What I Learned From Mr. B.

Last week we lost someone special in our family.  His name was Shep.  Most called him "Sheppie."  I called him "Little Buddy" or "Mr. Bud," then he became simply "Mr. B."  We’d known Shep for all of his 11 years, but he’d lived in our home for the last five.  He started life as the runt of a litter of tiny “Schnoodles” (schnauzer/poodle mix puppies), but often carried himself like he was ten times larger than his 12 lbs.  As a puppy, when he’d visit our house, he was emboldened by the confidence Grammie and Poppie’s attention gave him.

When he wasn’t trying to gain her favors, Shep would push our female lab mix “Addie” aside and go straight for his favorite place in the house: my wife Sharon’s lap.  That’s where he spent most of his time with us.  He was a devoted and unapologetic lap dog. And he loved to snuggle.  Someone once compared him to a “dishrag,” because when you held him he’d flop blissfully and motionless in your arms and usually drop off to sleep.

By the time Shep came to live with us, a variety of congenital health problems had begun to exhibit themselves.  A tiny, malformed liver had necessitated the use of special low-protein food and the use of medications that, over time, developed into diabetes.  It also prevented him from having any surgery—even routine dental care—because his liver couldn’t handle the sedation.  Insulin shots, frequent blood testing, and careful eating patterns became the daily routine.   

At the same time, a genetic predisposition to dry eyes coupled with the cataracts that were a result of the diabetes, rendered him blind. Then, a parathyroid failure that nearly killed him, required hospitalization and a careful drug regimen to maintain.  Food and medication charts went up on the fridge and life literally began to revolve around his life-preserving routine.  Shep’s skilled and caring veterinarian called the whole thing a “delicate balancing act,” but acknowledged that he was a fighter. We knew that too.

Sharon took the lead in all this, directing the “Mr B” show in a way that made all the medicines, the food, and the care, seem rather normal.  The pair were inseparable and their relationship downright symbiotic.  Shep followed her around faithfully, learning to hear footsteps and navigate by memory the walls and furniture in the house.  She, on the other hand, was his patient guide and teacher, calmly helping him make his new dark world more familiar and consistent.  

Mr. B became my wife's constant companion and, as he got older, we never left him alone unless absolutely necessary.  Occasionally we’d leave him with a sitter, but it was tough to find someone able to continue his schedule of care. He couldn’t see, but had a great sense of hearing. And when Addie alerted him that someone was coming up the driveway, Shep would yipe and howl in his soprano voice like a tiny wolf. It was deafening, yet endearing.

We were surprised to find that this rigorous schedule, the constant concern for his welfare, and the fact that a dog in his situation required almost constant supervision, never became a burden. In fact, our lives adapted quickly to his.  He went everywhere with us—even on vacations.  We carried his food bowls, water bottles and a medicine box everywhere we went.  We made it fun.  I started posting photos on Instagram with the hashtag #travelswithshep.  I even wrote about him on this blog, here.

Every errand we did we took with a little white dog on someone’s lap.  We’d dine at dog-friendly restaurants or bring food home to eat.  When we both were in the car, one of us would go inside a store while the other would wait outside with Shep.  If we could take Shep, we’d go. If not, we didn’t—at least together.  When we were home, we never rearranged the furniture.  We were careful to leave obstacles out of his usual pathways and we put pillows against the corners and table legs, just in case.  And that’s the way it was for most of the last five years.

Late last week, he showed signs of slowing down. His navigating skills seemed to leave him and he’d sometimes stand motionless in the center of a room or staring at a wall. When he couldn’t sleep and refused to eat, we knew something was wrong.  The fighter in Shep wouldn’t allow him to show it, but it quickly became clear he was in real pain.  He stopped drinking water (which for a diabetic was a huge concern) and would do nothing but sleep and groan with every breath.  Then he lost the ability to stand or walk without falling.

He went to the doctor Tuesday and they administered IV fluids and sent him home for observation.  But he worsened overnight.  So on Wednesday, after he began vomiting blood, I rushed him back to the veterinarian.  Sensing his agonizing pain, she gave him an IV sedative and, by the time she checked his little heart, it had stopped.  

Mr. B left this mortal realm peacefully, wrapped snugly in my arms like always.  Through tears, I whispered in his ear, “Thank you for being part of our life.  Now you can see again, and you’re free to run and play in the sunshine, little buddy. We love you. We will see you again.  I promise.”

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For his tiny frame, Mr. B’s larger-than-life personality garnered him a lot of fans.  Since his passing, dozens of friends and family members have sent sincere wishes of condolence to us.  And they keep coming.  Phone calls, visits, hugs and flowers have come from all around us.  Online, literally hundreds of people from all over the world have posted warm sentiments and comments of support  and comfort to us via the Facebook support group for blind dog owners, a resource that had become a lifeline of advice and support over the years.  His team of doctors and veterinary technicians sent a beautiful card filled with lengthy, handwritten tributes and statements of love and sorrow for the loss of their favorite patient from everyone in the office.  The response has been overwhelming and heartwarming. 

But Mr. B’s legacy isn’t just about his story of overcoming illness to have a pretty great life.  Rather, his passing has stirred a lot of thoughts in me and my wife about the meaning of his existence—that of all living things—and the incredible, gaping, excruciating hole his loss has left in our hearts.  In short, we’ve been asking the question I’m sure many have asked after losing someone who had become such an integral part of their lives:

Did we love this little fuzzy boy with such selfless devotion, and he love us back so fully and unconditionally, only to have it all end?  If so, why would anyone bother to care so deeply at all?

The answer came in the word “LOVE” itself.  Love is powerful.  Love has the ability to transform, to heal and to restore life.  Love is the single character trait that ties us with God.  Writers of scriptures from all faiths make note of Love as the basis of God’s omnipotence.  And I’m beginning to understand how that’s possible.  The apostle John wrote, “God is love.” Others have expanded on his words, adding, “Love is the fundamental essence of His nature and character—His very being. God is perfect in love. God’s love is manifested by His absolutely pure desire to care for, share and give.”

Love was the essence of the tiny fur-covered being I fondly called “Mr. B.”  And that love went both ways. He responded to it and he gave it freely in a way that calmed and healed.  Time after time, he faced health scares that brought us to the veterinary hospital or ER. Following every crisis, proper care and a lot of love and affection brought him back to us.  It was uncanny.  His doctor once wondered aloud if he was a cat inside because he seemed to have nine lives. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “It’s obvious he’s responding to your love.”  It’s true. Until his tiny body just couldn’t endure any more, we believe love kept him alive.

Simply holding Shep on your lap was immediately soothing to the soul. He adapted so quickly to anyone’s attention and could sense when someone just needed time with him.  I think I got more out of holding him than he did.  Last Fall, when I suffered a heart attack, he’d snuggle in my arms and sleep for hours while I ran my fingers over his fur.  I credit his healing spirit with much of my remarkable recovery. 

I recall reading a meme that said, “There are some people in my life I wish I had hugged a little longer.”  I didn’t want to ever feel that way.  From the beginning, both Sharon and I knew his fragile little body would only allow a limited time with us.  Much like we’ve tried with our grandchildren, we made a conscious decision never to waste a moment when we could spend time with him. It all goes by too quickly.  We never wanted to look back and regret not having held him more, talked to him more, loved him more or learned from him any more than we could have.  Fortunately, we have no regrets, other than that our time with Mr. B was just way too short.

When we lost our long-time family dog, Camden, a dozen years or so ago, our family grieved.  But soon afterward that we began sensing his presence in the house.  I’ve read similar accounts from others who have lost pets. Sometimes it’s a familiar sound in the night or a brief touch or even catching a passing vision out of the corner of your eye. Regardless, the result is always a feeling of warmth, comfort and love—like knowing your “guardian angel” is there watching over you.

We’ve already started to experience those moments with Shep and, while it hasn’t yet helped to ease the temporal pain of his loss, it has reassured us that his little loving spirit is there and that he continues to care for us and knows that we love him.  Best of all, knowing he’s still present and aware of us, we also know our mutual love still remains and we know that someday we can see him again as well. 

And that, to answer my question from earlier, is why loving is worth the pain of loss. 

Once shared, love never goes away.

Thank you, Sheppie, for helping us understand that important truth.  We love you and we miss you dearly.