Before moving to Vermont, my Doberman, Stubby, had beaten the odds against a lung tumor, her resilient spirit keeping her vibrant and gray-free even at twelve. But the stress of relocating reignited the cancer, and soon her breathing faltered again. Amid navigating new beginnings with my boyfriend in Burlington, I found myself in a battle to balance hope and reality as Stubby’s health declined. From tense vet visits to quiet moments on the deck with her head in my lap, our bond remained unshaken—though cracks began to form elsewhere, testing the limits of love and loyalty in unexpected ways.
After months of grieving Stubby, a deep emptiness had settled in—I was a dog person without a dog. When my old friend Carol asked if I’d stay with David if he refused to have a dog, it forced a realization I couldn’t ignore. Desperation grew as David’s lukewarm responses met my growing desire for a new companion, until my bluff about having a baby led to his resigned agreement: “Let’s get a puppy.” What followed was a whirlwind of debates, plans, and a serendipitous visit to a nearby litter, where a tiny black Lab pup nestled into my hand, erasing all doubt about where my heart—and future—belonged.
Firecracker raced across the yard dragging a dish towel, her tiny legs moving at a speed that seemed impossible. In the span of seconds, she had vanquished the towel, chewed the clothesline post, knocked over the watering can, and was on her way to conquer a puddle. When I called to her, she froze mid-air, spun her head toward me, and barreled forward like a furry comet. She collided with my chest, her tail wagging furiously, her tongue attacking my chin in rapid-fire licks. Then, just as quickly as she arrived, she was gone—off to wage war on a stick, leaving me laughing and wondering, What just happened?