Sofi appeared in 2006 after my marriage fell apart. I hadn’t had a dog since I was a child and really had no interest. It was a lot of work, I thought, and when you’re depressed – as I was – that’s the last thing you want in your life.
My 13-year-old daughter, Annie, knew better, though. We – I – needed a dog. “Let’s just go and look at these eight-week-old snowball puppies,” she said. “We don’t have to take one – just look.”
Those “snowball puppies” turned out to be American eskimos – the kind of dog they had rolling on balls in circuses. Sofi was the runt of the litter, a ball of white fur you could not see in the snow. Annie said she would take care of her. Good intentions, I’m sure – but we both knew this would be my dog in the long run.
In the years to come, I would learn why people have such an affinity with dogs. They don’t offer you anything tangible, serve up great conversations or make your life easier. No, they’re your connection with the universe.
Sofi single-handedly lifted me out of my depression, accomplishing what therapists, family and friends could not by absorbing how I felt and letting me know it was OK to feel those things. When I was uptight, she was tense. When I was sad, she stared at me quietly – for as long as it took to comfort me. At those times she would not leave my side unless someone took her away. Her amazing presence represented all the mysterious strength the universe had at its disposal. I had never experienced anything like it, and I doubt I ever will again.
She still found time to be silly. She would leap high in the air to snatch a stick from your hand, and even higher to snag a Frisbee out of the air. She spent her summers playing dangerous games with bees and, despite her thick coat, lying baking in the sun and hiking with us. And nothing compared with the pure natural beauty of watching her sprint down a beach or across a field. She spread her goodwill to everyone she met, unless you were wearing a hat.
She was 14 when a routine checkup revealed that she didn’t have long to live. Time to say goodbye so she would not suffer. For the next two weeks we basked in her company and spoiled her silly. Years of memories flooded by, the funny and incredible experiences, and all of the lives Sofi had affected positively. I felt I was dealing with it stoically. Until that day came.
The veterinarian apologised as Sofi needed a third needle to make the drugs work. Sofi wasn’t having any of it. She didn’t want to leave me alone, to leave me behind. She refused to even lie down. She looked at me and said she was going nowhere, at least for a few more minutes. To Sofi it had never been about being my dog. From day one it had been her task to watch over me. An act of grace.
