Part two: “Bittersweet memories, that is all I'm taking with me"

“I love you, my sweet baby boy. Mama loves you.” I kiss him. He licks me back on the lips and stares at me as if to say, “Duh, Mama.” I embrace him, holding him tight. I kiss him all over his head. I’m sure he’s embarrassed by his silly mama. Tears stream down my face as I sit on the hilly asphalt driveway belonging to the breeder who stands before us dressed for sterilization in a COVID-19 ward, complete with a N-95 face mask, knee-length green rubber boots, and blue rubber gloves. His oversized white t-shirt and shorts and dirty.

Diego James

It’s been twelve hours since we got home from the hospital. My world has turned upside down. Until yesterday, my only concern was his upcoming neuter appointment. We had worked on his manners and basic commands. He had made significant progress to overcome a fear of car rides, the result of a bad accident when he was just two months old. He was mostly housebroken and we had eagerly anticipated hiking and camping trips. I couldn’t wait to see him run through a leaf pile and play in the snow.

Instead, I am here.

The breeder reassures me he’ll be okay as there’s a female puppy his age. The plan is to let them bond. He’ll have a large twenty-five-foot pen to stay in when the breeder can’t be with him. He’ll spend most of his time outside playing, but the pen is inside and the space has both heat and air conditioning. If he’s not adopted quickly, which shouldn’t be a problem, the breeder will keep him.

I insist he’s perfect, he just needs to be the only canine in a home.

I stand up, thinking I can walk away and march toward the open trunk of my car to pull out the double door metal steel wire collapsible crate. He chases after me. I sigh. My other half holds him back.

I put the folded crate on the ground next to a gray cloth bag with the Yankee Candle logo containing all of my baby's worldly possessions: loved stuffed animals missing filling, limbs, and heads. His muffin tin that forces him to eat slower, leftover Iams puppy food, a green folder with all of his legal and healthcare information, a hard plastic toy, tennis ball, and red and black plaid fleece blanket given to him by his oma are also inside.

I come back to him. He eagerly comes to me, confused, I’m sure.

Eventually, I give his leash to the breeder and ask if I can go with him just to help him go inside. "No, Covid,” he answers simply.

“Okay, my baby,” I say to my sweet boy, holding his head in my hands. “Go start your new adventure. Mama loves you. Be a good boy,” my voice trails off.

He stands with his tail between his legs, looking at me. The breeder guides him up the rest of the driveway to the stairs. He never takes his eyes off me.

I watch him walk away. I listen for him when he’s out of sight. I cry. My other half cries. We get into the car and I back it out of the driveway onto the main road. Emotion overpowers me. I turn onto a side street and immediately pull over onto the shoulder. I bawl, an intense ugly sob. He does too.

We regain our composure and leave. The drive home is mostly quiet as is the remainder of the day.

Our home is hushed. Eerily so. I look for my boy convinced it was all just a horrendous hallucination. I listen for his heavy excited feet bounding across the hardwood floor, his tail slapping the wall, his cries to say he’s hungry, has to potty, or wants to go for a walk. I look for that smile and sense of security.

Tears and sniffles escape.

Lying in bed, the tears come hard and fast. I gasp for breath. My insides ache like cramps and I twist into a fetal position. Two small dark beings – his adopted sister and cousin – nuzzle closer to me.

“I don’t know if he’s scared. I’m his mama. I don’t know if he’s alright. I should know. I should be with him.” The cries come harder, fiercer. My other half drapes his good hand over me, gently rubbing my arm. He tells me it’ll be okay.

“I’ll reach out to the breeder tomorrow,” he promises. “I’ll check in and see how he’s doing.”

I sit at work when a text comes through. My other half says the breeder has questions about his monthly preventative medicines and his last dose. “August twenty-ninth,” I immediately reply. “It’s all in the green folder.”

Then, I ask, “is there an update? How’s he doing?”

I see the dots indicating someone is typing. I impatiently wait. And wait.

And wait.

“I was going to tell you in person, but he says he’s doing good. He said as soon as realized he was safe, he came out of his shell. He said he will keep us updated. He knows we still love him.”

Still? Always!

I let out a long-held breath and smile.