2016: Where do we go from here?

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. And, in Dickensian fashion, I can reflect upon 2016 and unequivocally state that this was a year in which some of the best and worst moments of my life were mashed together in the span of 365 days. 

2016 started quite cruelly. On January 20, 2016, we lost our Buffy. She'd beaten nasal adenocarcinoma, then succumbed to a seizure wholly unrelated to her cancer. A wicked irony reminding us that that the dreaded "C" prognosis can be kept at bay, defeated even. But, no matter how hard we try, we can never beat father time. Kidney issues, liver issues, age-related issues. You name them, she had them. No amount of wishful thinking, or wishing upon a star, or hoping, or praying, or anything at all could keep her with us in physical form forever. No matter how much I protested this heartbreaking aspect of life, her time had come to an end, and I was powerless to do anything about it.

I felt puny. Weak. And, I ate lots of pizza. I drank lots of wine. I gained pounds. It was emotional comfort after all, even though it wasn't necessarily good for me. I knew it wasn't good for me. But I own it. These demons, you see, are mine. I fully admit that it was easier to get lost in moments of sugar highs and wine-fueled escapes than it was to acknowledge that my rock -- my constant -- my fiery Jack Daniels Harley Davison-riding Sheltie girl -- had gone to the rainbow bridge. She'd been with me nearly 12 of her almost 14 years through relationships and job changes and myriad ups and downs. I wasn't ready to let her go. Nearly a year after her death, I'm still holding on to her. I will always hold onto her. For this, I make no apologies. She was never "just a dog."  

Buffy. October, 2015.

Oddly enough, we'd find the cruel juxtaposed with the kind. Who knew that a bitter cancer diagnosis would yield a ray of sunshine? Unexpected trips found us in unfamiliar places. Chaos is, indeed, organized, and out of the noise -- out of the seemingly diabolical symphony the universe had written for us, we were led in another direction. Connecticut. And, Connecticut gifted us with Henry.

Henry. October, 2015. 

In an almost serendipitous way, this little tri-colored Sheltie boy, thrust into our lives by chance, was the perfect reprieve for grieving hearts. Experiencing life through the eyes of a puppy makes one almost forget everything except living in the here and now. Indeed, puppies are innocence coupled with unbridled curiosity, combined with limitless energy and enthusiasm, all wrapped neatly into little fuzzy four-pawed bodies. Henry taught us patience. He taught us presence of mind. Through him, we learned to appreciate the concept of "being" in the moment. I'd almost forgotten that the simplest, seemingly trivial things actually can be some of life's greatest joys. Snow: the bewildered look on a Sheltie boy's face, as he touches the cold powdery substance for the first time, turns to bliss in an instant. Encountering winter for the first time with Henry, I realized that perspective is everything. Within these moments, within these "firsts" -- from frolicking in snow to running free along a beach -- to something as basic as tuning out life's worries and work deadlines in lieu of being engaged on our daily walks -- I'd stumbled upon something profound. With our dogs, nothing is more important than this day. And, for a few seconds anyway, if we pay close attention, we can almost capture lightening in a bottle. 

Henry's first snow.  January, 2016.

And so, though we started the year as four, we quickly became three. The "Three Musketeers." Although the grief over Buffy did not end, I placed my ultimate faith and trust into the message Henry had delivered to us. I was determined to be present, because Henry had decided to lead us into new adventures. He'd lead us into a whole new world. Despite being "soft" and shy, this little guy craved something. He loved to run. He loved it even more to run fast. And, he'd made it clear that he needed something from us; something that we never gave Buffy or Dylan. Something I was unable to give Buffy or Dylan fourteen years ago: time. As a budding lawyer in a mega firm, I just didn't have many spare minutes at all. Then again, when I was a young thirty-something, I hadn't learned to live in the moment, either. Trying to build a future, I wasn't equipped to focus on anything but far-off dreams. It wasn't until Buffy and Dylan aged, displaying areas of grey around their eyes and muzzles that the impact of those lost seconds was felt.  With Henry, I won't share that same regret.

Henry decided he wanted to "play agility" after watching Westminster.

We found agility, or rather, agility found us.  Our soft boy grew in confidence, as he went from pensive to deftly maneuvering himself over jumps, through tunnels, and over A-frames. He thrived, and we followed his lead.  Imagine his excitement upon seeing the building in which his classes were held, pulling toward the door as if he were a sled dog. "Let's go, Mama," he'd say, "It's time for us to play!"

Running and jumping and jumping and playing, the "Three Musketeers" eagerly embraced our new adventures, all while words like "hemangiosacoma" and "nasal adenocarcinoma" began to fade. Henry was ours and we were his, and whatever escapades we'd find, we'd have fun together.

By spring, we were growing. New directions, new friends. We were growing together, and growing in numbers. In April, 2016, I received an email from Henry's breeder. "Are you interested in a sable and white male puppy?" 

The "announcement."

Nine weeks later (and in what was probably the longest nine week span of my life), the "Three Musketeers" would pack up our car and find ourselves in Connecticut once again. By the end of a  whirlwind weekend traipsing about the Rhode Island coast, three would become four.  On June 13, 2016, we were gifted with Gus.

Quite comfortable on his first full day at home.

There's something heartwarming about bearing witness to two dogs as they bond. Going from strangers to becoming brothers. Watching them playing together, smiling together, and sleeping together is the perfect medicine for a wounded soul. So many new adventures awaited us, and chances to experience even more "firsts" through the eyes of a different puppy.  A beach vacation. Playing in the rain. Kiddie pools. Hikes in the woods. Exploring new cities. Making new friends. Catching lightening, even if only for a few seconds.

Grief is a powerful thing, but it is no match for two smiling Sheltie boys.  Somewhere along the way, sometime this year, the incomplete feeling left in my life by the passing of Buffy and Dylan dissipated. We don't replace them, for they can never be replaced. But, it's a sorta magic when you realize that the heart can surprise you with its limitless capacity to love. And through this capacity to love, we also realized that somewhere in our journey of 2016 we redefined the term "family."

It's amazing the things that bring people together. Common interests. A love for dogs. Tragedies. Kismet. Random meetings. This year, however, it was never more apparent to me that certain people are supposed to be in our lives. Certain people are supposed to be family. I've shared in their joys, and wept, living their sorrows as if they were my own. Words can never convey how grateful I am to have found you.

"Family"

"Family"

To our friends and new family, I wish that you may find yourselves catching lightening in 2017. Stop. Enjoy a dog's smile. Be in the moment, and know that your presence in our lives, despite how we found you, is one of the best things to happen to me -- not only this year, but always.