Searching for Our Last Dog

Our most beautiful Saint Bernard, Sasha, died in February, 2024. Our grief was huge. We thought we could never go through such sadness again. Sometimes we cried. Sometimes we sat silently, aware of the void she left in our home. An empty space where she used to lay by the big chair while we watched TV and bark for me to get down and brush her and rub her tummy. Where her bed was in our room, now an empty spot. Her food and water bowls gone from the kitchen. It was all so sad.

A year passed. During that year we became used to spontaneous visits to D.C. (we like the MGM National Harbor casino/hotel), trips to visit family, and even international travel. With Sasha all travel required foreplanning and the expense of her live in nanny. While we would have far preferred to have our big girl still with us, we did take advantage of our new freedom.

The void, however, didn’t go away. Towards the end of the year, thoughts entered my mind that maybe it was time to fill the emptiness in our house. While in her lifetime Sasha was very hostile to other dogs, I began to feel she was gently guiding my feelings to be open to a new companion. Not a replacement of Sasha, nothing could replace her, but someone to carry on her mission.

Dave was reluctant. Aren’t we too old? Don’t we enjoy our spur of the moment outings? Do we want our house covered in fur again (Sasha was the world’s most prolific shedder)? Many logical concerns which I shared. But in my heart the balance was shifting. There was the voice in my head – Sasha’s voice. in life she worried about us when we were away. She got us out for walks. She kept us on our routine, barking when it was time for her to be fed, when it was time for her chew bone, when it was time for daily brushing and tummy rubs, and when it was time for all of us to gather in the living room each evening. If I stayed out at the computer too late into the night, she came out, put her big head in my lap, and let me know it was time to go to bed.

Her spirit is always in our house, and I could feel her concern that her old parents were lacking the oversight and companionship she had provided. She knew we would need it more in our remaining years than we ever had.

Just to explore, not committed, I began to pull up local dog rescues. An adorable six month old Boston Terrier popped up. My very first puppy as a kid was a Boston Terrier. This rescue puppy was adorable. I showed Dave and he didn’t resist too much. So I put in an application. Then waited and waited. Weeks went by. Never heard back. Ghosted. After that I went with Caitlin and Judah to a rescue event. The puppies there were cute but they only had pitbulls and pit mixes. Too much dog for our stage of life. Nonetheless, I put in an application to this rescue agency without specifying a breed to see what else might be available. Ghosted again. I consulted Dr. Google and learned that rescue organizations don’t like to place young dogs with seniors and will simply ignore oldsters’ applications.

Before you say anything, I know there are plenty of senior dogs that need homes. I was surprised neither of the rescue agencies suggested a senior dog. At the same time, I was relieved because I would have felt bad saying “no.” I admire my wonderful friends who take in senior dogs. If we were a decade younger we would have considered that noble choice. But, we were looking for our last dog, a dog that will be with us the rest of our lives, a dog who will comfort and provide continuity to the survivor when one of us dies. We were looking for a new family member who could be expected to be with us for the next fifteen years.

Being rejected by the rescues had a salutary effect. Dave was slowly opening to the idea of another dog but he was still on the reluctant side. When he heard the rescues rejected us he was mildly outraged. He said if they only knew how we loved and did everything humanly possible for Sasha – he said it was hard to imagine anyone offering a better home. Then he said, “Well, don’t worry, they are denying a great home to a dog who needs to be rescued, but they can’t prevent us from buying a puppy.” And, thus, Dave was all in.

We knew to avoid puppy mills and random adds on social media. Dave left it to me to narrow the field.

My search for a reputable breeder began. But what breed? At night I’d research breeds by average weight. About 25 pounds, give or take five pounds, seemed reasonable, not so small as to be delicate and not so large as to pull us off our feet.

I do not recall precisely when, but my attention increasingly turned to Corgis. I had a friend decades ago who had three Corgis, very cute. And the Queen of England had many of them. Other than that, I had no history with Corgis . Nonetheless, I felt pulled toward them. I increasingly looked at Corgi websites and Googled breeders, carefully perusing their reviews.

One night I stumbled on a Corgi breeder in Kentucky. She had great credentials and a litter that would be available for adoption two months later. She didn’t release puppies before they were ten weeks old, which is a responsible breeder practice. She posted photos of her current litter , including:

I called Dave in. We both felt Sasha was looking at us through those puppy eyes. We knew we were looking at our last dog. The breeder named her “Monica.” We would change that.

Next up: When Alex came into our lives.