How Fate Brought Me My Ralph

According to surveys of pet owners, people who buy pets from breeders tend to say they chose their pet based on research and specific criteria. They credit their own careful decision-making. People who rescue, however, tend to say that their pet chose them. They often credit fate for putting them together, or feel that their connection was simply "meant to be."

I know which category I fall into. I wasn't looking for a cat when a stray kitten moved into my life. She chose me, so I loved her for the rest of her life. And when my Beagle Porter showed up, catatonic and traumatized from abuse, I knew I had to take him in. He needed me. I would soon find out that I needed him, too.

When he so sadly passed away, I didn't surf the web for a new pet. I waited for a couple months, then put out the word that I needed a dog. In the great cityscape of life, I turned my taxi cab's light on: I was available. 

After a few days, I got a Facebook message about a Beagle who'd bounced from shelter to shelter, named Abigail. I said I'd come get her. And that was how I found my shadow, my 19-pound soulmate. Though my time with Porter had been cut tragically short, his untimely passing suddenly seemed to make some sense. If I hadn't lost him, then I wouldn't have met Abigail, the fiercely loving little girl who adored me at first sight, and who seemed destined to be mine.

Abigail was my best friend and constant companion. Losing her four years later was devastating. Once again, I needed a dog. But as I surfed PetFinder.com, crying harder with every click, I felt paralyzed. I wanted all of the dogs, and my husband wanted none of them. How was I supposed to know which of them was my dog?

I was stuck in traffic one night when I mindlessly picked up my phone. I thumbed through Facebook for a second and landed on a brown dog. His family couldn't keep him anymore, so one of my friends was trying to find him a home.

"Okay, fine," I thought. I'd been hoping for another Beagle, but really, I just wanted a dog. Any dog. And that dog needed someone to love him. Who was I to get in the way? By the time the light turned green, I'd decided he could come live with me.

My husband gave in, and a few days later, the dog's owner dropped him off at our house. I accepted the leash and felt my heart sink. Abigail had been my babydoll, happy to be dressed in tiny pajamas and tucked into bed beside me. This dog was big, rough, and seemed to be made of solid muscle. He nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when I walked him, and he scaled our couch in a single bound. This wasn't my kind of dog at all. He slinked around our house, anxious and confused as a caged zoo animal, while I wept for my Abigail.

But we named him Ralphie, and we doted on him. Because that's how it works. 

That was 10 months ago. Today, Ralphie is my dog.

He wakes up happy, usually sprawled across my husband and me in bed. Ralphie loves his morning walk as much as I do, so we shake off our sleep and head into the morning light. He's so strong and so eager to gallop, I sometimes feel like I could just hold on to his leash, pick up my feet, and sail through the air behind him. But instead, he pulls me breathlessly along the sidewalk, exploring our neighborhood, meeting dogs, and enjoying being outside together.

As the pandemic keeps me close to home, Ralphie has become my sweet shadow. He knows my routine, napping beside me till lunch, then sweetly interrupting me for his noon walk. He brings me toys, he body slams me when he can't decide whether he wants to play or snuggle, and he lives to please me. He makes up new ways to communicate with me every day. And he'll parade around my bedroom with a toy in his mouth for no other purpose than to make me laugh.

There's a famous quote: "Everyone thinks they have the best dog in the world. And none of them are wrong." I knew I'd fall in love with any dog I picked.

But I'm sure glad I ended up with my Ralph.

This Unprecedented Blah Blah: Working in Marketing During the Pandemic

Wet hair, don't care: Work from home style.

If you donate to charity, you may have received an email that I wrote. It would have opened with grave concern ... something like, "We hope you and your loved ones are well" ... and then went on to acknowledge "these uncertain times."

For a day or two, I actually thought I might be the first copywriter to put those particular words together. Then came the onslaught of marketing in everybody's inbox.

For every "We're here for you" email that you've received, there's a copywriter behind it who's (trust me!) just as sick of the sentiment. But still, I have clients who send my copy back to me with the same request: "Can you add more language about these unprecedented times?" 

And I do.

Because I am grateful ... and frustrated ... and overwhelmed ... and worried ... and grateful again ... to be working as a writer during the pandemic.

----

The coronavirus didn't seem real to me until Sunday, March 15. I had friends who were already staying home and social distancing, but that day, my husband and I had just come home from the mall.

That's when I got an email telling me not to go to the office the next day. We'd been planning an office-wide work-from-home trial run to start soon, but our company President had decided that we should all start working from home immediately, for an indefinite period of time.

I was glad, but suddenly nervous. Just like that, the world outside my house seemed weirdly treacherous. We were all just being cautious, right? Two weeks later, the governor would issue a statewide stay-at-home order.

That first week at home was a blur of video conferences, urgent deadlines, and frantic re-writes. I write fundraising copy for a number of charities across the US, and suddenly, nothing was relevant anymore. I'd already written campaigns for April, May, and June, but they all referenced things that had become obsolete overnight: kids in school, summer vacations, communal gatherings.

And my clients were scared. As more people got sick and others lost wages, charities were challenged to serve many more people — without volunteer labor, while sanitizing spaces, without putting their staff or the people they serve at risk.

I wrote about hungry families. I wrote about little kids with cancer who could no longer have their mom and dad with them in the hospital. I wrote about people who were already battling a life-threatening illness, only to find themselves crushed by a new health and financial crisis.

Sometimes, my heart would break for them so much, I'd start to cry at my desk. Or I'd walk downstairs and tell my husband how horrible everything was. I'd go on and on about how our world was coming apart. After a while, he'd want me to stop, but I couldn't. Every day, for more than eight hours straight, I'd write emotional appeals about human suffering, and how my clients could barely keep up.

For a few days, I thought I was sick with coronavirus. I finally realized that I wasn't shivering from a fever, but rather, trembling from anxiety. It was all-consuming. I'd work until I couldn't any longer, then drink wine and fall asleep on the couch.

It might sound ridiculous, and yes, I felt ridiculous. I knew I wasn't on the front lines. I wasn't saving lives. And I felt guilty. The pandemic put countless people out of work. So many people were desperate to earn a paycheck and I was jealous of the people who suddenly had free time on their hands. I wanted to be like everyone else and clean out my closets. I wanted to bake banana bread!

----

Aside from dog walks and a few curbside pickups, I have now been home for 53 days.

It turns out that the stay-at-home life suits me. I'm getting more sleep, more exercise, and I'm more productive. I love being home with my husband and dog. And as unemployment climbs, I'm endlessly grateful that I'm able to take care of my little family by writing. But I'm worried for my clients, not just because they do good work, but also because I need them to keep paying me.

I did clean out my closet, AND make banana bread.

My summer fundraising campaigns have all been re-written, some with alternate versions waiting on the sidelines, because we don't know what our world will look like next month. We really have no idea.

Almost everything I write now acknowledges our "new normal," and "these uncertain times." Sometimes, my clients ask me to lean harder on the COVID-19 messaging, and I feel like I'm forced to dip into a well of overused phrases. "This is an unprecedented situation," I add. "Together, we will get through this."

Because we will.
I hope.

Fierce and Loving: My Abigail

 We had an empty dog bed and a hole in our hearts. We offered them both to her.

Abigail was a Beagle who needed a home. That was all we knew about her when we agreed to take her in. We drove to the shelter to pick her up and brought her home to our apartment, which was a mess of cardboard boxes. Everything was in a state of change. We were newly married, mid-move, and I was crying, constantly, over the sudden death of our previous dog. I was in pieces.

Abigail, the skinny little stray who'd bounced from one shelter to another, took it in stride. Within minutes of moving in, she crept up beside me, studied my face, and pressed her body against mine. I cried, again. She cuddled in closer.

* * * *

It's funny to think about that day now. What happened to that Beagle, so demure and compliant?

Billy, Abigail, and I moved into a new home together. Before we knew it, Abigail was running the household. She asserted her preferences and we learned her routines. She ruled with an iron paw — conveying her demands with impatient sighs, defiant yips, breathless and happy hops, frustrated barks, stern glares, or a loving and contented gaze.

Abigail had an intellect that was humanlike. She always knew when we were talking about her, even if we tried to do it in secret. She'd lift her head from her pillow and fix us with a narrow-eyed stare, letting us know that she hadn't been sleeping, but rather, listening in the entire time.

Her grasp of vocabulary would put the brightest toddler to shame. Abigail even knew what day of the week and what time it was, as she let us know every Wednesday (her least favorite day of our week) and every night at dinnertime, sharp.

We never bothered to teach her commands, as we understood that pet tricks were beneath her. We were lucky to have a roommate who chose to behave so well most of the time, and she knew it. Abigail respected us and expected the same consideration.

In return, Abigail gave us her whole heart. 

She was my loyal shadow, and insisted that we touch at all times. Wherever I sat, she stayed pressed against me, and permitted herself to doze only lightly so she could get up and follow me to the kitchen or bathroom and back. She slept curled in my arms like a teddy bear at night and woke only when I did.

While any human relationship cools and normalizes over time, Abigail's adoration never faded. She'd wait, desperate and frantic, for my return each day. Then she'd throw herself at my feet, surrendering herself to our joyful reunion. Every single time.

Abigail hated cheap cheeses, bright lights, and women with ponytails and yoga mats. She loved kisses, sleeping in together on Sundays, and she was always proud to wear clothes. She refused to participate in a SnapChat, but was surprisingly fine with wearing a wig.

She was only 19 pounds, but her presence was enormous. She was part of every conversation we had. I spent my days holding her, petting her, doting on her, and basking in the joy it gave her to simply be loved. She would suffer for love — even enduring blinding sun on a hot deck rather than let me suntan without her.

When we passed another dog (or even a big truck) on the street, Abigail had to be restrained from defending us with her life. She would have died for me.

* * * *

I wish you could negotiate with death, for even one day. I would give anything to spend one more afternoon with her.

I miss her so much.

We only got to love Abigail for four years before her bad back lead to a fatal injury. Billy was out of town when I realized I had to let her go. Abigail, as brave and fierce with her love as ever, tried not to leave me. She fought the pain until her final breath. It was devastating to watch. But that was who she was.

I've finally stopped crying every day. But out of nowhere, I'll start missing her, and it will hit me all over again that she's never coming home. And it seems unfathomable. I wish I could have one more afternoon to lay with her. To smell her warm Beagle belly. To give her the one thing she lived for: loyal and unyielding love.