Emma, I Understand

Emma isn’t my mommy. She doesn’t smell like me and never has, but as far as I remember, she’s all I’ve ever known. We were small when we met. I, a scrappy, rambunctious pup, and she, a lanky, hairless thing, except for the long patch of brown on her head. I’m known by the pets as “Buff Brrragoof” but, despite my countless attempts to convey this to Emma, she continues to call me: “Buddy”. It’s fine. I’ve never been able to pronounce her name either. Communication has always been our biggest hurdle, especially with her and the other two-leggeds missing their tails. Over time, I’ve started to get the gist of their words like: “outside”, “cookie”, “no”, “…vet…”, and she’s learned to recognize the subtle, tonal differences in my barks and growls. Even with this, the majority of what’s said becomes lost between us.

Life with Emma is warm, like lying in the grass under the sun. And, if I had a choice, I’d never leave her side. We were inseparable especially when we were young. Every night, she’d call my name and lift the covers so I could run under. I’d circle a few times before curling in the crook of her arm, put my tail over my nose, and she’d pet the wiry fur of my neck until I’d drift to sleep. “I love you, Buddy,” she’d whisper sometimes but I could only guess to what she’d meant.

I’d quickly learned the meaning of the word “car ride” and that, 90% of the time, getting in brought the grandest adventures. The other 10% took me to the place of many smells and needles. “Vet.” Once she’d gotten her own car ride, I was the pet she’d take everywhere: running through puddles at the park, chasing salty waves, exploring winding forest trails, sitting next to campfires. I’d hang my head far out the window and bite the air, gleaning the passing clues about the wonders of the world.

Eventually, we moved out, just the two of us, and I liked our new place. “Home.” It was smaller, quieter without her family and the other pets. I never felt alone surrounded by her things and now had a glorious window of my own through which to watch! There was no more “backyard”, but Emma and I spent extra time on our walks. I don’t know where she’d take her car ride during the day; maybe the park to chase the birds. It didn’t really matter; the best part was when she’d return home. For awhile, things were wonderful, really, blissful like a dream. And then they’d started to change.

Her friend came around—a male. That’s as much as I could gather since he’d never let me sniff his butt. I’d bark when I saw him, not sure about why he was here. He’d take my spot on the couch so I’d lie by Emma’s feet. After awhile, she’d climb into his red car ride and he’d take her away. He’d brought her a stuffed bear and it lived in our bed. I hated how it stared, that sometimes her arms held it instead of me, the way it smelled just like him—the one that takes Emma away—so, I watched through the window the next time they left and dismembered it, spreading its fluffy entrails all over our house. When he stopped visiting, Emma cried a lot. I don’t know why she did this but it’s never seemed to be good. I could make it stop. If I laid next to her, she’d run her hands through my fur and the tears would disappear. “Buddy,” she’d say squeezing me. “I love you so much.” The whole thing’s confusing but somehow, in the end, we’d both feel better.

Then my hips started to hurt and it made everything harder. The visits to the vet unfortunately became more frequent: more jabs, scary sounds, and strange smells. Emma began bringing me presents, lots of toys, things to enjoy inside, the tastiest bones. “I love you, Buddy,” she’d say and give me one. I got a big box of them under the twinkling no-pee-tree. “No!” I’d learned quickly; it was not for marking. She’d made me a comfy bed of pillows and blankets so I could look out my window while lying down. The changes to my vision were gradual, the world became dull, blurry, then vague. I missed watching the excitement outside; I missed Emma’s smile. I still counted myself lucky—at least I could hear her voice. When accidents kept happening, she no longer got upset. I had to wear these uncomfortable diapers but got to keep sleeping under her covers. She still snuggled and whispered to me like she always did. The important things never change. Now, it hurts too much to move, I can barely wag my tail. All day, I dream of following Emma through the waves and the woods. I miss the wild wind from our car rides.

Knock, knock. A bark rose in my throat but that was as far as it got. Emma greeted someone at the door. I caught his smell. “The vet? No car ride?” They talked inside for some time so I closed my eyes, a bit tired from all the excitement. Before I knew it, they were both next to my bed. Emma petted my side for awhile. I could feel her warmth at my back. A second pair of hands, something poked my leg. It hurt! I whimpered and Emma started to do that crying thing again and got my fur all wet. Wanting to help, I did my best to curl up closer into the crook of her arm, even though I was incapable of it any longer, and slipped my cold nose under my tail.

And, as my eyes grew heavy, the pain grew less. Her heart raced but I was calm. With Emma there, I knew I’d be okay. She ran her fingers through my fur, finding my favorite spot on my neck, and whispered again and again those familiar words she’d always seemed to say. Words I’d grown to hear and know as hers so many times throughout my life. They made me feel as if I were lying in the grass under the sun. They lit up my whole world. And as deep, eternal sleep began to carry me away, I realized. I finally understood what Emma had meant over the years, when she’d said all those times in that beautiful, gentle, wonderful voice of hers, “I love you.”