Victoria

My dog died. Yes, I have a dog. Or had a dog. I've been saying, "I have a dog" for such a long time now that I kinda can't stop saying it. Especially since I only had a dog in name only. The story is this:

I had just got out of a relationship with a boyfriend I shouldn't have had. One of those guys that you know isn't any good for you, but is too fun or hot or whatever-weird-obsession-you-have to give up. By the time I was ready to end it, it had been years and consider he was my first, well, everything, I kinda didn't know how to end it. I kept taking his calls, or answering the door when he banged on it, and I knew, I just knew, that I needed something to take my mind off of him and the crazy situation I seemed to be in. And what better diversion can a gal ask for than a puppy?! So, I asked my roommate (let's call her) Carrie, "Can I have a dog?"

Carrie and I have been friends since first grade and have been together ever since. We moved in together after she bought a house in the town where I worked, and it was the perfect situation for a dog. I was working odd hours at the police department, and she was working nine to five, Monday through Friday at the hospital. There was probably two hours a day when the dog would be alone. And since Carrie already had a dog she rescued from the pound, I was pretty sure she'd be A-OK with a new puppy. And she was. So, I started to look for the perfect post-bad-boyfriend, new love of life dog.

At first, I was looking at beagles. Then Jack Russell Terriers. However, like all great love affairs, you never know what you're looking for until you find it. In this case her. She was an Alaskan Malamute. Kinda like a Siberian Husky but bigger. However, as a puppy, she looked just like a little stuffed animal and I wuved her berry much. (Yes, I talked baby-talk to her; why do you ask?) We saw her in a pet shop window -- do NOT lecture me about puppy mills. I know, alright?! -- and we just had to have. She was perfect. Shy, malleable. And just cuter than cute! Which, you know, is the most important thing about a new puppy. Ahem. Carrie literally plopped down $800 in cash and we walked out the door with her on a brand new pink leash. We named her Victoria because we were supposed to go to Victoria's Secret for a bachelorette party gift but never made it over there. Instead, we went straight home with our new child. I mean, puppy.

Sandie, Carrie's dog, was not a happy camper. She wanted to know who this little interloper was. But Victoria -- or Vicky, or Vic, or V, or whatever derivative you can get out of Victoria -- was interested in being queen of the house and Sandie quickly got over the newcomer. Victoria was everything I needed. I went to puppy kindergarten with her (she kicked ass!). I practiced her new tricks in the front lawn with her. I walked her. I picked her up and scratched her belly every night in front of the TV. I emptied all my love into that girl and she was an obliging receptacle. Sigh. She was perfect.

For five years, we had it made. But then I decided I didn't want to be a cop any more and got a job in New York City. Unfortunately, I got a place that didn't take dogs. At the same time, Victoria was a country dog. She was very shy and did not like meeting new people. When faced with strangers -- especially male strangers -- she pee then hide behind my legs. FUN! So, Carrie kept her in Connecticut, and I moved off to the city. But whenever I came back, it was like I never left. Vicky still loved me. Four years later, Carrie moved to Long Island, and I started to visit her out there. Despite the change of location, however, it still felt like old times. Carrie, me, and our girls... Though by this time Carrie started to call me an absentee parent who abandoned her daughter. (Thanks, Carrie.) A year after that, I moved to L.A., and a year after that, Carrie married a man and moved to Maryland. And then she moved to Germany. I was pretty sure, I would never see Victoria again. But then I went for a visit in January 2009.

Carrie's husband picked me up from the airport, and while I was thrilled to see Carrie and her new son, I was equally impatient to see Victoria. It had been years. And the moment I walked in the door, Vic -- at 14 -- was thrilled to see me, too. And like when I visited in Long Island, it felt home. Carrie might have moved on, gotten married, had a baby, but we were still Us. We still had our little girl. The entire time I was in Germany, Vic slept with me, followed me around, watched TV, and let me know when she needed to use the potty. It felt natural and normal and lovely. I took pictures of her and cried into her coat (for the third time after Connecticut and New York) when I left. I knew it was only a matter of time. Carrie and I both talked about it often. Victoria had lived past the average age of a Malamute. She had diabetes, arthritis, and cataracts. But we both put it off. Soon...but not yet.

Carrie sent me an email two weeks ago to let me know that Victoria fell down the stairs on Christmas night. They had to put her down. She had to put off writing the email as she just couldn't get through it. And I put off reading the email until last week as I couldn't face it. Even though I hadn't lived with them for ten years, I still couldn't digest that my dog was dead. (In a way, I still can't as I start crying every time I say or type it.) However, denial only works so long, and finally I read the whole thing and responded to Carrie. Then I called my mother (who did her best to be sympathetic) and told my therapist. I kinda don't know what to do with this knowledge. Grieving is such an odd thing. There is just no right way to do it. I keep telling myself, "You didn't live with them for TEN YEARS." But I knew where she was that entire time, and I still had visitation, and Carrie kept me in the loop about all things Victoria. She was still a part of my life, tangent as it was. And...and, she was my girl. And I loved her. And now I miss her. Grief is such a horrible thing.