Almost three years to the day since I lost Trotsky Bear, I have a new dog.
A permanent addition to my household was probably inevitable since I started walking dogs at the Albuquerque Animal Welfare Department last November and started doing Doggy Days Out at the Bernalillo County Animal Care and Resource Center.
But I’ve spent time with a lot of dogs in the last five months and none of them called to me like Buster. He was always there, week after week, smiling and waiting for his walk so he could roll around on the grass (or dirt) on his back and get those good scritchy-scratches in. Just like Trotsky loved to do. Not a single other dog I’ve spent time with has loved back dancing like Buster. And the day he stopped during our walk and leaned against me – like Trotsky did when I met him – our fates were sealed.
I found myself getting to the shelter early and dashing to his kennel to make sure I could walk him before anyone else did. And when he had been in the shelter two and a half months, I couldn’t stand it any longer and I brought him home purely as a foster on March 5th.
Even though the situation was temporary in my mind, Buster had other plans. He is the epitome of “grateful to be rescued”. I’ve never seen a dog cuddle so hard. He has to be touching me at all times. If I’m sitting somewhere he can’t cuddle with me, he’ll place his head on my lap and fall asleep standing.
Even in the car, his seatbelt extends just far enough that he can put his front legs on the center console and place his head on my shoulder, in the crook of my elbow, or sometimes even directly on top of my head. He’s claimed his place as my sidekick and he’s not going anywhere.
Trotsky never wanted to be up front in the car. He stood and looked out the passenger side rear window. He refused to lie down, even on a six-hour drive, and he refused to look out the driver’s side rear window. If someone was in the passenger side, he stood on top of them. It was his spot. In contrast, Buster lies down on the highway, when the constant stop and start of city driving is over and the ride is smooth. But as soon as I slow down, he’s up in the center again, helping me navigate.
I can’t help but compare Buster to Trotsky. Their differences are numerous, despite the obvious that I don’t have to spend hours and hours brushing and grooming Buster like I did with Trotsky. I had to force feed Trotsky; Buster is a ravenous eater and insanely food motivated. Trotsky hated other dogs; Buster yelps and screams whenever he sees another dog because he wants so badly to meet and play. Trotsky hated most people; Buster loves everyone. Trotsky was independent and rarely cuddled; Buster needs endless physical contact. Trotsky even got annoyed with any pressure on his body, for example if we were sitting on the couch together and I draped an arm over his back, he would tolerate it for a few seconds but then get up and leave. Buster, on the other hand, doesn’t even care if I sit directly on him or wedge him in between my body and the back of the couch. He’s thrilled with that arrangement. Trotsky was constantly checking in with his pack on hikes to make sure everyone was there; Buster is in his own sensory planet and would very likely run away never to be seen again if I let him off leash. I thought Trotsky didn’t know how to bark for the first few weeks I had him; Buster is an endless barker and I’m working on him not being so.
They are very different dogs right down to the way I loved Trotsky with my whole being even the night before I brought him home from the shelter. I don’t feel that way about Buster, even though I’m committed to him and he’s going to have a fabulous life with me. But I think that a piece of my ability to love was lost forever when I lost Trotsky.
It’s probably self-preservation. Losing Trotsky wrecked me and I don’t want to go through that again.
It’s a good thing that Buster is my fur baby and not a human because he’d probably end up in years of therapy talking about how he could never live up to the memory of his dead brother.
Or maybe he will. And maybe I’ll find that piece of myself again. Who knows – our adventure is just beginning.
Jennifer A Swallow 