Pfeiffer’s Love
It took 62 years for Blossum to arrive in my life.
Here’s the beginning of the backstory.
I’ll name him Pfeiffer. Is that weird? Naming a cat after a dog?
The promise I made to myself to adopt a white German shepherd to name after the dog I loved as a kid hadn’t happened yet. Thirty years ago, when I was given the gift of a white kitten I thought, hmmm… Pfeiffer the cat? Yes, of course. I couldn’t wait to call Lee and tell her I named my cat after her dog. She was nonplussed. It was a big deal to me!
I was 14 years old when I started babysitting for Lee and Burt, my mom’s best friends. “We should be home before midnight” Lee said. “Have whatever you want to eat, but don’t give anything to Pfeiffer. He had diarrhea yesterday.” Later, after the kids had gone to sleep, we watched Psycho on TV. Pfeiffer was my pillow. I gripped his thick, white fur as the music escalated and blood ran down the drain. I was scared shitless. There’s no way I would have watched that movie if I hadn’t had Pfeiffer with me. He was a rock in my life.
I couldn’t have loved this dog more if he were mine…and he wasn’t.
“Hi Lee, hi Burt, hi Sonny, hi Hallie” I called out as I skipped through the house and into the backyard to see Pfeiffer. No need to indulge in the social graces of pretending I was there to see anyone but my best four-legged friend. I chased Pfeiffer around the backyard and took him for long walks, but mostly I wanted to hug and pet him. He took it all in with a gentle grace and never pushed me away or growled, even if I held on a little too tight for a little too long.
“Mom and Dad are fighting all the time” I told him. “Mom’s always criticizing me for anything I do. She gets jealous if Dad’s nice to me and Dad avoids me so Mom doesn’t get mad.” Pfeiffer just stretched and yawned. He’d become my four-footed therapist. He was the best listener. He didn’t criticize or call me “Sarah Heartburn.” He never walked away, sitting patiently with rapt attention, punctuating the end of my story with a softhearted lick to my face. I always felt better after we talked. Then I’d have to go home, without him. My tender teen-aged heart broke every time I had to say good-bye to him.
Lee and I spent many afternoons talking in her kitchen with Pfeiffer on the floor at my feet. As he dozed off, bored by our conversations, he would start to softly bark and run in his sleep. It always made me giggle when he did that. I loved seeing his legs twitch and hearing his muffled woof. It was an endearing behavior that made my heart smile. Sometimes I’d get down on the floor and hug him.
Pfeiffer was getting on in age. Sometimes when we played, he’d lose his footing and stumble. As a white German shepherd, he had a genetic predisposition to hip dysplasia and he was clearly suffering with the symptoms. It tore at my heart to hear him cry.
One afternoon I came over to visit. Lee and Burt told me sadly they had put Pfeiffer to sleep. I was shocked. What?!? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I went running out of the house, into his back yard, just to check. I just wanted to see him one more time. To pet his body, to kiss his head, to hug him. His sudden and unexpected passing left a hole in my heart that never healed.
Five years ago, in a writing class, we were given a prompt to write about a pet. In a flash, images of Pfeiffer flooded my mind and I started crying and crying and crying.
And there it was…the reason I’d never had my own dog. In a moment, it all became clear to me. I didn’t get to say good-bye to Pfeiffer...to tell him what he meant to me...how much comfort I got from his presence. And most of all, I didn’t get to thank him for teaching me what it felt like to love and be loved. The loss was deeper than I had ever known or expressed. I hadn’t grieved the loss of the dog that made my teen-aged life bearable.
Tears shed for Pfeiffer freed me to embrace a dog of my own.
