​It is a new year full of new thoughts, new beginnings, and new promises. There really is a spark of excitement that hovers over all of us at the possibility of new adventures too, isn’t there? So, it is unfortunate and downright devastating that my first blog of the new year will be less than stellar.
 
I have said jokingly in the past that if reincarnation is real, I would like to come back as a dog. And no, not just any dog. I want to come back as my dog.
 
Seeker was the firstborn of seven puppies to a pair of dogs that fell instantly in love with each other. Momma Sassy, a Cockapoo, was a puppy herself when she came into my life. Papa Slai, a Chinese Crested Powderpuff, was four months old when we rescued him from a hideously small cage at a Florida Flea Market. These two dogs became almost inseparable from the moment they met.
 
Seeker was the leader of the litter in more ways than one. He earned his name by somehow escaping out of the whelping box every night by week three. We would find him exploring the house with zero understanding of how that tiny puppy scaled the tall sides of that box. It was a mind-boggling mystery. Even as an adult dog, he lived to escape and run free. And when we went for our walk, he walked me.
 
It has been he and I alone together since he was eight weeks old and, much like his parents, we instantly fell in love with each other. I have heard so many people tell me in recent years so many times, “he is just a dog” that I have grown to feel sorry for anyone who does not understand the unconditional love of a canine connection.
 
Today I had to say goodbye to that little guy and it damn near broke my heart. Seventeen years of intensely active puppydom took its toll on his little 14-pound body. I have watched him slowly decline over the past months. But, right up until last night with me steadying his weakened stance, he chowed down on kibbles mixed with tuna and cheese like a starved child who hadn’t eaten in months. He was one strong-willed little pup.
 
And so ends a love story for the ages. In all these years I have never finished a steak, a piece of chicken, or fish – or even the crust off my morning toast – because those bites were always saved for him. I am not sure if I will ever relearn how to finish a meal.
 
Ah, but I pray this is never fodder for yet another rant.
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