A Farewell to Amy

Emily with puppy Amy.

On Monday, a call to my friend, Nina, confirmed what I feared. She had to put down Amy, her faithful companion of fifteen years. Anyone who’s ever had a dog knows just how painful and sad a day that was.

I can still remember the day Nina called to tell me she and her daughter Emily adopted Amy at the local pet store. They were especially drawn to this dog who bore a remarkable resemblance to my then-aging dog, Brandy. They weren’t sure Steve, Nina’s husband, would approve. Steve, who was born and lived his entire life in Manhattan, never had a dog. Of course, he fell for Amy, and I must say, I think Steve was responsible for sneaking the dog more treats than the rest of the family combined.

While we enjoy a singular relationship with our own dog, we also have relationships with our friend’s dogs. I had a special fondness for Amy. Not long after Nina’s family adopted her, my twelve-year-old Brandy passed away. And though Amy’s resemblance to Brandy was part of what endeared her to me, she had a totally different personality. She was much sweeter and gentler.

Nina spends summers up at her house in the Catskills and every year I drove up for a visit with Brandy, and later with my new dog, Lucky. While Amy preferred my visits to their apartment in Manhattan, where she received my undivided attention, she tolerated Lucky . I’ll never forget the night Amy repeatedly tried to come into our bedroom, only to be met with a growl from Lucky. Every time I started to nod off, they’d wake me. After I  positioned myself in the middle of the bed with Lucky on one side and Amy on the other, we finally all fell asleep.

Two summers ago, I had to leave Lucky home in South Carolina when I flew up to New Jersey for a wedding. I drove up to the Catskills for a few days, and Amy greeted me with wild abandoned when I pulled in the driveway. Since I’m an early riser, I would take her out for a walk first thing every morning. I allowed her to decide the route. The amazing thing is that each morning she took me someplace different.

One morning she was headed in a direction that I didn’t recognize. I said, “No, Amy. Let’s go this way.” She just stared at me with that knowing look only dogs have until I finally gave in and followed her lead. Of course, after we reached the end of the road, I remembered having walked that way once many years earlier. By the end of my visit, I realized that Amy had taken me on a walk to every one of the places I’d ever walked with her, Nina and Lucky over the years. Remarkable, no? Almost as if she were saying, “You remember this, don’t you?”

I know many people pooh-pooh the idea that dog’s have feelings and thoughts like humans, but I’m a firm believer they feel all the same emotions we do. They just don’t talk, and maybe that’s why we love them so much better than people. When I returned to the Catskills for a really quick two-night visit this July, Amy could no longer take the long walks. Did she somehow know that the previous visit was our last chance to reminisce as we visited our previous haunts? I think she did.

I’ll miss Amy as I still miss my Lucky who passed away in February. If those names sound familiar to you, it may be because I dedicated my last book to them — both dogs are characters in the Holly and Ivy mystery series. They’re gone, but not forgotten, and I’m very happy they’ll live on in the stories I’ve written. In the meantime, I’ll smile as I imagine the two running around pain-free as puppies in that big dog park in the sky.