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"She's a very special little dog," the saleslady told me as she lifted the tiny Boston Terrier out of the cage on the shop floor. "and she needs someone special to take her home." At the time I figured she was giving me a load of sales baloney. She was in the business of selling pets and she probably told every guy who came into the place that he was taking home "a very special" animal. Except, in this case, she was right. This one was really special. Emma came into our lives during the Christmas season of 1995. Randy and I had been together for about three years by then, and a mutual friend had been pestering me about how badly Randy wanted a little Boston Terrier dog for Christmas. Finally convinced that Randy would not be happy with any other gift, I went about trying to find a Boston for him. It was a tougher job than you might imagine. I called every breeder I could locate on the Internet or in the phone book. As a general rule, most will not part with puppies during the Christmas season, because unwanted pets given as gifts are so often euthanized by inhumane idiots. Then I started working the phones. As a journalist, researcher and local historian, working the phones is part of my job, and I considered myself pretty good at it. But this was a distinctly challenging task. Finally I found a Boston Terrier Rescue Society but, again, turned up empty handed. It turned out there were no Bostons ready for rescue, and the waiting list was a mile long. But the woman who ran the society suggested I call someone named Alma Bettencourt, who apparently had been mixed up with this breed for decades. I called Alma and told her I wanted to purchase a Boston as a gift for my longtime companion. She was suspicious. "Are you Boston people?" she asked. "I've never owned one," I told her, "but Randy grew up with them. He still keeps a framed photo of himself and his best boyhood friend, little Timmy the Boston Terrier, on a shelf in the family room." After we chatted for a while, I sensed Alma was warming up to me a little. She told me about the Bostons she had had through the years, about how the dogs are "just like little people," and about the conversations she carries on with her dogs. At first I thought the idea of talking to an animal was, well, a bit eccentric. But within weeks I would be carrying on long conversations with Emma as if she were a lifelong friend. I asked Alma again if she knew of anyone reputable who had recently had pups. "Very few people will part with puppies at Christmas," she said. "I've found that out," I answered, "but really, this dog would get such a great home." Eventually I think I convinced her. She told me about a couple on the Eastern Shore of Maryland who had recently had a litter. And she would keep me appraised of any others she had heard of. By now it was late in December, and Christmas was right around the corner. I schemed how I would be able to drive the six hours to the Eastern Shore of Maryland without missing work or causing Randy to become suspicious. Then I called the couple with the puppies. Unfortunately all of those puppies were already spoken for. Against all my better judgement – and the advice of nearly everyone I knew – I began calling pet shops. But even then I turned up empty handed. I think it was at about the thirtieth pet store I called that I finally managed to find a Boston for sale. I told the sales lady I'd be right there, and for Pete's sake don't sell the puppy to anyone else. When I got there, the puppy was in a cage on the floor with three other dogs of different breeds. I held her for a while and decided this was the one. She had to be the one. As far as I could tell she was the last available Boston Terrier in New Jersey. The little girl dog slept on the passenger seat of my car the whole way home, wrapped in my winter jacket. She was very cute and very sweet and this was the last time for the next eight years that she would ever sleep in the car without the benefit of a lap underneath her. When I got home the phone was ringing. It was Randy. I told him I might want to give him his Christmas gift a little early, because, I said, he might get some good use out of it before the holidays. "Well, what is it?" he asked. "Come on over and see," I answered. He knew he had made a pain in the neck of himself over constantly begging for a puppy, but he was also sure I would never go ahead and get him one. Jokingly, he replied, "It must be a verrryyy quiet little puppy that you're holding, because I don't hear him barking." "Yeah," I answered sarcastically, "He's real quiet."
"Whhhaat is that?" he said, clearly not believing his own eyes. "It's a little Boston Terrier puppy." He scooped the little package up in his arms. "What am I going to call him?" "It's a little girl dog," I said. "I never had a girl dog before." That night Randy was like a new father who desperately wanted to show off his new baby to the world. Tucked in the front of the sweatshirt he was wearing, the little girl went with us all over town to be displayed to workplace acquaintances and friends and neighbors. At the time, Randy lived in a small apartment on the third floor of a large building his parents had owned for forty years. His widowed mother June Rose lived in an apartment on the second floor, and a sister lived in another second floor apartment. A hair salon and a children's boutique were operated out of two storefronts on the first floor.
"What is that, a cat?" she laughed. "No, Mom, it's a little puppy. Matt gave her to me." It was a few weeks before Randy was able to come up with the perfect name for the little dog, but he finally settled on Emma Agnes, named for his grandmother Emma and his Aunt Agnes. Soon after she was given this moniker, Randy and I drove down to the Jersey Shore to visit Aunt Agnes and show the elderly lady her namesake. Though by now blind, Agnes reached out for the little dog, who tickled the woman's face with her whiskers and kisses. Aunt Agnes responded to the puppy like a delighted child. It was the last time we'd ever see her. I don't think it was even two weeks after that last visit when June Rose got a call from the hospital: Aunt Agnes had had a health crisis and was having emergency surgery. Given her age and frail condition, she might not survive the operation. June was understandably upset, but the day would soon grow much worse. Nibbling on a bit of dog food, Emma suddenly began acting very oddly. "She's choking!" Randy shouted, running over to the little dog, who suddenly went completely limp. God, what a terrible day. I can see it in my mind's eye as clearly as if it was happening right now, all over again. Working with the dog on the floor, Randy kept repeating himself, with his tone of voice going from alarmed to frustrated to tragic. "She's choking! She's choking! Oh, God, she's dying." He dislodged the bit of food from her throat, but Emma didn't regain consciousness and wasn't breathing. How could all of this be happening? And so quickly! He ran outside with Emma literally limp in his arms, crying out for someone to please help his dog. Sitting down on the sidewalk in front of the building next door to his home, Randy looked down at the little girl dog in his lap and said, "Emma, you just can't leave me." Then he leaned his face down close to hers and breathed into her tiny little nose. She stirred. He did it again. She woke up. We rushed her to the emergency animal hospital, where she had one very, very bad night. The doctors said her lungs had filled with fluid and they gave her little chance of surviving the night. But she pulled through. "She's a real trouper, that little dog," the doctor told me the next morning, when it looked like Emma was out of the woods. Emma was very, very special to us from the beginning. I want to make that clear. We both instantly fell head over heels in love with that tiny puppy. But after her choking incident, she and Randy developed an almost spiritual bond. I truly believe to this day that Randy brought her back from the brink of death, and not just with his breath, but with his heart. From that moment on, when Emma was in the backyard and found herself in trouble or discomfort, she looked for Randy first and went running straight for him. I've seen it myself several times. Her little paw would be pinched on a piece of stone in the driveway and she would yelp, look around, and run directly to Randy, like he was her Dad. Like he could make it better. And he always could. For a while it was just the four of us: Randy, June Rose, Emma and me. Emma shared us all and she was our pride and joy. Upstairs in Randy's apartment, sometimes we'd sit and listen to June Rose and Emma downstairs. There'd be a loud thump and then a scurrying of tiny little feet. Then we'd hear June say, "Okay. One more time." Then thump, scurry-scurry-scurry. She would toss Emma's ball again and again, bouncing it against the far wall of her sitting room, (thump!) and Emma would go fetch it (scurry-scurry-scurry). Often I'd stop by June's place unexpectedly in the afternoon when Randy was at work, and I'd find Emma sleeping contentedly on her Grandma's lap. June just adored that little dog, and like Randy she showed her off to all of her friends, even the ladies in the hair salon downstairs on the first floor. "I would have gotten Randy a dog years ago if I'd known he was going to take such good care of her," she'd say. Over the years Emma had a few other little health problems. She had infections in her ears and colds and after a slight bout of mange we found out she had a congenital disorder that made her immune system weaker than that of other dogs. It made us worry about her and cater to her even more. There were days when her little feet probably never touched the floor, as Randy would carry her from place to place with him, tucked into his oversized sweatshirt. So maybe we spoiled her a little bit. Or maybe a lot. But so what? She was just so cute, and so sweet and so warm and loving.
"Look, she's doing the ‘caterpillar,'" Randy would say, which is funny, because with her pink belly she did look exactly like a furry little caterpillar on it's back, squirming around. When I stayed over at Randy's place, sometimes Emma would slide over next to me at night, but mostly she stayed nestled on his chest, or under his arm. Prior to Emma's arrival, Randy was sometimes prone to sleepwalking and other night disturbances, but those conditions vanished completely when she was beside him. They were just so good for each other. The years passed and June Rose began having her own health problems. Before long Randy gave up his job to stay home and take care of her. When she was confined to bed, Randy would often pick up Emmy and put her in bed with Grandma, who enjoyed the puppy kisses for a while but then would laughingly cry out, "Alright, that's enough!" A few years after Emma came into our lives, we found ourselves with a second Boston Terrier, this one a boy we named Sammy. Then came Sophie, then Harold. We now had four Boston Terriers, each with their own distinct personalities and quirks. God, we loved them, and still do. Emma, the Queen of them all, indulged the other three, but she knew she was unique and separate from them in her own way. She was the apple of our eyes. She and Randy were practically inseparable. On weekends he would tuck her into his jacket and take her out on errands. When he did his gardening, she would sit very closely beside him, and watch him with those huge, soulful eyes of hers. June Rose's last years were difficult, but through it all Emma was a tremendous comfort to both she and Randy. Out of respect to both Randy and June's privacy, I'll not go into details of that tough, hazy period, but I would like to share one small anecdote. When June was very sick her thinking sometimes lacked clarity. At one point she believed that a train had arrived to take her away. Where this train was going, she didn't know. But she told Randy all the arrangements had been made and she had her ticket and there were people who were expecting her. "Are you coming, too?" she asked him. "No, Mom," Randy said. "I have to stay here and take care of the puppies. But if you need to go, you go ahead." June thought about it for a moment, and then said, "No, I think I'll stay here with you and the puppies for a little while longer." A couple of weeks after June had passed away, Randy took the dogs with him to the cemetery, where he planted some flowers on his mother's grave. When he was finished, he walked back to the car and opened the door to let the dogs in, but Emma, uncharacteristically, was nowhere to be found. He turned and looked back at his mother's gravesite, and there was Emma, sitting there beside the stone. In 2000, I had an opportunity to work from home, which was a real dream after twelve long years of commuting into New York City by public transportation every day. Waking up each morning just steps away from my office was a joy, and spending the day with the dogs nearby was one more added pleasure. Emma would often sit on my lap while I toiled away on my computer or did telephone interviews with the subjects of my articles. Sometimes the folks I would be interviewing would suddenly stop what they were saying, mid-quote, and ask, "What is that loud droning noise in the background?" It was Emma, snoring away on my lap. Most mornings Randy and I would spend having coffee and chatting and playing with the dogs. Emma would sit there in his lap and look up lovingly at him and he would lean down and kiss her behind the ears. "Oh, Emma," he'd say, "you smell just like cookies." |
Emma's
Tale
A
few minutes later Randy was in my apartment, walking into my living
room, when he found the puppy sitting quietly on my couch, dressed in
a Christmas stocking, a red ribbon around her neck. I'll never forget
the look on Randy's face when he first saw her, a look of pure
childlike joy and wonder.
When
we arrived back at Randy's place, his mother was already fast asleep
in bed. Randy and I went into her bedroom and set the little dog on
Grandma's chest. The little pup immediately started licking Grandma's
face and neck, causing her to giggle like a school girl.
She
began sleeping in bed with Randy at night, which wasn't always easy.
The dog snored like a longshoreman. How such a cute little tiny dog
could make so much noise when she slept is anybody's guess, but she
did. In the mornings, she would stretch on her belly and curl her
little paws into balls. Then she would roll over on her back and
swivel back and forth.
He
told me that he'd get the funniest feeling when he looked at her,
like he would burst from how much he loved her.
"Hello,
my love," I'd whisper to her. "Hello, my little one.
Hello, my angel."
The
MRI showed a previously-undiagnosed brain disorder which is usually
chronic but treatable. Before she left the facility, someone brought
out a jar of peanut butter and gave a spoonful to Emma. She seemed to
enjoy it more than ever. I took her out to the car and set her on the
passenger seat and covered her with a blanket. Her condition made it
difficult for me to drive with her on my lap, as was usual. Normally
she would have insisted on climbing on my lap and tucking her head
into the crook of my elbow. This time she didn't. She slept
peacefully all the way home though, and I recalled another trip eight
and a half years earlier, when a tiny puppy slept on the passenger
seat of my car, wrapped in my winter coat. 
When
I try to write about how it felt to have Emma leave us, it always
comes out wrong. She was like a little candle with a great light that
chased away some of the darkness in our lives. How can one describe
the moment when that light is gone, and everything is gray again? How
do you describe an aching emptiness?