My tiny-sister-dog

Dear tiny-sister-dog,

Remember running down the hall when you heard the back door open, and I'd get down on my hands and knees and no matter how long I'd been away, you would snuggle up under my chin and let me run my nose up your long nose and then kiss you between the eyes?  Remember when the neighbor's dog bit you and you bled all over my beach towel on the way to the vet and you had to have stitches?  I still have that towel.  Remember when I tried to carry you around in my bike basket and you jumped out?  Remember when Amanda and I made you a birthday cake out of a banana and put a candle in it and sang you happy birthday?  Remember when you lived in a refrigerator box in the bathroom?  Remember napping in the sun in your fiefdom? I joined you sometimes.  Remember picking sweet peas for my wedding bouquet?  You were there.  Remember my crazy chickens?  You didn't much like them.  The pigs either, although you got used to them eventually.  I remember being so mad at you for chewing on the Maple Town animals.  All of our little mice and bears were footless and tail-less because of you.  Remember when Amanda and I took you up on top of the play house so you could see what it felt like to be a giant?  Remember when we tried to take you swimming with us in the tarp we had filled with water?  Remember endless walks through the almond orchard?  Remember playing hide and seek with your toys in the green couches?  Remember playing with my hand under the blanket and as I grabbed your feet you would jump and fling your rear end around pushing your nose into the blanket, looking for something to bite?  Remember all those conversations on Mom's bed on lazy Saturday mornings? Remember jumping over our legs in the hallway as we made an obstacle course and then threw your ball to the other end?  Remember that one time I opened the sliding glass door to let you out and closed it right behind you only to have you realize it was raining and turn right back around to slam your face into the door?  Poor tiny sister.  You never liked going out in the rain.  Remember sleeping in my bed?  You did that a lot.  You liked to curl up behind my knees and stick your nose out of the blanket for air.

I was nine the Christmas we brought you home and named you Nellie Noel Bergen.  With you began the tradition of naming our animals after beloved deceased relatives.  You always did have a good sense of humor.  I was so proud of you, wanted to spend every moment with you.  I would have slept in the refrigerator box in the bathroom if Mom had let me.  Over time the novelty of having a tiny-sister-house-dog grew into affection, respect, tenderness, and love. You were in the room for nearly every event of my elementary and high school years.  You were at my 8th grade graduation party.  You were there the night I dressed up to go to my first boy-girl dance.  You were there in the wee hours when I came home early from a slumber party and had to debrief with Mom about weird things girls do at slumber parties.  You were there when I got on a computer for the first time, received an email for the first time, instant messaged for the first time, printed my wedding invitations.  You were there when I got my first perm, shaved my legs, and had my first alcoholic drink.  You were there listening to Diana Ross, dancing around the living room with cousins. You were there to bury Jonah with me, say good-bye to Blue and Sammo, comfort me when I realized that selling Porkahontas meant giving her up to the butcher.

Tiny Nell.  Nellie Noel.  Tiny Sister Dog.  Mommy Baby.  Tiny Girl.  The Best Dog in the Whole World. Crazy Girl. We have these names for you.

We took first day of school pictures with you and Black Jack. You were a bit of a home-body, but none of us held it against you because we liked coming home to your cheerful pattering footsteps tearing down the hall.  You loved to chase your ball down the hall and throwing that ball was a source of many arguments in our household because Dad liked to bounce the ball off of people's heads, or ricochet it off the piano to tease you.  Many a picture frame lost it's glass because of your tennis ball obsession.  You weren't one for shredding the fuzz off the ball though, you just wanted us to throw it so you could shoot down the hall after it and growl as you pounced on it. You always brought it back, but when you got tired you'd drop it far back down the hall while you were running and let it roll to us.  Your Mad Dog impression was phenomenal and brought guests to tears of laughter. Linus has learned that trick too, and puts on quite a show for Luke and Seamus sometimes.  You've been a fairly decent hostess when dog company comes over, but you've formed a particularly close bond with your niece-dog, my baby Ally.  You and Ally have come a long way from each insisting on your own fleece blanket, to sharing a dog bed, literally on top of each other in the kitchen overnight.

 

This morning during the children's story at Covenant Mennonite, Luke interrupted the story to tell Elaine that his Mom had cried this morning, "because the black dog is going to be put to bed tomorrow".  Luke told me not to be sad though because you would just be dead for a little while, we would wait, and then Jesus would come and wake you up and you would be new.  He told me I just had to wait, and then it wouldn't be sad anymore.  I like that he believes that.  Humans speculate about animals having souls, and whether or not they will be resurrected.  But when I think of you, I find it difficult to talk theoretically, casually, disinterestedly, because you are my tiny-sister-dog.  Tiny Nell.  What would Jesus' new creation be without a tiny-sister-dog to pitter patter down the hall to greet me?  No, you must be there.  I'm certain I will see you there.  And in the meantime it'll hurt like heck, missing you.  I wish you the best of last days, Nellie.  Lay in the sun, eat lots of treats, do mad dog, roll in something stinky, and sleep like only a dog can.  I wish I could be there with you, to kiss you between the eyes.

Your sister,

Laura