my last days with Fran. They did their best to explain to me in terms I could understand that my best friend wasn’t going to be around much longer. 

“Every dog has only so much love to give,” my mom explained. “They give it to us so completely that they run out of love before we do.” 

“Fran has been with you since the first day you came home from the hospital,” my dad added, “and even though we’ll miss him when he’s gone, all his love stays with us forever.”

I didn’t want to tell my parents about Fran’s accident, but since I didn’t know how to clean my blanket, I picked up Fran and carried him downstairs.

“Is Fran out of love?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. 

We laid him on the couch. After a few minutes, my mother turned to me and said, “Honey, I’m afraid so.” 

There are few things more heart wrenching than the sobs of a boy who knows his dog is about to die. I was inconsolable. I begged my parents for one more day with Fran, but they could see that Fran was in excruciating pain. They knew how much I loved my dog, and they hoped that one day I would understand that they were doing the most compassionate thing for both Fran and me.

“Get your shoes on and grab your coat,” Mom said as she grabbed her keys and a blanket for Fran. Her words caused both relief and anxiety. I knew when the time came, Fran would have to be taken to the veterinarian, but my parents weren’t sure if I should go. To this day, I don’t know why my mom and dad made the decision to let me go, but I am forever grateful that they did.

I wasn’t there the day Fran came into our family, but I was able to stay with him until the very end. The final thing my dog saw before closing his eyes for last time was my face. As painful as it was for me, I hope it comforted him.

On the way home from the vet, my mom reminded me that we were a dog family and that “when the time was right” we would get another dog. I know now she was just trying to ease my pain, but at the time I wasn’t interested. Fran was irreplaceable, and I was no longer a dog boy. 

Sunday mornings were bacon-and-eggs days, and for a kid who had to eat cold cereal Monday through Saturday, I counted the minutes between Sunday breakfasts. On one particular Sunday, the aroma of bacon and coffee woke me, as it usually did, but something was profoundly different this time. When I ran into the kitchen ready to eat the delicious feast, standing right behind my mom was the most adorable Miniature Schnauzer puppy anyone had ever seen. She was gray and white, salt and pepper, as I learned later, and she was peeing, right there on the kitchen floor. 

“Mom! It’s a puppy, a real live puppy!” A real live puppy, I actually said that. 

I had been certain that I was no longer a dog boy, but here was this little ball of fur who was as lost as I was. She didn’t know how to go outside to pee, but I could teach her. She needed a friend, and in that moment, I realized I needed a friend even more.

“Get some paper towels and a mop,” my mother said with a smile that lit up her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am!” 

I ran to the hall closet to follow my mother's instructions. When I finished cleaning, I sat down at the breakfast table and gave my parents the news. 

“Okay, you know I said no dogs, right?” I paused for dramatic effect. "Well, I'm willing to keep this one, but only if I can name her.”

“What did you have in mind?” my mom asked. 

“Miss Tick!” 

“Miss Tick it is,” my dad said as he and mom clinked their coffee cups with my glass of orange juice. “Now, let’s have some breakfast and celebrate.”

It’s a funny thing about getting a puppy after you’ve lost your best friend. You are still heartbroken, but you’re also really busy. 

It felt like the only thing I had time to do was take care of the dog. At the crack of dawn, I filled her bowls with food and fresh water. Next, I took her outside to go “potty.” Miss Tick wasn’t very good at that for a long time. Until she was trained, I would stand outside, having a staring contest with her, until she would lay down in the grass. However, once I brought her inside, I soon needed paper towels and a mop. 

The best thing about Missy, as I called her, was she was attached to me. It wasn’t easy at first. Missy couldn’t jump on the bed by herself, and I initially felt guilty for letting her into Fran’s space, both in the bed and in my heart. But before long, I was snuggling every night with the cutest little dog you ever did see.

Missy became every bit the best friend Fran had been, and the two of us grew up together. By the time I started high school, Missy was a full grown Miniature Schnauzer. The good thing was, being small, she still seemed like a puppy. She was always active, always loyal, and often smarter than me. I taught her how to shake hands, give a high five, roll over, play dead, and speak on command. Though I had plenty of friends in high school, Missy was my best friend.

I went to college locally, so each night when I would sit at my desk to study, Missy would plop herself down on my feet and fall fast asleep. My friends would tell me how much fun it was to live in the dorms, but as far as I was concerned, staying home with Missy was the best part of college.

When I graduated and got my own apartment, Missy came right along with me. It didn’t take long for her to get the lay of the land and in short order she was queen of our new place.

I didn’t get to see the full life cycle of a dog with Fran. He was an adult by the time I was born. He was fully trained and confident from the first day I knew him. On the other hand, I was there to see the “puppy days” with Missy. I was one who was there to teach her and clean up after her. I was there when she started jumping on the bed by herself and when she learned to let me know it was time to go out. I knew her when she was little and afraid and when she grew brave, protecting the house with her ear-piercing bark.

But now, she doesn’t run like she used to and a lot of times she waits for me to put her on the bed. She still cuddles up with me at night and sleeps on my feet during the day, but she doesn’t always make it outside to pee. Little by little, I’m becoming that eight-year-old boy again, living in fear that Missy is running out of love. 

I used to say the worst day of my life was the day Fran died. Fifteen years ago, my parents made the choice to mercifully end my best friend's life, but now I was the one who had to make a decision. I sat on the floor and held Missy in my arms the same way I had done since I was a boy. I stroked her fur and told her over and over how much I loved her. I gave her all of the treats she could eat, and for a few moments it was like we were young again, but I knew it was time. I then took my best friend to the car, laid her gently in a soft bed on my passenger seat, and drove to the same vet we had gone to all those years before.

My mom and dad met me at the veterinarian's office. Without words, we all began to cry together.

The three of us were directed to a room where we could be alone with Missy.

There is never enough time to say goodbye to your best friend, not when you are eight and not when you are 23, but I was glad for the time to reflect and remember. When the vet came in and asked if I was ready, I couldn’t speak through my tears. I just nodded my head and held Missy close. 

A quick painless shot—that’s all it takes. Once again, I stared into my friend’s eyes until they closed for the last time. As I sat there crying, I looked at my dad and said, “That’s it. I can’t do this ever again. I know there is a family tradition, but losing a dog is too painful.” 

“I understand, I really do,” he replied. 

“I need to be alone with Missy for a few more moments.”

“Of course, son. Take as long as you need. They won’t rush you, I promise.” 

After a few minutes of final goodbyes, I called in the veterinarian’s assistant.

“I’ll take good care of him, I promise,” she assured.

”Thank you,” I responded as she left the room and I the office.

In the parking lot, a man who had parked in the loading zone was busy collapsing a pop up shelter and loading it into the back of his pickup truck. I wouldn’t have taken any particular notice except for hearing a chirp that sounded a little like a smoke detector whose battery had died. I turned my head and saw the smallest dog I had ever seen. She was in a cage with a sign that read “Free Puppies.” 

“You interested?” The man asked. “This is the last one. She’s the runt of the litter. No one wanted her.”

“No, thanks,” I said, forcing a half smile. I’m done with dogs. Good luck though.”

I turned back towards my car. Then I heard the chirp again. Inexplicably I turned around and this time the little dog looked right at me, wagging its tail, barking.

“What kind of dog is it?” I asked.

“She’s a Miniature Schnauzer.”

“You’re kidding.” 

"Serious as a heart attack," he responded with a chuckle. "Baby Miniature Schnauzers pretty much look like generic puppies for their first six months."

"Can I hold her?” I said unexpectedly, the words coming from my heart.

He pulled the little girl out of the cage and handed her to me. As I held her in my arms, I fought back tears. 

"I don’t want a dog," I muttered under my breath. Turning back to the man, I asked, “What’s her name?”

“You get to decide.” The man answered before his expression and tone of voice changed. “I’m so sorry, she didn’t mean it. She’s a puppy.” 

I looked down to see what the man was talking about. Right there, smack dab in the middle of my previously clean white shirt, was a small yellow stain. Sometimes the universe sends you a sign. When it does, it's best not to ignore it.

“I’ll take her." I said with a smile that a few minutes earlier seemed impossible. "This little girl needs a friend, and I need one even more.”

“Done and done. She’s yours." The man said, slamming shut the tailgate on his truck. "What are you going to name her?”

“Hope,” I said, as my new friend started to lick my hand.

”It’s a strong name,” he said walking to the front of his truck. “It suits her.l

I knew the choice broke an old family tradition, but the man was right. Her name did suit her and it seemed to be a good time to start a new tradition.

"Let's go home, girl,” I said, my arms and heart filled with hope.