A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.

It’s Edgar’s unofficial 16th birthday. He came into our lives nine years ago, and I vividly recall our first encounter. There he was, standing in the center lane of 16th Street, already busy with Monday morning traffic. I had just left the gym with my daughter who spotted him first, alerting me to that fact by screaming at me to stop the car, jumping out, and flailing wildly at the oncoming traffic which she successfully brought to a momentary standstill. Within seconds, she had scooped up the tiny Chihuahua trembling in the widening beam of the headlights before him, named him Edgar – an homage to Mr. Poe –  and announced on Facebook that “He’s 50% tremble, 50% snuggle,” and that he would be moving in with us.

In spite of having run several miles on a treadmill, I had not yet had that first cup of coffee and was neither alert nor ready for Monday let alone a Chihuahua. In the back of my mind, I was already planning to post a few “Found Dog” signs around the neighborhood, confident that by the end of the day “Edgar” would be back where he belonged, answering to a name someone else had given him.

Sophie almost convinced me to let her stay home from school that day, so she could be with “her” new dog. Shaking and scared, submissive and sweet, his little ribs were as noticeable as the heart shaped markings on his coat. Sophie was vexed and without saying it, I knew she knew that based on our experience with Molly, a beautiful brindle, a new dog was probably not in the cards. On the heels of a spectacular crisis in my professional life, we had rescued Molly the greyhound in the Christmas of 2008. She adored me, and the feeling was mutual. Elegant and affectionate, that dog knew how to be retired. She wanted to lounge around the house all day eating Lays  – but she did not want to do it alone.

Molly & Me (Xmas 2008)

Ultimately, we had to surrender her to the Arizona Greyhound Rescue. Her separation anxiety had grown so severe, she just couldn’t stay in the house by herself. Heart-broken, I returned Molly to a gruff yet kindly man but only after I knew for certain a foster family was waiting with another greyhound to keep Molly company and someone at home all day.

Life with Molly – although brief – had helped seal the deal as far as future pets were concerned. We were a one-cat family.

No more dogs.

No way.

But there were tell-tale signs that tiny Edgar was making his way into my husband’s heart. “Surely someone is missing this little guy terribly,” he said. He bought dog food and treats. He drove slowly around the neighborhood, posting “Found Dog” signs, while at the same time scouring every lamp-post for “Lost Dog” signs, hoping to make some family’s day by returning their dog. Every morning, he perused the Arizona Republic and Craigslist to see if someone in Phoenix had lost a cute little Chihuahua. He took Edgar to the Humane Society where he was informed that while they didn’t take lost dogs, they would check for a microchip. No chip. No collar. No clue that he belonged to someone. They estimated “Edgar” at about seven years old, determined that he hadn’t been neutered or cared for. Malnourished and dirty with ghastly breath and worse teeth,  he weighed three pounds. Barely.

Within three weeks, it was clear that nobody was looking for him. In spite of having four perfectly good legs, he expected to be carried everywhere. Dutifully, we all obliged. He gained weight. He stopped trembling. He slept in Sophie’s arms every night. He scampered towards us when we called “Edgar,” and soon we were all besotted, as poet Mary Oliver writes,

Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Edgar was ours.

About a month later, my daughter and I were in Northern Ireland visiting my parents. It was a Friday. I remember it vividly.  On another continent, in another time zone, I had been keeping my fingers crossed that a friend would come through with tickets for the free concert Van Morrison was giving at the Waterfront Hall after being granted the Freedom of the City of Belfast. This was before Van Morrison revealed himself as not only a curmudgeon but a dangerous conspiracy theorist who has spent much of the past two years protesting COVID restrictions and denying science. But that Friday, I was distracted – repeatedly – by thoughts of foreboding, by the unexpected sound of my own voice as my phone-calls to Arizona went straight to voice-mail. Worried, I did what I always do when I have “a bad feeling,” I sent a text to my best friend to ask if she would drive to my house – just to check.

I have a flair for the dramatic and, conventional wisdom be damned, I always sweat the small stuff, finding the devil in the tiniest of details. I make mountains out of molehills which sometimes works when I can produce a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But this? This was the second most significant detail of my adult life, wrapped up in a text that travelled from Castledawson to Chandler at 12:25PM Mountain Standard Time:

“Trying to be calm, but afraid he is hurt or dead.” 

I stayed on the phone – holding on – as she walked to my front door, as she looked through the bay window to see little Edgar looking back at her, still and silent, knowing what we had yet to discover. I waited for her to discover my keys under the doormat, to come on in to our cheery living room with the sunny yellow walls, and to call my husband’s name once, twice, and a third and final time before finding his lifeless body on the bed, hoping he was just resting but knowing he was gone.

He was gone.

Gone. 

Nine years on, in the quiet of an early morning, when I reflect on all that has transpired,  I find myself finding reassurance that as his fragile heart stopped working Ken’s last interaction on this earth was tender, with three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.

For a long time afterwards, my daughter told me that every day without her dad begins not with sorrow and dread, but with Edgar licking her face and making her smile. He is ready, always ready – to walk into the world with her.

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.

It’s National Dog Day, and I’m thinking about a little Chihuahua in Phoenix Edgar came into our lives almost nine years ago. I vividly recall our first encounter. There he was, standing in the center lane of 16th Street busy with Monday morning traffic. I had just left the gym with my daughter, and she noticed him before I did, alerting me to that fact by screaming at me to stop the car, jumping out, and flailing wildly at the oncoming traffic which she successfully brought to a momentary standstill. Within seconds, she had scooped up the tiny Chihuahua that trembled in the widening beam of the headlights before him, named him Edgar – an homage to Mr. Poe –  and announced that he would be moving in with us.

In spite of having run several miles on a treadmill, I had not yet had that first cup of coffee and was neither alert nor ready for Monday let alone a Chihuahua. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was already planning to post a few “Found Dog” signs around the neighborhood, sure that by the end of the day “Edgar” would be back where he belonged, answering to the name someone else had given him.

Sophie almost convinced me to let her stay home from school that day, so she could be with “her” new dog. Shaking and scared, submissive and sweet, his little ribs were as noticeable as the heart shaped markings on his coat. Sophie was vexed, and without saying it, I knew she knew that based on our experience with Molly, a beautiful brindle, a new dog was probably not in the cards. On the heels of a spectacular crisis in my professional life, we had rescued Molly the greyhound in the Christmas of 2008. That dog adored me, and the feeling was mutual. She was elegant and affectionate and knew how to be retired. She wanted to lounge around the house all day eating Lays  – but she did not want to do it alone – and another dog was just not possible for us.

Molly & Me (Xmas 2008)

Ultimately, we had to surrender her to the Arizona Greyhound Rescue. Her separation anxiety had grown so severe, she just couldn’t stay in the house by herself. Heart-broken, I returned Molly to a gruff yet kindly man who told me she was indeed off to a foster family that had another greyhound to keep her company and someone at home all day. He also told me it would likely be a permanent arrangement – and later I found out that their home was hers forever.  

Life with Molly – although brief – had therefore helped seal the deal as far as future pets were concerned. We were a one-cat family.

No more dogs.

No way.

But there were tell-tale signs that tiny Edgar was making his way into my husband’s heart. “Surely someone is missing this little guy terribly,” he said. He bought dog food. He drove slowly around the neighborhood, posting “Found Dog” signs while at the same time scouring every lamp-post for “Lost Dog” signs, hoping to make some family’s day by returning their dog. Every morning, he perused the Arizona Republic and Craigslist to see if someone in Phoenix had lost a cute little Chihuahua. He took Edgar to the Humane Society, where he was informed that while they didn’t take lost dogs, they would check for a microchip. No chip. No collar. No clue that he belonged to someone. They estimated “Edgar” at about seven years old. Malnourished and dirty with ghastly breath and worse teeth, he weighed three pounds. Barely.

Within three weeks, it was clear that nobody was looking for this little dog, who in spite of having four perfectly good legs, expected to be carried everywhere. Dutifully, we obliged. He gained weight. He stopped trembling. He slept in our daughter’s arms every night. He scampered towards us when we called “Edgar,” and soon we were all besotted with him, as poet Mary Oliver writes,

Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Edgar was ours.

About a month later, my daughter and I were in Northern Ireland visiting my parents. It was a Friday. I remember it vividly.  On another continent, in another time zone, I had been keeping my fingers crossed that a friend would come through with tickets for the free concert Van Morrison was giving at the Waterfront Hall after being granted the Freedom of the City of Belfast. This was before Van Morrison revealed himself as not only more curmudgeonly than he had always been, but also a dangerous conspiracy theorist who has spent much of the past three years protesting COVID restrictions and denying science. But that Friday, I was distracted – repeatedly – by thoughts of foreboding, by the unexpected sound of my own voice as my phone-calls to Arizona went straight to voice-mail. Worried, I did what I always do when I have “a bad feeling,” I sent a text to my best friend to ask if she would drive to my house to check on things. 

I have a flair for the dramatic and, conventional wisdom be damned, I always sweat the small stuff, the details –  because that’s where the devil is. I make mountains out of molehills which sometimes works when I can produce a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But this? This was the second most significant detail of my adult life, wrapped up in a panicky phrase that travelled via text from Castledawson to Chandler at 12:25PM Mountain Standard Time:

“Trying to be calm, but afraid he is hurt or dead.” 

I stayed on the phone with her – holding on – as she walked to my front door, as she looked through the bay window to see little Edgar looking back at her, still and silent, knowing what we would know in a few moments. I waited for her  to find the keys under the doormat, to come on in to my cheery living room with the sunny yellow walls, to call my husband’s name once, twice, and a third and final time before finding his lifeless body on the bed, hoping he was just resting but knowing he was gone.

He was gone.

Gone. 

Almost nine years later, in the quiet of an early morning, when I reflect on all that has transpired,  I find myself finding reassurance that as his fragile heart stopped working Ken’s last interaction on this earth was tender, with three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.

For a long time afterwards, my daughter told me that every day without her dad began not with sorrow and dread, but with Edgar licking her face and making her smile. He is ready, always ready – to walk into the world with her.

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.

It’s Edgar’s unofficial birthday. He came into our lives eight years ago today.  I vividly recall our first encounter. There he was, standing in the center lane of a Phoenix street already busy with Monday morning traffic. I had just left the gym with my daughter, and she noticed him before I did, alerting me to that fact by screaming at me to stop the car, jumping out, and flailing wildly at the oncoming traffic which she successfully brought to a momentary standstill. Within seconds, she had scooped up the tiny Chihuahua that trembled in the widening beam of the headlights before him, named him Edgar – an homage to Mr. Poe –  and announced that he would be moving in with us.

In spite of having run several miles on a treadmill, I had not yet had that first cup of coffee and was neither alert nor ready for Monday let alone a Chihuahua. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was already planning to post a few “Found Dog” signs around the neighborhood, sure that by the end of the day “Edgar” would be back where he belonged, answering to whatever name someone else had given him.

Sophie almost convinced me to let her stay home from school that day, so she could be with “her” new dog. Shaking and scared, submissive and sweet, his little ribs were as noticeable as the heart shaped markings on his coat. Sophie was vexed and without saying it, I knew she knew that based on our experience with Molly, a beautiful brindle, some years back, a new dog was probably not in the cards. On the heels of a spectacular crisis in my professional life, we had rescued Molly the greyhound in the Christmas of 2008. That dog adored me, and the feeling was mutual. She was elegant and affectionate and knew how to be retired. She wanted to lounge around the house all day eating Lays  – but she did not want to do it alone.

Molly & Me (Xmas 2008)

Ultimately, we had to surrender her to the Arizona Greyhound Rescue. Her separation anxiety had grown so severe, she just couldn’t stay in the house by herself. Heart-broken, I returned Molly to a gruff yet kindly man who told me she was off to a foster family that had another greyhound to keep her company and someone at home all day.

Life with Molly – although brief – had helped seal the deal as far as future pets were concerned. We were a one-cat family.

No more dogs.

No way.

But there were tell-tale signs that tiny Edgar was making his way into my husband’s heart. “Surely someone is missing this little guy terribly,” he said. He bought dog food. He drove slowly around the neighborhood, posting “Found Dog” signs while at the same time scouring every lamp-post for “Lost Dog” signs, hoping to make some family’s day by returning their dog. Every morning, he perused the Arizona Republic and Craigslist to see if someone in Phoenix had lost a cute little Chihuahua. He took Edgar to the Humane Society where he was informed that while they didn’t take lost dogs, they would check for a microchip. No chip. No collar. No clue that he belonged to someone. They estimated “Edgar” at about seven years old, determined that he hadn’t been neutered or cared for. Malnourished and dirty with ghastly breath and worse teeth,  he weighed three pounds. Barely.

Within three weeks, it was clear that nobody was looking for this little dog, who in spite of having four perfectly good legs, expected to be carried everywhere. Dutifully, we all obliged. He gained weight. He stopped trembling. He slept in our daughter’s arms every night. He scampered towards us when we called “Edgar,” and soon we were all besotted with him, as poet Mary Oliver writes,

Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Edgar was ours.

About a month later, my daughter and I were in Northern Ireland visiting my parents. It was a Friday. I remember it vividly.  On another continent, in another time zone, I had been keeping my fingers crossed that a friend would come through with tickets for the free concert Van Morrison was giving at the Waterfront Hall after being granted the Freedom of the City of Belfast. This was before Van Morrison revealed himself as not only a curmudgeon but a dangerous conspiracy theorist who has spent much of the past two years protesting COVID restrictions and denying science. But that Friday, I was distracted – repeatedly – by thoughts of foreboding, by the unexpected sound of my own voice as my phone-calls to Arizona went straight to voice-mail. Worried, I did what I always do when I have “a bad feeling,” I sent a text to my best friend, Amanda (the original BFF) to ask if she would drive to my house to check on things.

I have a flair for the dramatic and, conventional wisdom be damned, I always sweat the small stuff. The devil is in the tiniest of details. I make mountains out of molehills which sometimes works when I can produce a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But this? This was the second most significant detail of my adult life, wrapped up in a persistent phrase that travelled via text from Castledawson to Chandler at 12:25PM Mountain Standard Time:

“Trying to be calm, but afraid he is hurt or dead.” 

I stayed on the phone with her – holding on – as she walked to my front door, as she looked through the bay window to see little Edgar looking back at her, still and silent, knowing what we had yet to discover. I waited for her  to find the keys under the doormat, to come on in to my cheery living room with the sunny yellow walls, and call my husband’s name once, twice, and a third and final time before finding his lifeless body on the bed, hoping he was just resting but knowing he was gone.

He was gone.

Gone. 

Eight years later, in the quiet of an early morning, when I reflect on all that has transpired,  I find myself finding reassurance that as his fragile heart stopped working Ken’s last interaction on this earth was tender, with three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.

For a long time afterwards, my daughter told me that every day without her dad begins not with sorrow and dread, but with Edgar licking her face and making her smile. He is ready, always ready – to walk into the world with her.