Dixie Hope,
When we first met, I was 17, mildly awkward and rocking flannels on every non-uniform day.
The moment I saw you, before I'd even held your two-and-a-half pound body in my arms, I loved you. Mothers rave about the pivotal moment in which they first hold their child and, as cheesy as it sounds, the moment I met you was one of the best of my life. You probably don't remember, as it's a human holiday, but it was our St. Valentine's Day.
They'd called you "Cream Puff" before I named you, and it was certainly fitting. All downy, cottony, cream-colored fur and ears you'd later grow into, you were the most perfect little bundle I'd ever seen. My mom met you first, selecting you from the litter you'd been raised with. She brought you out to meet me, and my heart was split in two; half for me, and half for the doe-eyed little pup snuggling into my chest.
When we came back a month later to bring you home, you'd grown a bit, but your ears, your eyes and your little black nose remained the same. The three hour drive back to our house was tough for you; you shook and whimpered and snuggled all the closer to me. Classical music calmed you, though, just like me. Even now, when thunderstorms upset you or fireworks make you anxious, Tchaikovsky quickly quiets you.
The first few nights you spent in the tiny pink crate on my bedside table where I could reach my fingers in for you to lick and calm your nightmares with a few quiet words.
I'd heard such horror stories about a puppy's first few weeks in his or her new home; I dreaded waking up five times a night just to take you to the bathroom or trying to sleep through the crying I wasn't supposed to "rescue" you from. The beautiful, mysterious reality was that you never cried, you hardly needed me to take you outside and often wanted nothing more than I reminder that I was close.
We spent a year and a half separated by silly college rules, but were reunited as soon as I moved off campus. You quickly learned each of my new class schedules, knowing exactly when to expect me home, when I'd be preoccupied with homework (and you'd just snuggle close), when I'd make lunch (and you'd give me your prettiest sit hoping for a scrap of cheese) and when time came to collapse into my bed (which quickly became ours, as I hated sleeping without you, and you felt the same).
Now, after three years together, I know why you're so perfect; you were meant to be mine. Somehow God knew I'd need a dog precisely like you precisely now. You know when to whine at me to get me out of bed, you know when to join me and kiss away my tears and you know to race to me as soon as I shut the back door coming home. You know the knee that bothers me when the weather changes and the way I can't watch "Pride and Prejudice" without crying. You know who I am, and for that I am thankful.
As a little girl, I heard all of the proclaimed joys of dog-momhood: a best friend, lots of licks, cuddles for every day of the year and companionship.
What I never heard was that I'd need you as much as you need me.
I never knew you'd be my electric blanket in the winter (even though you only cover about half of my legs), never knew you'd whine at me when you know I'm getting sick (to make sure I know), never knew that you'd growl at anything or anyone that makes me anxious (just to keep them from bothering me).
No one ever told me that you'd have a piece of my heart from day one, a bit that would only grow over the next years together, and that you'd give me yours, too. I don't know what I'd have done these last three years without our comfortable partnership, without your long lick-baths on my shins after a long day or without the deep, heavy sighs that signal you're finally settled into my arms at the end of the evening.
Thank you for loving me better than many humans ever could.
Love you always,
Your Human
