In October of 2015, I found myself driving across state lines to Georgia to visit the Poodle Rescue Ranch. As I pulled up in the driveway, this huge black and white spotted fluff ball dashed across the yard, stood up on the fence, and greeted me with a happy expression on his face. His name was Parker, and if I passed this interview, he’d be coming home to join my pack.
Parker was 7 months old at the time. The ranch was his third home in his short life. I was determined to make his fourth home, my home, his last. During the entire two hours of the interview, he sat right beside me as if signaling to the owner no matter what she said, I was his person. That’s how it started. I took this picture in my back yard the day we got home together. He looked so regal.
Friday, December 6, our story ended. Just after midnight, Parker passed away. He’d had surgery the Tuesday before to have a cyst removed. Recovery seemed to be going fine. Thursday night he started coughing just a little. On Friday morning, I called the vet. The first thought was that he may have caught a cold or that his throat might be irritated from the breathing tube. Later that day, they called to say they were calling in antibiotics “just in case it was a touch of pneumonia”, and “Though these things are usually nothing, could I please bring him in first thing Saturday morning?”. I let them know we’d be there.
Based on my description of his final hour, the vet tossed around possibilities like “negative reaction to the medication” and “stroke event”. I just know he’s not here. For nine years, Parker was my 80-pound shadow. He followed me from room to room, sat beside me in the car, lay down at my feet while I worked, or woke me up by leaning over to put his head on my pillow. Simple things like going to the bathroom can be jarring. Realizing I hadn’t used the restroom without a tag-a-long in years really hit hard. I keep expecting to turn around and see him. People keep telling me how lucky he was to have me, but I was the lucky one. I miss him.