How We Met

“Adopt a little dog. You’re a little woman.” Five years had passed since my golden retriever died suddenly of cancer and my daughter was concerned. I barely walked the trail anymore. Anxious, depressed, alone, and lonely, I’d moved beyond introvert to hermit.

“But I don’t want a little dog. I keep seeing these beautiful, well-behaved labs in capes everywhere.” Their big brown eyes called my name.

“Labs in capes? They’re therapy dogs. You don’t get to keep them.”
I shrugged. “I’m just going to go to an info meeting.”
That weekend a litter was born and they posted a photo. When I saw the little

yellow blob, my heart thumped. That one. That one. It said her name was Skaha. It meant “dog” in Shuswap. Could she be my dog?

Seven weeks later, the trainer called. “Your pup’s ready for pick up on Friday. Do you want to know which one we chose for you?” I held my breath. “Skaha,” she said. “She matches your personality the best.”

The night I brought her home my life changed. Skaha slept in a kennel beside my bed and woke me up at 5:30 every morning starving and needing to go outside. In fact, she needed to go outside a lot. It turned out her parts weren’t quite right and she felt the urge about thirteen times a day. I kept track of it for the first year until she came into heat and miraculously her parts normalized.

“Do everybody’s hands look like this?” I asked one night at our weekly puppy class. Skaha had miniature shark teeth and the skin on the backs of my hands was like translucent crepe paper, too soon etched in bloody cuts and scars. “It’ll be better when her adult teeth come in.”

No matter the weather we were outside training several times a day. My back and shoulders ached from bending over to train her to leash walk, and pop the next treat in that razor maw for a sit well sat or a down done on cue.

There was little time to relax and when we did, I no longer sat on my couch because Skaha had to have four on the floor. So her bed became my bed, her floor became my floor.

Three weeks in, I didn’t think I could go on. Are you crazy? You’re a single senior who lives alone. What have you done? What I’d done was fall in love.

I took her everywhere I went and everything took twice as long. Skaha could make a thug in a hoody smile on the street. She lit up everyone’s face. At three weeks old, she was already performing a service. She made the world happy. In the grocery store, we were accosted by people who wanted to say hello. One person even stopped me in the middle of the crosswalk once to ask if he could pat my puppy. Of course, the first thing people asked was “When do you have to give her up?” That question haunted me. “I couldn’t do it,” they’d say. “I couldn’t give the puppy back.”

By the time she was eighteen months old, I was fantasizing about escaping up north and living off grid. Oh the fantasies.

I was no longer a hermit. I’d made friends in the service dog community and we made puppy dates. On the street when strangers wanted to chat, Skaha would sit patiently waiting for me to finish the conversation. It was as if she knew she was pulling me out of my shell.

And training went on. Skaha was active, affectionate, and eager to learn. Food was both a blessing and a curse. She’d do anything for food but she’d also DO anything for food. I could cue her to sit, turn my back, and walk twenty paces. She’d sit in the “ready” position like a cork about to pop. When she heard “here” she’d launch and come screeching to a halt right at my feet. Unless she smelled a cucumber slice twenty feet to her left; in which case she’d race over, inhale it, and arrive at my feet dripping cucumber juices, her mouth open ready for her next treat.

We were out in the woods every day. Skaha was an athlete, jumping on boulders, swimming for the love of it, racing and romping with her friends, tugging and wrestling over sticks. And she was a model. My phone was soon loaded with puppy photos: alone, with friends, at events.

And then I got the email. Skaha was two years old and it was time for her to begin advanced training. Some of her peers were being released and adopted. Service dogs have to be perfect, and many who train are released from the program for medical reasons or because they can’t perform the work that’s required. They say the dog chooses what job they want to do. So Skaha left to choose her job.

She’d stay at the kennel during the week and I’d get to sit her on weekends. That’s when I realized how much my life had changed. Sometimes I didn’t go for walks at all because I didn’t have to. At night, I couldn’t hear her breathing in my room. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t talk at home. I didn’t feel like socializing. My anxiety was back. I waited

for Fridays when I could pick up Skaha and hit the trail. As the months passed, I knew it was coming—the day I’d have to give her up permanently. She’d saved me and now she’d go on to save someone else.

“It’s okay. She’s going to be a hearing dog and help someone who’s deaf.”

“But what are you going to do?” My daughter was worried. “Are you going to get another pup?”

Shaking my head, I stared at my scarred hands. “It’s too hard on my body.”

Then, one Friday just before I was leaving to pick Skaha up, I was sitting on the couch and my phone rang.

“I want to let you know that Skaha’s been working really hard and enjoying her training. Unfortunately, we’re not seeing any improvement with the scavenging and we’ve decided to release her.”

I held my breath. What did that mean?
“We’re wondering if you’d be interested in adopting her.”
The tears came so hard I couldn’t speak. Then, “Yes.” It took several minutes before

I could get up off the couch and drive down to the kennel to pick her up that one last time.

Skaha was going to be my therapy dog. Forever.