I loved her from the moment I saw her. Her big brown eyes looking up at me as she cowered in her cage.
I had been walking other dogs at GRA Canada that day. And every time I came back into the barn, I caught her gaze.
"What about that one?" I asked Bill and Freddie, the generous couple who owned this greyhound rescue operation, pointing to the cowering pup.
"You don't want her," Bill replied. "She's been through a lot. She's broken. How about this one?" He pointed to a male greyhound with a big smile and a bigger personality.
I looked back at her, at those big brown eyes, at those shuddering ribs, at her matty coat.
"I will take her!" I proclaimed.
He tried to talk me out of it.
"That dog has been through too much," he said.
So have I, I thought.
Three days later, she was in my car and we were heading home. She farted the whole way.
"Don't poo!" I yelled. "Don't you poo!!!"
It was hysterical and unnerving at the same time.
She was panting and farting.
We were both scared.
Bill and Freddie were right. Beamer (as I began to call her. A short form of her former racing name: PNP's Moonbeam) was indeed broken. She had been through a lot. She was a lost soul.
But so was I.
So together we tried to figure it out.
I showed her how to walk up and down stairs, how to have fun, and how to trust people again.
She showed me how to be selfless, provided an example for humility, and, ironically, taught me how to trust people again too.
She was, by all accounts, my very best friend.
I took her everywhere.
If I was invited to a party, I brought her.
If I was having dinner on a patio, she slept on the floor beneath the table.
If I was going to play sports, she was my number one fan on the sidelines.
If I was going to the pet store, she was by my side.
If I was going for a run, she took the lead.
If I was hiking on a trail, she fearlessly led the way.
She was not my dog. She was my heart.
She was also hysterically neurotic. And quickly forgot the perils of her caged racing life and became a diva (to my own fault, I admit) in her second chance at life with me.
If her bed wasn't fluffy enough, she would huff and storm off.
If her food wasn't in her bowl exactly at 5, she would stare me down.
If I wanted to play with her, she rolled her eyes and lay in the sun.
She was a character in her own right. Neurotic. Loveable. Beautiful. Hilarious. Fun.
She was also a gentle soul.
She taught me so many lessons in our time together, I doubt that I even know all of them.
She was never ungrateful to see me walk through the door. You just can't buy that kind of love.
She was intuitive. Everytime I had a bad day at work, a hard day with a boyfriend, a tough call with family, or a bout of homesickness, she knew. She would tip toe over to me, head down, and put her head on my lap. I'd stroke her head, for hours sometime, deriving calmness and love from every stroke.
She fixed me every time that I felt broken.
And to think, I adopted her so I could fix her.
With her, I was the the biggest kid. Running wildly in the backyard, arms flailing, receiving enormous joy from watching her run circles around me.
With her, I was a desperate parent, rushing her to the vet when she stepped on glass, got nipped by a squirrel, had seizures while throwing up, and eventually broke her back. Begging doctors to do everything and anything to fix her.
With her, I was a baby. I cried when she wasn't feeling well. I welled up when she was broken.
With her, I was the stern bad cop, but never for long. I would scold her for eating her own poo, for nipping at other dogs, for not listening to me when I called. Then I would laugh at her big brown eyes, so apologetic, and invite her for a nap on the bed.
Don't get me wrong, Beams was a terror, too.
Like the time that darn dog opened the refrigerator, carried all of its contents – salad dressing, soya sauce, sesame oil, etc ~ to her bed and had a feast in my absence. I endured 36 hours of "ass-plosions" there after. But the girl did not learn her lesson.
There was the time that we were at Courtney's cottage, and she walked nonchalantly off the deck and into the lake, as if she could walk on water. She plunged to the bottom with a look of "what the heck?" on her face. Diana jumped in and brought her to the surface. I pulled her back on to the deck. Turns out that in addition to a mild case of embarrassment, Beams also picked up a big parasite from the experience. And 6 hours later on the drive back to Toronto, her second case of "ass-plosions" ensued.
When my brother and sister bought their new farm, Beams and I went to visit. We toured the empty farmhouse gleefully, so excited to see this dream become a reality. And then Beamer marked her territory in each room. "Your dog is peeing on the carpet!" Geoff said angrily. "She doesn't pee on carpets," I said. Standoffish. Insulted that he would accuse MY dog of such bad dog behaviour. And then Beams came into the living room and peed in front of us. Proving Geoff right.
There was that time that she actually reverted back to her dog heritage and out of the blue started chasing a stick with her friend Milo in the park. Matt (Milo's owner) and I looked on stunned. "I think she is playing" Matt said, dumbfounded. I had never seen it before. And then, three hours later when Matt and Milo came over for dinner, it was evident that what happened in the park earlier that day, the sudden burst of dog-like playfulness, should stay in the park. Milo came directly over to Beamer to plant a big kiss. Beamer growled. Nipped. And reminded him that under no certain circumstances were they friends.
And so, the park incident was forgotten. Just another notch in her belt of obscure and unpredictable behaviour.
"She's the best dog ever" I said to my friend Bernadette as I tried to sell her on looking after Beamer for me for a week. "She's perfect." I may have oversold. Three days later, Bern called me from Vancouver "Something is wrong with Beamer. She is peeing everywhere!". Turns out, a friend of hers had moved into the apartment, and had kicked Beamer out of the bed and back on to the floor. You know, like where a dog should be? Well, Beamer was mad. And peed on her bag. Her clothes. Everything. "I swear she's never done anything like that before!" I said embarrassed. Damn dog.
She came with me to work almost every day for 3 years and won over the hearts of many colleagues. She also won over their uneaten lunches, the office party cake, and the jeans of a few delivery guys that she didn't like.
She ate a pigeon in the courtyard of our apartment complex once.
She also nabbed a squirrel by the tail.
She had a stand off with a skunk in which she actually survived unscathed.
She had a nipping match with her cousin Mocha.
She got lost in Goderich once and had the whole extended family on the lookout.
She ate a woodchip and ended up in the ER.
She spooned every friend who ever slept over on the couch.
She demanded belly rubs.
She ate her food without chewing.
She barfed on the carpets so many times that the steamcleaner has paid for itself 10 times over.
She camped.
She ate centipedes from the shower.
She turned her nose up at store-bought kibble.
She won the love of strangers instantly with a glance.
She was called "a dear" more often than Bambi
She convinced her dogsitters Matt and Ruth to get her a Big Mac meal through the McDonald's drive thru. "It was her eyes!" Ruth said in her defence "I couldn't say no to those eyes. So we biggie-sized her fries!" Ass-plosions soon followed.
She helped our guy friends pick up girls.
She smiled with the wag of her tail.
She crossed the country with me crammed into the back seat among picture frames, mirrors, and bags and never complained once.
She became the "family dog" in Kitsilano. Everyone loved her.
She was invited to more parties than me. If I said, "I don't think I can come tonight." the next question would inevitably be "Can Beamer?"
She was cunning and conniving, a brilliant food thief who left no stone unturned, no plate unlicked, and no countertop uncleaned.
She sat with me, atop many a cliff, soaking in the sunlight, the fresh air and the view. And it was heaven on earth.
She was a role model for being alive. She did what she wanted, when she wanted to, without a care in the world. And then she came home and gave all of her love to me. She was the most selfless being I have ever met.
She was faithful and loyal and loving to me to the very last beat of her heart. I only hope that I was worthy of such devotion.
Her only fault, really, was that her life was too short.
She was my running buddy. My pal. My family. My sounding board. My business partner. My shoulder to cry on. My therapist. My comedian. My confidant. My diary. My life. My heart.
She was an angel, and now she walks among them.
I love you Beamer.
Thank you for saving me from myself.
