You’ll find over 570 posts on this blog, but today’s is a little different. I’m using a guest writer for the first time. The guest is actually my youngest daughter, Amy. With her permission, I’m using a post from her blog, “Everyone Has a Story.” If you’re interested in following her journey, you can do so by clicking here. Here you go…
My oldest sister begged and begged our parents for a dog when my siblings and I were little. They finally caved when I was seven. And, y’all, I was the happiest seven-year-old in the world when we brought Ivy home. She was the most timid, shy, sweet, little beagle. And I fell madly in love with her.
Ivy was a family dog, sure. But she was my dog. And I was her human.
One of my parents’ rules about Ivy was that she had to sleep downstairs in her kennel at night. But Ivy didn’t like that. She howled and she whined and she cried herself to sleep in that stupid kennel. After one night of this, I decided I didn’t like this stupid rule either. After my parents went to bed, I would sneak downstairs, take Ivy out of her kennel, and bring her upstairs to sleep with me. I would then wake up early to take her back downstairs before my parents woke up. It didn’t take long before we kicked the kennel to the curb and my parents accepted that Ivy was gonna sleep with me every night.
Fast forward eight years.
When I was 15 and Ivy was 8, my parents replaced the carpet in our house. We were moving to Fayetteville in a year and they were trying to get the house ready to sell. Another stupid rule I didn’t like: Ivy was not allowed on the new carpet. My parents bought baby gates and a dog bed, and Ivy was to be confined to the kitchen where there was tile.
Okay… Ivy’s been sleeping in my bed for eight years. This wasn’t gonna go over well.
Fine. You’re gonna make my dog sleep on the cold tile. You’re gonna make your daughter sleep on the cold tile too then. And I moved my bedroom into the kitchen. Partly because I was mad at my parents and wanted to spite them. But mostly because I loved Ivy. (My parents and I have great relationships now. No worries.)
Fast forward a couple more years to Ivy happily allowed to roam the whole house, not just the kitchen, in Fayetteville.
She liked to sit on top of the couch and look out the window. She knew which cars belonged to her humans and which belonged to strangers, and when one of her humans’ cars pulled into the driveway, she would get so excited. She would jump off the couch and tap dance to the door to greet her humans. Her nails would click, click, click on the wooden floor, her tail would wag, and she would whimper for days as she licked and jumped.
This was only a problem when I was sneaking back into the house at 4am after a night out with a boy.
Most people who entered our home didn’t understand Ivy. They didn’t understand her timid, shy “lack of personality.” But Ivy had a big personality and only those whom she loved got see it. Ivy loved her people. And she loved them well.
She loved me well even when I didn’t want her to. Like when I was trying to be quiet at 4am. She loved me when I was happy. When I was sad. When my heart was broken. She just loved to love. And be loved.
Fast forward a few more years to the end of my junior year of college.
Ivy died around 2:00pm on May 10th, 2013, just 10 days before her 14th birthday. The vet gave us our options and my parents said that it was up to me. But all of the options sucked because they all left me without my dog. It was just a matter of when I would be left without her. How long would I selfishly, desperately hope the treatment would work, knowing that it wouldn’t, prolonging her pain and discomfort?
The one-year anniversary of Ivy’s death was this past Saturday. This past Saturday was also the day that I graduated from college. As happy as I was walking across that stage in heels that were slowly killing my feet, I couldn’t help but think that a year ago at this time I was telling the vet without a second thought to “just put her down.” It was the right decision. But I hated making it.
I don’t like when other people talk about Ivy. Even when it’s good things. Only when I bring her up is it okay to talk about her. I know that’s not fair or okay. But that’s how I’ve felt this past year, and especially these past three days as I’ve happily celebrated my graduation, while also mourning her death.
Josh Billings said, “A dog is the only thing on Earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”
“Dogs give unconditional love so you will be teensy bit prepared for God’s love when you die and meet Him. Otherwise, God’s love would knock you flat.”
Those are the wise words from Trixie Koontz in Bliss to You by Dean Koontz.
I’ve spent the past three days thinking a lot about God’s love. Ivy was the sweetest gift God could have given seven-year-old me to show me, even just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit, how much He loves me.
I’ve never been in love. And I don’t have a child. So I know I haven’t experienced the capacity of how much a human can love. But I do know that I loved Ivy. And if I loved a dog that much… It’s overwhelming to think of how much more I can love. And it’s even more overwhelming to think of how much God loves me. I don’t even know how to fathom that kind of love. A fierce, unconditional, sacrificial, overwhelming, passionate love that makes my love for a dog look like nothing. I can’t imagine that kind of love. And yet it exists. And God loves me with that kind of love because He is that kind of love.