The One Who Chose Me

There are those who come into our lives when we least expect it.

There I was, riding along A1A with my high school sweetheart, in a relationship that had clearly been doomed from the start. I looked out my passenger window and saw an adoption sign. One could say that it was an emotional impulse, but I felt pretty rational. I was going to take my mind off of the present unpleasantries and give the shelter dogs a walkabout. I wouldn’t get attached—just a friendly walk.

So my plan was pretty well set: S.A.F.E. Animal Shelter was there as I walked into Pet SuperMarket. They were great and let me take out each dog—give them a pat on the head and walk them around the store without pressing me.

It may sound mean—and I’m sorry if it does—but I admit I was taking out the dogs I knew weren’t a fit for me. Again, I did not want to let my emotions get the best of me.

However, my plan backfired when my then-boyfriend took out this beautiful chocolate pit bull and said, “Ilsa, this is your dog—walk her.”

Truth be told, I had seen her already. I remember when I first walked in—most of the dogs were barking excitedly for attention. But not her. She was sitting down with her front paws crossed, just looking at me with those warm caramel eyes.

We didn’t take but half a walk and I already knew. She was my girl—or rather, I would be hers.

“An older man came in earlier today and looked at her, but said she was too hyper…” the volunteer told me.
“You can foster her for a couple weeks just to make sure you like her.” (As if, I thought.)

“What’s her name?” I asked.
“It’s Cleo. Her name is Cleo.”

It’s no surprise that man didn’t adopt her that day—because, you see, it wasn’t meant to be. She wasn’t at all hyper. That seems laughable now. She was perfect.

And from that moment forward, Cleo and I became inseparable. Two peas in a pod.

In fact, she came to me at a time in my life that felt quite hard. I was struggling with depression and high anxiety. My mother had passed just a couple of years prior from a horrible cancer, and my boyfriend of four years had been a weak safety net that ended in more heartache.

Cleo struggled with anxiety too at first. She carried the weight of the world on her defined little shoulders. Any seemingly large man or strange person that walked my way would put her on defense. Her front paws would take a wide stance as she got ready to bark at them, with her back hairs raised.

We had to work on this, as I tagged her as my “Emotional Support Dog” back when ESA dogs were still a thing. She traveled miles and miles with me—long car rides from Florida to Texas during summer breaks. She rode shotgun, only getting up when we’d drive through small towns to see if we were making a pit stop.

I always joked and said she traveled to more states than many people do. She went cross-country with me on Southwest Airlines to Arizona and even California, enduring crowded airports and tight spaces to go wherever I went.

There were many times I had to leave her behind on my travels or even long workdays. She would give me the utmost guilt face, to which I would respond, “Don’t worry Cleo, I’ll always come back to you.”

Joe and Cleo met early on. As we were friends throughout much of our college days, he met Cleo and immediately loved her. In fact, he now confesses he was initially jealous that I found her!

She was easy to love, but she had her people. Not a girl who wagged her tail at everyone. I always say she was the most intuitive soul. Selective. She evaluated people—but when she loved you, her loyalty was unending. You were in her pack.

During the years that Joe and I were dating, he would come back from November to January during his off-season. One evening, during one of those off-seasons, there was one particular moment I’ll never forget.

The three of us were on the couch in my little duplex in Avondale, and Cleo laid on Joe’s chest and let out a heavy sigh as she looked deeply into his eyes. Her gaze looked weary, like that of someone completely exhausted. Her sigh sounded like the kind you give when someone finally takes a heavy weight off your back.

In that moment, her eyes read very clearly: I trust you. And I’m tired of carrying the weight of it all. It’s your turn to help protect.

It’s crazy, how we can communicate with animals—without words, without sign language—but it’s a clear understanding if we listen. It’s innate. We don’t need words.

That evening we all got teary-eyed. It was a moment we’ll never forget.

In the months to come, life would change for all of us. We moved to Oklahoma City to live with Joe. A year later, Cleo got a brother—to her initial reluctance. But she was the best big sister.

For being a terrifying dog to the Amazon driver, Cleo was so gentle with little beings. She was always mama bear to children, acting as babysitter to any littles who came to visit us. And for six-week-old Ryder Jr., she was no different.

This little nugget would literally lay on the bone she was actively chewing on. She would growl and growl, but he didn’t care—he knew she wouldn’t do a thing. He would get closer and closer, until he was practically lying on her bone and she had no choice but to accept him.

There’s a funny photo we have of little Ryder, laying on Cleo for the first time. She is looking at me so annoyed—but he came to be her best companion. The two of them loved one another. I would find them side by side in our room, as if they were telling stories to one another.

When they would go outside in the large backyard, they always ended up sitting right next to each other. And their epic battles were a performance of sneezes and competition over who could open their mouth wider.

After moving to Oklahoma, then Charleston, and then back to Oklahoma, we finally bought a home in Jacksonville, Florida—Duuuuuuval—Cleo’s hometown.

Joe would whisper to her, “I always told you we would take you back here, mamas.” Mamas was the nickname we gave her as she aged and we saw what a mama bear she really was. Never having pups or kids of her own, she was our mamas—always the protector.

It’s hard to describe to someone who’s never had a dog what it’s like to have a soul pup. But I think the best words I can use are: it’s a deep understanding. It’s connection.

I would sit on my bed after a shower, needing quiet time, and she would just come up and curl into a tight little ball next to me. When I was sad, she would know. She’d give me the longest look, let me pet her, and just be there in my sadness.

When I wanted to sleep forever on the weekends, she wouldn’t get up until I finally did. If I worked, she would “go to work.” It is real, unconditional love.

About a week ago, I had to say goodbye to my best friend. It came suddenly and felt like a punch to the deepest part of my core.

I think it’s no coincidence I had the most sincere conversation the other week with one of my co-workers about his experience losing his dog. He told me how, on his dog’s last day, he had randomly decided to pause work, and they had the most fun playtime in the middle of the workday—which he would later realize was their last.

On Monday, in our home, we had a normal day. We “worked”—aka, Cleo snored loudly under my desk. After work, I was going to go to yoga, but it was such a beautiful day out, Joe convinced me to stay and swim instead.

I hadn’t mentioned, but Cleo loved swimming. And she was such a strong swimmer. In fact, last summer when we first moved into our house, it was the first time she ever had her own pool. She was so happy, she got limp tail from swimming so much.

But anyhow, on Monday, I did my laps back and forth, and Cleo loved playing lifeguard. She’d run to the side I swam to, and when I touched the edge of the pool or came up for air, she’d give a lick to the top of my head—a sure sign that I was okay.

Later that day, I told Joe, “Let’s take the dogs to Fishweir Park,” something different from our usual walk. Joe and Ryder ran around the field as I walked Cleo. I’m happy I let her have as many sniffs as she wanted. I gave her the long leash, and she just smiled as she watched her brother do what she used to love: doggy zoomies.

That night, we had our usual couch hangs, and when it was time for bed, she followed—as she always did—to her bed right beside ours. At some point in the middle of the night, she got unwell. When we awoke at 1:30 a.m., we rushed her to the hospital.

I don’t want to make this about her last day, but as you may know, she did not get better. Some hidden brain tumor or stroke had occurred, and no matter what they gave her, Cleo was not well.

It felt like waking up to a horrible, horrible dream. The sadness overtook me.

Tuesday evening, June 17th, we said goodbye to our girl. They wrapped her in blankets and brought us to a quiet room. I played my Yin music from my phone, because it’s soft and calming, and I didn’t want her to worry about the other sounds.

I held her head as I sat on the floor and mustered up every ounce of strength in me to utter the words I felt, over and over again:

Thank you, my Cleo.
You were the best girl.

Although we all have our time and day for when we leave this world, it is never easy to say goodbye to the ones we love—especially when we feel that their time has been cut short.

We didn’t expect that loss to come so quickly and abruptly. We feel their absence in the spaces their presence used to light up. That quietness brings in deep sadness, and I’m not sure that we ever truly “get better” or lose that hurt. We just adapt to life in its new form.

During the past couple of weeks, so many of you shared such love and support. One of the things someone wrote that especially touched me was this:

“They are angels on loan. No amount of time with them will ever be enough.”

No words can truly make us feel better when we’re experiencing great loss, but there are words that bring solace. I had never considered that Cleo could have been my angel on loan all these years. But looking back, she came to me at a time I needed her most. She watched me graduate college, discover the world, grow into myself, get married, move, and learn to love another—and then, she set me free. She had done her duty. It was time for her to return home. After all, all dogs go to heaven.

For the past 10 years, I feel lucky to have been loved so unconditionally. Just as Cleo was my world, I was hers. And if I could wish anything for you—it would be to hug your loved ones a little closer today.

This blog is for you, my girl.
May I see you again one day.