A Tail of Ember

I prayed for a free dog. I wanted another half boxer from someone I knew, or who knew I would give it the kind of love and care that the breed deserves. I wanted a dog that could grow up with my kids and other pets. It seemed that everywhere I went the available dogs only met half of my criteria.

“I really want another dog. I feel so badly that Abi Loo is home alone so much.”

“My parent’s dog is pregnant,” my friend Sylvana said. First prayer answered.

“You’re kidding. What kind of dog is she?”

“Hannah is a boxer. We think our mastiff got her pregnant, so the puppies should be pretty cute. If it was the neighbor dog they might be hideous.” Second prayer answered.

I laughed. I was more than willing to take that chance. Silvana accompanied me to her parent’s home for the first glimpse of the puppies.

“Hannah had eight, but her uterus burst, and only five made it. Then two others died of infection,” her mother Rosa explained. “We were lucky not to lose Hannah at her age. We just can’t keep them. Hannah and Gus are enough to handle as it is.” I gazed at the tiny Boxtiff puppies, looking more like Boxers than Mastiffs, a typical black stripe running from head to tail. Rosa placed the female in my hands.

“This is a very bad idea,” my husband said.

“I know,” I answered, smiling. “Isn’t she great?” I held her to my chest, but she crawled to my neck, deciding to nap in my hair. We kept coming back. It was impossible to keep my children away. Every day they begged me to see the puppies.

“This one is Sherman Tank, and the other boy is Doug. Have you picked out a name for her?”

“I think I’ll call her Ember. The runt is like a little flame that won’t go out.”

“She’s bonded to you now. You’re her mother from here on out.”

“I know,” I replied. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. How much do you want for her?”

“We’re not charging for them. Just promise to take good care of her.” Third prayer answered.

In the weeks following, that little runt of the litter gave her brothers a run for their money. We brought her home the week before Christmas. At first, she slept on a tiny bed inside my daughter’s tent. Soon, she had outgrown both the tent and the bed. Ember chewed on everything. She snored like a sailor in my husband’s arms. He of course, held her like a newborn baby. Our other boxer Abi Loo put up with Ember’s constant attempts to wrestle, chase her around the backyard and use her as a chew toy. Any water spraying from a hose, instantly caused a digging frenzy. The tub wasn’t much different, as Ember wanted to join the tub, before, during or after my children’s baths. The tub drain served as a fascinating device to paw at, and flinging water behind her proved equally exciting. There was almost no point to closing the bathroom door, as she would whine and claw the paint off of the door begging to join the party.

Like a flame, Ember’s fur turned red, like the color of a newborn fawn. The black stripe vanished into gold, highlighting her shoulder blades like perfect angel wings. Abi Loo, now pushing ten, grew weary of Ember’s snuggles, dwarfed now by both her immense size and weight. Sherman, Ember’s brother, sired an unexpected litter. Soon puppy Charlie came to live with my mother in law and Ember ran him ragged too. Ember took up the entire length of our bed when fully stretched out. If she wanted the red dot laser pointer, she would look intently at it, then down at the floor, and then back to the laser pointer, her paws stomping in anticipation. It induced a frenzy equal to the water hose, causing loop de loops and long slides across the kitchen floor. If a horse came on the television, Ember leaped off the couch, barking until it went off screen, and then charged to the window, certain it was there. Prancing back to the couch, (the one she didn’t destroy) she commenced smearing her velvety wet jowls all over my face as if to say, “Aren’t I the best dog ever?” To which I replied, “Yes, ding dong. You’re the best dog ever.” Then she would lick my face till the cows came home, or until it was time for the rope game, which meant pulling the children around on the tile floors.

Fall brought the rake chasing game. Her second Christmas ushered in delightfully deep snow. Covid 19 hit and staying home meant endless snuggles and play time. Summer brought barking at the super scary lawn mower and digging in my garden beds. Every morning Ember woke me up by scratching my beautiful antique cabinet outside the bedroom door. It was her way of knocking. I blocked it with a baby gate which seemed apropos. Mastiffs are still puppies at age two, which she would be turning in October. The Fourth of July came and we took a mini vacation. Upon returning, we switched vet clinics and Ember went to her first visit.

“She has a mass. We think its cancer.”

Shock...disbelief…grief.

I went through the options. Paying ten thousand dollars for one extra year of life didn’t seem reasonable. They took x-rays, and an ultra sound. There was nothing conclusive. I switched her to a raw diet, which worked well, but she went through episodes of being frozen, staring into space. One day the back half of her body wouldn’t work. Her breathing shallowed and her breath was as cold as ice. My husband took the first shift, covering her with blankets. Somehow she made it through the night. For three more days she gained strength and then it seemed she had once and for all pulled through. Ember’s second birthday came in October and everything seemed fine. November nineteenth gave us a glorious fall day. Ember chased the laser pointer, ran circles around Charlie in the yard, and rested in the sunshine. After the scary mower made its rounds, I cleaned the grass covered wheels. She went berserk over the spray, biting it and jumping into its stream. Divots flew in the grass as she dug at the new puddles. After cleaning her as well, she played all evening, until she didn’t. Something wasn’t right.

“Maybe she’ll pull through like she did before,” I told my husband. “I’ll take the first shift this time.” Like the first time, her breathing shallowed. No place offered comfort wherever she lay down. Ice cold breath hit my face. A drunken sway was all she could manage. I guided her down the hall to the laundry room, but she lost control of her bowels. She struggled through the laundry room to the dog door but looked up at me as though she’d forgotten how it worked. Turning around, she collapsed to the floor. She gasped for breath, as if a weight lay over her. I ran to my husband.

“I think it’s time. I think we’re losing Ember.” We sat with her, stroking her golden wings and fiery red fur until the last breath left her body and the spark left her eyes. My heart poured out silent sobs from the deepest part of my being. She was everything I prayed for. Everything I ever wanted in a friend, endlessly pursuing me. I loved her with all my heart, but she was gone. The sting of death felt unfair and unfinished.

I miss the whip of her tail in my face when she’d jump on the couch. I miss her attacking the broom as I sweep. I miss her begging for the laser pointer. I miss looking into her big brown eyes, and the puddle she left on the floor after visiting her water dish, but I’m so thankful for the stay at home order that gave me eight months of solid Ember time. I miss her giant paws that fit perfectly in my hand. The paws that etched thier love into my antique cabinet. Mostly though, I miss her sitting next to me and covering my arm with hers as if to say, “Stay.”