Her name was Zephyr.
She had a disarmingly friendly face, and she was covered in thick grey fur. She loved wagging her tail and laying on the linoleum kitchen floor.
She had a home. Our home.
Zephyr was the family dog, half Bearded Collie and half Samoyed. She was the first pet I ever shared a house with.
OK, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a cat named Purrseus in our home as well. Zephyr thought Purrseus was her puppy. She would endearingly cover him with dog slime, leaving the poor cat looking miserable time and again.
But while Purrseus merely tolerated my presence, Zephyr enjoyed it. She remained calm, even as she found herself in the crosshairs of my youthful energy. She never snapped at me, even when I would yank on her fur as a small child.
Later on, when my sister was a toddler, she would ride on Zephyr’s back, like a horse. This wasn’t any dog’s idea of fun, but Zephyr was a good sport nonetheless.
As winter approached, Zephyr was in her element. As my sister and I would make snowmen in the backyard, the dog would gleefully bound through the snow around us.
It wasn’t all rosy. Zephyr would occasionally get herself into trouble, getting sprayed by a skunk or bitten by an unruly German Shepherd. When visitors came through the front door, she would nearly bowl them over with excitement.
But generally, my memories of Zephyr give me the warm fuzzies. Right up until the end.
The end was on a warm summer day. My grandfather was at the house, watching my sister and me while my parents were out and about. He could tell that something was wrong when Zephyr didn’t greet him with enthusiasm like she normally did.
We found her in a corner of the living room. Her nose was warm and she was breathing heavily.
We rushed Zephyr to the animal hospital, where the veterinarians diagnosed her with an enlarged heart. She never made it home.
I was 9 years old at the time, and it was the first time I’d experienced loss. Seeing the struggle my sister and I were going through, my parents held a funeral for Zephyr in our backyard. We scattered her ashes amongst the flowerbeds. My grandfather even wrote a eulogy for our beloved pet.
Zephyr was gone. But she was certainly not forgotten.
The next several months were surreal.
When we opened the front door, no one came to greet us. The leash and the food bowl were stowed away. And my grandparents didn’t stay at the house to dog sit when we went out of town.
It all seemed odd. And yet, I wasn’t quite ready to fill the void.
Getting another pet seemed out of the question to me. It would be a sign that our dearly departed Bearded Collie/Samoyed mix wasn’t so special after all.
But I was one of four people in my household. And the other three couldn’t bear the sight of a quiet home.
So, we watched the Westminster Dog Show and quickly found ourselves enamored with Border Collies. We connected with a rescue organization and adopted Nellie.
Nellie was about a year old when we brought her home. But that first year of her life had been traumatic. She had been abused and abandoned. Animal services workers eventually found her wandering the streets near the airport.
She was still pretty traumatized in those first weeks with us. Border collies are normally an energetic breed. But Nellie would cower under the kitchen table whenever visitors came by. And we had to be extra vigilant when a door was open, in case she made a run for it.
But gradually, Nellie emerged from her shell. She started herding my sister around the yard by nipping at her heels. And it wasn’t long before Nellie was barking at cats, chasing squirrels and playing with tennis balls.
Nellie was a willful dog, and that sometimes rubbed me the wrong way. I was approaching adolescence, and I didn’t have the skills to properly engage with her. I yelled at that dog more times than she deserved — so much so that she soon avoided me.
But I learned the error of my ways and started treating Nellie better. I prepared her food and gave her far more kindness and attention.
Not long after my turnabout, I went off to college. But when I returned for holidays and semester breaks — Nellie was there to greet me. And that filled my heart.
I had come full circle.
Eventually, my college days wound down. When I graduated without a job offer in the wings, I moved back to my childhood home for a bit. My parents and sister went on vacation to Europe, and I was tasked with watching the dog.
For the next several weeks, my routine was simple. Wake up, fill Nellie’s food and water bowls, take her for a walk and apply for news jobs in faraway cities.
It was a stressful time. But the dog made good company.
And yet, I could tell something was different. Nellie moved slower than usual. And sometimes she would struggle to jump onto my parents’ bed, where she slept in their absence.
Nellie didn’t have all that long left. And I knew it.
I ultimately did accept a job offer during that time. And once my parents returned, I prepared to move to Texas to start my new life.
On the day I left town, I spent some extra time saying goodbye to Nellie. For I was certain I wouldn’t see her again.
No, my family pleaded. Don’t say that!
But it was true.
By the time I returned to visit a year later, Nellie was gone.
After Nellie passed, I wondered if things would be different for our family.
I was living thousands of miles away, and my sister was off in college. My parents had a busy lifestyle, and I figured they might just keep the house to themselves for a while.
Boy, was I wrong.
About a year after Nellie passed, my parents brought home a puppy named Juno. An Irish Jack Russell terrier, Juno’s far smaller than the family’s two previous dogs. And from the start, she was energetic, excitable and photogenic.
Juno is the first of the family’s dogs who wasn’t also my pet. So it was hard for me to miss some major changes in my parents’ behavior.
For one thing, they made a concerted effort to make sure the puppy could travel. My grandparents were getting older, and my parents didn’t want to hire a pet sitter every time they left town. The dog would have to be mobile.
But beyond the logistics, something else seemed out of sorts. Instead of asserting a sense of reserved affection, my parents seemed to treat Juno like a small child. They spoke to her in voices I hadn’t heard since my sister was young. They put toys and dog beds in every room. And they sent me dozens of puppy pictures.
I couldn’t quite figure out why my parents were acting this way. Was this a reversion to earlier years in the house, as they stared down life as empty nesters? Were they longing for grandchildren and doting on the dog as a distraction? Had Juno’s cuteness simply disarmed them, wiping away two decades of dog ownership habits?
From afar, I oscillated between these three theories, never quite sure which one fit best. But before I could solve the puzzle, everything changed.
About four years after adopting Juno, my parents sold my childhood home. They, the dog, my sister and my grandmother moved into an apartment in the big city.
My parents were no longer empty nesters, and there were 100 different things to distract their attention from the dog.
And yet, they doted on Juno even more than before. They found creative ways to take her around town. And they planned dog-friendly excursions outside of the city.
By now, it was clear to me this behavior wasn’t a reaction. It was who my parents were. It was a side of them that had been there all along — but one that they hadn’t previously embraced.
And so, I let go of my discomfort. I embraced the stream of dog photos. I asked about Juno on our weekly phone calls. I went on late night walks with my father and her whenever I visited.
It took me a while. But I finally got it.
I don’t own any pets.
I’m too much of a neat freak to deal with pet hair. I don’t like picking up animal droppings. And I don’t want to have to go through the hassle of finding a sitter every time I leave town.
But growing up with furry home companions has left an indelible mark on my life. I’ve learned patience and practiced responsibility. I’ve found kinship and purpose. I’ve encountered the heights of joy and the depths of grief.
That is something truly special. But it needn’t be unique.
We can learn from the dogs and cats that are so prevalent in our lives. Whether we are taking care of our own pets or crossing paths with those of our neighbors, we can cherish that special bond between humans and animals. And we can heed the valuable life lessons such a connection brings.
I miss Zephyr and Nellie. And I miss Juno as well during my long stretches away from her. But I will always cherish my time with them, and its effect on me.
That is a gift without comparison.