Herbie, the Angel Dog

These dark January days, with gray skies and little sun, early sunsets and late sunrises, remind me of the dark days I spent after my divorce. I was alone, truly alone, for the first time in my life. Determined to not just survive but to learn to love life again, I struggled with finding joy and meaning in my loneliness. One of the simple things that really got to me was coming home from work to a dark, empty and too quiet house. I tried timers on a light in the family room, which warmed the house up visibly, but it was still cold and too quiet.

A new found friend, Nancy, had lived through a similar experience and she had solved it with a dog. Not just any dog, but a gorgeous cocker spaniel from the local rescue group, a former show dog. Nancy encouraged me to consider getting a dog, and after some thought I decided it was a fabulous idea. She got me in contact with the cocker spaniel rescue group, and I was invited to come and look at the dogs they had for adoption.

The decision to adopt a dog was pretty simple on the surface, but it was revolutionary to me. I had lived for 26 years with a cat person, with someone who simply could not understand why anyone would want a dog... dogs were sloppy and messy and demanded to be walked. And they barked. And they licked their own butts... ewwwwwww! I wanted more from a pet-- I wanted a relationship that was give and take. With cats the relationship seems pretty one way.  If I adopted a dog, it would be striking out on my own. A statement of independence for sure... Few people view dog adoption as a political statement, but that's kind of what it was for me.

I remember sitting in the family room of the rescue lady as she brought dogs for me to look over in one at a time from the kennel she had set up in her garage.  One dog in particular, a "parti cocker" (the speckled ones that look the most like smaller versions of a Brittany spaniel) was crazed to be out of the kennel, and ran in circles all over the family room barking and licking and in general behaving like a crazy puppy. I envisioned my own family room after one work day with this animal left to it's own devices... that wasn't going to work!

Then in trotted a smaller blond cocker spaniel boy she had named "Calypso". He came right to me, wagging his stub of a tail, jumped up on my lap and gave me a happy lick, curled up on my lap, sighed deeply and fell asleep. This dog had just adopted me... I was hooked! I changed his name to Herbie-- because he was my "love bug"... (I know, I know... but the name fit him perfectly!)

The rescue lady informed me Herbie had been rescued in Kentucky, found wandering on a road with long hair so matted she had had to shave him. He was starving, so emaciated he required several months of intense nutritional therapy to get back into good enough condition to be adopted. 

I took Herbie home later that week and we became best friends instantly. He waited for me to get home from work with wagging tail and happy, slobbery kisses. We went for walks at least three times a day and he walked happily on a leash. He greeted all visitors with a tail wag and happy grins. After a few nights of crying in his crate I decided he could sleep with me, and after that we slept together in my new bedroom. He played like a puppy, chasing balls, playing fetch, running through the house or the yard. He was gentle and loving and his puppy exuberance filled the void I was feeling. He rode in the car very well, so we traveled together, even driving down to North Carolina to visit my sister. He was a loving and most faithful companion. He was a balm to my broken life and broken heart.

Later that year I met Lanny, my now beloved husband. I also took a job that would require I be at work much longer hours. Herbie spent more and more time waiting for me at home. He was pretty jealous of Lanny too, at one point he peed in Lanny's shoe... though he never misbehaved openly. That fall, about a year and a half after I had adopted him, Herbie suddenly became very ill and died. "Mutiple organ failure" was what the vet told me. He also told me Herbie was a very old dog, at least 10 years old. His happy exuberance had covered up his age-- the rescue lady told me he was 4 or 5 years old, and his behavior certainly matched that.

Herbie left me 8 years ago, and I still hold him in my heart. The dog I had adopted and rescued had also rescued me.  He is my guardian angel dog...