My first pet wasn't really my pet at all; she was my father's. Her name was Katie and she was a Golden Retriever who already thirteen years old by the time I was born, but still full of life (at least in my limited memory). My father's best friend had a daughter also named Katie, and the story goes that one day they found her crying and when they asked her what had happened she said, "Katie Dog knocked Katie Girl over." From then on, my family dog was known as Katie Dog, which is the reason that Rosie's full name is Rosalind Dog Friedman.
In fact, Katie figures prominently in a great deal of my personal mythology. She died when I was four, and almost all of the very few memories I have of that time involve Katie Dog. I remember playing hide-and-seek with my brother and sister, and Katie Dog being the only one who could actually find me (I was hiding in the laundry chute). I remember trying to ride on top of Katie like a horse, but she would just lie on the floor and lick me on the face. I remember her leaping into the lake in the Adirondacks and swimming around the stationary wooden raft, happy as can be. I remember loving her with all the fullness of my little heart. I remember when she died.
She was an old dog at that point, over seventeen, and I realize now that it was in many ways a miracle that she lived that long. When my parents talk about this time, they discuss how sick she was. She had terrible arthritis and could hardly walk. She was trained to go to the bathroom in the curb, and wouldn't go anywhere else, but her joints hurt so much that she couldn't make the step off of or back onto the curb, so my mother used to pick her up and settle her on the street to pee, and then pick her back up and put her back on the sidewalk to take her back up to the apartment. Apparently, she wasn't eating, and eventually started to eat away at her own body. I don't remember any of this. In my mind, Katie has the great vitality I have always associated with her. I guess my parents were taking her to the vet to talk about some of these issues, and weren't expecting the vet to tell them that he thought it was time to put her to sleep.
When they came home, I ran to the front door. "Where's Katie?" I asked, since her absence must have been confusing. I don't remember exactly what they said, but I know I ran into the back of the apartment, where my brother and sister were, yelling, "Mom and Dad killed Katie! Mom and Dad killed Katie!" This was undoubtedly not a great way for my siblings to learn the news, nor a pleasant way for my parents to see their youngest child react, considering that they were probably grieving and feeling guilty themselves. But that's how my four-year-old self saw it.
Katie's death left a hole in my life. I remember burying her ashes at Kildare with her bowl and her leash. I remember being angry. I remember crying. I remember asking what happened to Katie after she died, and being told that they didn't know, but my parents didn't think anything happened. All of these memories are not well-defined; they are like flashes of emotion—more like colors and sounds than actual images and dialogue.
I would not have another dog for twenty years, when I took Rosie home with me. The first name I considered giving this little Beagle that was theretofore known as Gigi was, of course, Katie Dog. But Rosie was not a replacement for Katie, and never could be. She didn't actually fill the hole left by Katie's absence, she just nestled out a new spot for herself in my heart, a spot that will undoubtedly feel empty when Rosie eventually leaves my life, as well.
This is the ultimate insanity of dog ownership. We take these little creatures into our lives, into our hearts, knowing that, assuming everything goes well, we will outlive them. We will watch them age, become infirm, and eventually we will pet their little head and coo at them as they quietly pass on. We have seat ourselves up for heartache. It is a testament to the great value of love that this is no deterrent for so many people.
Sometimes I fantasize about what it will be like when Rosie dies. This is partly a means of preparation, but also partly because I get some joy out of it. I like the thought of caring for her throughout her life, including the final stage, and I also like the way in which thinking about her future, theoretical death can make me feel like crying—it is a reminder of the great love and care I have for her. It is a reminder of the great love and care I am capable of.
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