The Best Puppy Ever

Published May 22, 2021

This week I had to say goodbye to the best puppy ever. My senior dog, Booker, reached a state where the humane thing was to help him cross the rainbow bridge. Over the past few months and weeks his mobility and overall well being had been deteriorating - he couldn't do the stairs alone anymore, he had arthritis in his hips, he likely had doggie dementia and a host of other troubles. It was a horrible decision which at first I resisted. But looking at him laying there on the floor of the veterinary office, I realized doing anything else was selfish on my part. He was clearly struggling, in pain and he needed my courage and help to let him go. I cried and cried and then I told the vet my decision. Even writing this paragraph is making me cry all over again. But I’m not here to wallow in my grief or solicit platitudes from you, I want to refocus on all the good times I had with Booker over the last 15 years. So this is our story, from gotcha day to goodbye.

Fifteen years ago I was living and working in San Diego, California. I had just moved within walking distance to work and felt it was a good time to adopt a puppy. A friend and I were making the rounds of pet shops…I know, I know “adopt don’t shop” so hold on while I finish….but I wasn’t comfortable with what we were seeing. So we moved on to the rescue shelters and at the Helen Woodward Animal Center we found a litter of black and white puppies. Some were fluffy, some were solid black, some had more white, some were smooth coated. One little dude stuck out to me so I asked the shelter worker if I could see that one. Turns out he was a little boy puppy with white socks and a white stripe up his chest. The worker put him in my arms and as I hugged him to my chest he looked into my eyes and I knew. I absolutely knew this was my puppy. That little guy had such an old soul shining out of his eyes, it was like he recognized me too. The shelter worker really wanted me to look at a fluffy girl puppy but I refused because I already had my boy.

Booker got his name purely by chance. I am still not entirely sure how I came up with it but I have a theory. As I was filling out the paperwork to take my new puppy home, they asked me to give him a name. I chose Bailey, until the lady behind the desk cooed “Oh everyone is naming their dogs Bailey.” Ugh, can’t have that! So I quickly changed it to Booker, no further thought required. I hadn’t been even thinking of the name Booker until that very moment. The only thing I can attribute it to is that my friend had music on in the car by Booker T. & the MGs. Maybe it was a subliminal influence?

Booker was my first dog as an adult. We’d had plenty of dogs and cats and rabbits and horses and chickens, and on and on while I was growing up. At the time I also had a kitty named Dottie who I had adopted about a year earlier. But this was the first dog that I had to train myself and who was solely my responsibility to raise into a good canine citizen. He was a plump little ball of puppy belly who liked to sleep on the lower tier of my glass coffee table. He liked to harass the cat. He woke me up multiple times a night to potty. He was stubborn and high strung and too smart for his own good. He chewed a hole in the wall of my apartment. But he was also such a good ambassador. Everyone who crossed our paths wanted to stop and say hi, he was just that cute. My co-workers would gladly take a break from work to pop over to my apartment and take him for a potty break. He even came to work with me a few times, before that was trendy. We’d go on long walks all over downtown San Diego, down to the seafront, up to Balboa Park or drive up the coast and go to the beach. We’d go have dinner at a local restaurant, sitting out on the terrace where he’d try and beg food off other diners. He was a Cali dog through and through. Life was good. Then we moved.

Booker at six months old

About six months after I adopted Booker, I got a new job in Chicago, Illinois. It all happened rather fast and I needed to start work in two weeks. Luckily my mom and my uncle were kind enough to help get me packed and moved. I flew out to Chicago to get everything set up, a new apartment for me and the critters, etc. They would meet the movers and put the fur kids on a flight out to meet me. Mom likes to tell me stories of how annoying and “in your face” Booker was back then compared to what a good boy he became later on. It was fall in Chicago and so temperatures would fluctuate and sometimes dip rather cold. On the first attempt to fly Booker and Dottie to me, they weren’t able to go because the air temps at altitude and in Denver where they had a layover were too cold to safely transport them. Unfortunately, we had to wait for another date. Ultimately, they made it onto a flight and were on their way. I didn’t have a car at the time and had rented a taxi van to pick us up from the airport and take us to my apartment. Taxi man and I arrived at the freight office only to find out Booker and Dottie’s arrival was delayed. I convinced the driver to wait, I was paying for his time after all. An hour or so passed when the delivery truck from the airport pulled up. Booker was in his crate at the back and started wiggling as soon as he saw me. But something, or someone, was missing. Where was Dottie?!? I asked the truck driver where she was while I pointed at the sticker on Booker’s crate that said “Two of Two.” I yelled “where is One of Two?!” I was freaking out because they’d lost my cat! Believe me, I was not pleasant to those people. The office manager said they’d go back to the airport and double check what happened to Dottie. The truck driver hopped in his van and left and we didn’t hear from him for what felt like days. He was taking his own sweet time doing everything but immediately checking on the location of my kitty. I was livid. Finally word comes that they found her, she’d been left in her crate in the nose of the plane. Whew, but we still have to wait for the slow, slow, slow driver who still hadn’t returned and apparently wanted to torture me as much as possible. Also, my taxi guy was anxious to leave so I had to bribe him to stay longer and not leave us there at night in a bad section of town. In the end, we made it back to my apartment safe and sound. What a dramatic start to our new life.

We lived in Chicago for two years on the southwest corner of Grant Park. It was a great location and our apartment had an awesome view over Lake Michigan. I love Chicago, it’s a great town despite the brutal winters. It’s also where Booker became the bestest boy he could be. Nothing fazed him. Well, one thing did. There was a bronze bust of some historical figure that was in the gardens of the park and it freaked Booker out. He would growl and bark at it like he thought it was gonna kill us. I eventually made him “meet” it and got a good laugh out of  his reaction. He was fine after that. On the corner of the park closest to our building there was an art installation of huge figures. I used it as a leash training exercise to get Booker to stop his pulling habits. I would loop through the figures, randomly changing course until he realized he needed to pay attention to my movements and follow me instead of the other way around.  I taught him to stop and sit at all street corners. He learned to always sit and be calm in the elevator. He made friends with most everyone. We went to the dog park so he could play with other dogs. Until he was attacked on two separate occasions, then we stopped going to dog parks full stop. Too many dog owners who don’t understand dog body language end up bringing dogs in that have no business being in that environment. We watched history from our apartment window as Barack Obama held a rally in Grant Park to celebrate his victory as the first African American President of the United States. Life was good. Then we moved.

Our next stop was Minneapolis, Minnesota. Here Booker got live in his first house with his very own yard. We’d go on hiking adventures down along the Mississippi River. One day that stands out clearly, we were walking a trail along the river and got to a point where the trail ran out. The way forward required me to jump down a small wall, maybe five feet tall. I reached up to lift Booker down and instead of resisting me, he put his paws on my shoulders and allowed me lift him without hesitation. I don’t know why, but that small act of trust resonated so strongly with me that I’ve never forgotten it and I’ve always vowed to be worthy of that trust. 

Three years into our time in Minnesota, Booker and Dottie got a new puppy brother named Ozzie. I don’t think either one of them was too excited about it but after awhile Book and Oz would have all kinds of fun playing chase in the back yard. Dottie was a little less amused with another puppy in her life and she kept him in his place. This might’ve been about the time she got religious about sharpening her claws, LOL. Life was good, and then we moved.

Back to Chicago we went for another few years. We lived both back downtown and in the suburbs where Booker and Ozzie got their own yard again. When we first moved into our suburban house we didn’t have a fully fenced back yard so I would let the boys out on 50 foot long leads. One night I had just let them out and returned into the house. Suddenly, I hear deep barks and growling so I run out the back door to see Booker tearing off after a coyote. Yep, there are coyotes in the city. Luckily there was just the one that time but I kept my guard up every day until the yard was fenced. And even after then because they were still around, I’d hear them yipping in the night. Booker might’ve loved everyone but he was also very protective of his family.

Booker and Ozzie exploring Grant Park, Chicago IL

There came a day when Booker stopped eating and trust me that was highly unusual. Booker was very, very food motivated. So I knew something was wrong. I took him into the vet who diagnosed him with glaucoma. The pain from the increased pressure in his eye was so intense he wouldn’t eat. We got him on some pain meds and into an emergency appointment with a canine eye specialist. I can tell you that never in my life have I despised a medical professional more than that man, he should not be working with animals ever. I spent a good chunk of the night on the cold floor of the emergency office comforting Book and waiting to see if the medications they’d given him would do any good. They sent me home after a few hours and told me to come back in the morning while they continued treatments to try and bring the pressure down. When I returned, Booker was very happy to see me, understandably. But I became more concerned about what had happened in my absence when the eye specialist entered the room and Booker immediately cowered behind me, squeezed himself into a corner between the wall and my back trying to get as far from that man as possible. My big, strong, sixty pound dog was trembling. My guard was up. The vet proceeded to suggest all kinds of useless surgery including a cosmetic, realistic looking, replacement glass eye. When I said I’d rather try less invasive treatments first and save surgery as a last resort he made a comment about cost being a factor in my decision. I wanted to punch him in his eye! Cost was never a question, Booker’s health and comfort was always my first thought. Why put him through catastrophic surgery like eye removal if it wasn’t immediately necessary? So we went back to our trusted general veterinarian and never saw that particular specialist again. Our good vet put Booker on a regimen of eye drops that reduced the pressure, alleviated his pain and allowed him to keep his eye for several more years.

During our time back in Chicago, I worked long hours so we found lovely dog walkers to take the boys out during the day for a potty break and to stretch their legs. Evenings and weekends, we’d have a lot of fun in the garden at our house, the boys playing chase with each other, Ozzie playing frisbee with me, Booker playing keep away with the frisbee. Booker never really bought into the concept of fetch, goofy dog. We’d get big snow drifts in the winter and the boys would go crazy running around the yard hopping like bunnies. Some winters it was so deep, they’d have to plow a path to potty. Life was good, then we moved again.

We were moving back west to Seattle, Washington. No way was I going to put the fur kids on a plane again so I made plans to drive across the country with two dogs, a cat and my brother in tow. We had a great adventure together stopping at random, kitschy attractions and seeing beautiful areas of the country we’d never have visited otherwise. As always, Booker took it all in stride. By this point he had become a champion traveler.

Washington state is a great place to live with dogs! Seattle is very dog friendly, there’s infinite amounts of hiking within a short drive, you could visit the ocean and the mountains in the same  day. We loved it there and I could very well see myself living there again. Every weekend we’d jump in the Jeep and just go. Mount Rainier, Mount Baker, Mount Saint Helens, the Cascades, the Olympics (mountain range, not sporting event) - we went to them all. My two city dogs lost their minds at one rental cabin when they saw these giant dogs outside chewing grass. You’d think the deer had been sent to murder us all by the hell raised from Booker and Ozzie. We found our hiking rhythm - Ozzie always in the lead, Booker clipped to him with me following and holding Book’s leash. The boys loved a good adventure!

It was in Seattle where we eventually had to have Booker’s eye removed and I think that was meant to be, his surgeon was wonderful. The glaucoma medication eventually lost its effectiveness and the pain had returned so our new vet referred us to an animal eye surgeon near the University of Washington. I was a bit nervous after our last experience but this new guy was fantastic. I could tell he truly cared about animals and was empathetic to their experience. So I left Booker in their care and returned later to pick up my boy. Not gonna lie, the first time I saw him was shocking (ALERT, pictures below of his post-op). His face was swollen, he had a huge, stitched scar where they had extracted his eye and half his face was shaved. He was groggy and out of it. I took him home and tried to make him comfortable. Even with the pain medication he whimpered and cried for most of the night, it was heartbreaking. I rigged him up a new bed on a fold out cot where he could lay comfortably while still in his cone of shame. I had to elevate his food dish so he could eat. And I definitely had to watch out because he was a menace with that cone. If you weren’t watching out he’d run right into your legs and sometimes he’d catch himself on the door frame or furniture. But Bookie was always a tough guy and within a few days he was happy and bouncy again, even if his face looked scary. He didn’t struggle with vision because he’d been blind in that eye since the first diagnosis, so that was good. Once he’d healed, you’d never know he had a sight limitation, it didn’t stop him one bit. He’d become my one-eyed wonder dog.

Then came an opportunity to transfer to London and I jumped at it. I debated what to do with each of my fur babies. I knew finding housing in London with three pets and especially two large dogs was going to be hard. My brother had moved to Seattle and so I decided to leave Dottie with him because she was thirteen and I thought it better not to put her through the move. I debated also leaving Booker because he was eleven, about to turn twelve years old, which is getting toward the upper end of large dog life expectancy. I wasn’t sure how he would tolerate the flight over. But in the end, I couldn’t leave him. Booker and Ozzie were about to become international travelers.

After that earlier experience with flying pets across the United States, I opted to invest in a service to manage the dogs’ transfer from my home in Seattle to our temp housing in London. It was well worth the money. If you ever have need of a pet relocation company, I highly recommend Worldcare Pet Transport. They held my hand through the entire process, including buying the right crates to meet airline requirements, when to do which veterinary appointments, documentation, booking flights, escorting the dogs through customs in each country and transit to our new home. The boys arrived about an hour after I did, it worked out perfectly. Booker, again, not fazed and settled right in. Ozzie was a little more wound up but he eventually settled in as well. We ended up living in London for nearly two years and did a variety of small trips within the UK. A favorite was a two-week road trip in a rented camper van through northern Scotland. We also visited the Jurassic Coast and Wales. But the Yorkshire Dales and Scotland were definitely our favorite locations.

At the end of 2019 began a new adventure for all of us. I had left work with the intention to take a year off and overland throughout Europe, exploring as many countries as we could. And then a global pandemic upended all of that. You can read our experience HERE, I won’t revisit that. Needless to say, we’ve been house bound for most of the last 14 months so our adventures haven’t been as grand. But as one friend pointed out recently, that was a blessing in disguise. I was able to spend the final year of Booker’s life spending full days with him, making him comfortable and ensuring he felt safe and loved. That is a good thing.

Now the house feels weird, a bit more empty. Ozzie and I are trying to find new routines. Booker may be gone but he will never be forgotten. At the end of his life he had become a one-eyed wonder dog, an adventure dog who had traveled more extensively than some people, a favorite dog to many people through social media and above all the best puppy ever. 

I love you Bubs, rest in peace.