R.I.P., Kassie

Hi. My name is Erin, and I am a dog lover.

If most people who knew me had heard me say that 10 years ago, they would have thought I was joking.

I never liked dogs as a kid. I never wanted a dog. I hated them. I think this had a lot to do with my dad always griping about the neighbor's dog, who never stopped barking, as well as an incident when I was a little kid where I almost wet my pants at a party because a big dog wouldn't get out of the way of the bathroom door.

Nearly every dog I encountered did nothing but bark, jump all over me, and smell. Once in a while I'd see a dog that was over-the-top spoiled, getting its hair done all the time and being talked to in baby voices. Dogs were, to me, either beastly or surrogate children for crazy, desperate people.

When Jonathan and I started dating, he was waxing poetic about his family dog one day. "I can't wait to get a dog of my own someday!" he said.

"Um, before this relationship goes any further, I should warn you that I can't stand dogs," I said.

Stunned silence. Which was a pretty common reaction. Most people didn't understand why I hated dogs; I didn't understand why they loved them.

Jonathan slowly came to terms with the idea of never having a dog again. Then one day, during my senior year of college, my mom nonchalantly sent me an email. "It's been snowing a lot lately! We got a dog last week. How are your classes going?"

"You WHAT? Got a dog? WHY?"

I was informed that they wanted a guard dog for the farm they'd just bought. I was appalled. I could always count on my parent's house to be dog-free. Now one there too? Was there no escape?

But, as I would soon find out, Kassie was a different kind of dog. My parents adopted her from a family when she was about 4. The family ran a day care and claim Kassie nipped at a child. I simply can't imagine Kassie doing that. She was the sweetest dog I've ever know.

The first time I went out to the farm to meet her, I gingerly opened the car door, figuring she'd pounce all over me. Instead, she gave my leg a sniff, and then just wagged her tail. I gave her head a scratch. She didn't immediately slobber all over my hand or try to initiate a tug-of-war. She was just calm and happy.

Turns out Kassie wasn't much of a guard dog. She was too nice. I think in the time my parents had her, I only heard her bark once or twice. The UPS man would merely make her wag her tail. She would happily allow anyone on the property.

So my parents got a second dog- a hyper mutt named Rascal. Unlike Kassie, Rascal would play and run and jump. (And chase away strangers.) Jonathan was thrilled. He could wrestle with Rascal. Kassie would barely even play fetch.

Kassie slowed down more and more as she got older. Turns out she had arthritis. She also seemed content to let Rascal have the spotlight. She became like "yellow dog" from "Funny Farm," always just sort of lying around in the sunniest spot she could find. I felt a kinship with her for not wanting to be in the limelight. Sometimes it's nice to just let the world go by instead of always putting on a show. So while Jonathan would run and play fetch with Rascal, I would sit down with Kassie. I'd comb her, scratch her head, kiss her ears. Something about her relaxed me. I could have spent days just sitting with her, her head on my lap.

I slowly began to pay more attention to dogs. When we moved to San Francisco, suddenly everywhere I looked there were happy, well-behaved dogs on leashes. They would proudly strut with their owners down the street, and calmly wait as their owner sat at a sidewalk cafe to have a coffee. They never barked. They were all clean. I began to realize that the dogs of my childhood were an unfair assessment of the world's dogs. I started smiling at dogs. I would sit in the park near our apartment with a coffee and dogs would come over to me, and I would pet them and laugh at them and ask their owners what kind they were. Eventually I found myself just grinning the second I saw practically any dog.

When Jonathan and I got married on the farm, Kassie accidentally became a member of the wedding party. How does a dog accidentally end up in a wedding, you ask? Our outdoor wedding was nearly rained out. As the ceremony was about to begin, huge storm clouds rolled overhead and deep thunder rumbled across the plains. Kassie HATED thunder. She was terrified. My dad tried to put her in the barn, but she wouldn't have it. She refused to leave his side, and so, she walked down the aisle with us.



Notice how she even carefully avoided stepping on my train...



and kept my nephew (the ring bearer) company during the ceremony.



At the time I was annoyed- I'd always rolled my eyes at people who put dogs in their wedding. Also, something about being a bride makes it impossible to stand the idea of anyone else outshining you. Within a couple days, though, as the stress of the wedding started to wear off, I was able to look back and smile. And now, of course, I am so thankful for that silly thunderstorm and for her being a part of such an important day and for making it so memorable; I can't fathom how I was ever upset about it.

Last May, when we went to visit my family, I knew somehow that it was the last time I'd see her. It was a sunny day, so hot that even Kassie preferred to be out of the sun, and she'd tucked herself under a hay rack for shade. I went looking for her and called her name and heard the familiar "thump thump thump" of her tail hitting the grass coming from under the trailer. I sat down and she edged herself forward just a bit so I could pet her. I sat with her for a long time, just gently stroking her head. She even managed to crawl out and get one last picture with me.



About a week ago Kassie stopped eating. My parents took her to the vet, who figured she had cancer. He said at her age (almost 11) and with her chronic arthritis, it wasn't really worth trying to operate. He gave her some pain meds and sent her home. She died Friday morning, lying on the grass in her favorite sunny spot.

Never in all my life would I have thought I could be so upset about "just a dog." I've never been one to cry at funerals. I usually prefer sarcasm over genuine emotion. But there's something so intrinsically genuine about dogs that it can't help rubbing off on you eventually. I know it's been said a million times before, but if only humans could be as loving and giving and devoted as dogs, the world would be a better place.

I wish so much that I could have been with Kassie when she died. But I think she knew how much I loved her. She probably didn't know, however, how much she changed me, and how much love she gave me in return.