When I walked my dog through the local parks of my city we would inevitably come across an elderly person with a gleam in their eyes staring deeply at her. They would start to angle towards us, never looking away from her. The phrase like a moth to a flame comes to mind but instead of a flame they got 100 pounds of joy.

Most people would ask if they could pet my dog before doing so. I would always say “sure” and then watch them time travel right before my eyes. They would smile and rub her gently for a few beats. Then, like clockwork, they would say something like “I grew up with Airedales” or “My neighbor had an Airedale when I was a kid” or “I used to have an Airedale” and this was the statement that always made my heart drop.

The words “used to” would just wound me, but I would listen to their micro-story and then we would part ways. They would usually get in one last scratch of the ear or rub of the tummy before leaving and Bernie would walk away with pride on her face like she knew she had just made someone's day.

I had originally planned to get a puppy but ended up with a fully formed adult. I thought I was rescuing a well trained, protective, svelte Terrier and instead I got...Bernie. She was 150 pounds of long, brittle nails and severely matted hair. I have no idea how long her previous owners had been neglecting her but I agreed to rehome her, sight unseen.

I sometimes wonder if I would have gone through with it had I been able to see her beforehand? I don’t know the answer to that question but what I do know is that Bernie was my first and only dog and now that she’s gone her absence is being felt in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Bernie only peed in my house three times during our four years together. The first night she came to live with me; two years after that when she had severe food poisoning; and once during the last three months of her life after she had a major surgery on her knee and struggled to walk for a while. She was never what I would call a healthy animal.

Those years before she came into my house had done a number on her body. She was overweight, had skin issues and a bad case of arthritis due to carrying all that weight on her tall frame. We came to a silent agreement right away.  I would love her unconditionally and introduce her to a healthier lifestyle and she would do pretty much whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. I loved her right away. She was my dog.

Bernie died because she had an aggressive, untreatable cancerous tumor that was taking over her leg. I know there are a lot of three legged dogs running around but that’s not always an option and sadly, it wasn’t an option for my dog. It happened so fast that I barely had time to take it all in. I would have done anything for her and my vet knew it so he clearly and compassionately told me that it was time to make “arrangements”.

A week later, my dear sweet Bernie left the world from her dog bed on my living room floor. She died on a Sunday at 9:45 in the morning. The weather was October warm and my front door was wide open. I held her body tight and whispered a lifetime full of loving messages into that left floppy ear of hers to help her on the journey ahead. She was gone within seconds. Fast and peaceful. It was what I would call a good death for a good dog.

I am sadder than I thought possible. I cry without warning and I miss everything about her. It’s hard to describe so I won’t even try. It is simply one of those things that has to be experienced. All I can really say is that it hurts...a lot.

There are two kinds of people offering me comfort. Those who have lost dogs and those who have not. Both groups keep telling me that I gave Bernie a better life than the one she had previously and that she was healthier and happier with me. 

I don’t disagree with this statement but I would add that Bernie truly made my life better too. She made me better. She slowed me down, literally. Walking her was a process because she needed to stop and smell everything; every flower, every plant, every patch of grass, every tree and every hole in the ground. I got to know my neighborhood because of her. We walked everywhere and I learned to be in the moment more often because she savored every inch of her environment.

If I saved Bernie then she also saved me. She was a true friend and I will miss that cold, wet nose on warm, summer nights. I will miss unexpected snuggles and licks to the back of my calves. I will miss her old bones settling in for that night's slumber. I will miss that stubborn, old girl.

Perhaps one day, when I am older and find myself walking through a park I will come across an Airedale Terrier. I will gingerly make my way towards the animal as if we are old friends. I won’t ask to pet the dog, I'll just do it. I will rub its side and scratch those ears. I will stiffen slightly as the memories of Bernie flood my mind, preparing to transport me back in time, but before I go, I’ll look at their owner and say “I used to have an Airedale”.