Getting a puppy is a big step. For anyone. Getting Kallie was an even bigger step for me. Because bringing her into my life was the first big step I took toward moving forward after Ken’s death. They say never make any big decisions until at least a year after losing someone you love. I lost Ken on June 1, 2011. Kallie made her debut in my life on June 18, 2012.
At the time, I’d taken a leave of absence from work. I’d gone back to soon after Ken died, and I never had a chance to catch my breath and sit with my grief, and try to figure out what should be next for me.
In January of 2012, I started considering a dog. I was only interested in a female Chow Chow. The die had been cast in Quantum, Ken’s beautiful girl who learned to love me as the three of us became a family during our 10 years together. Back then, I wanted needed throughlines from my life with Ken to my life without him.
I was visiting my parents the weekend of my birthday in June of 2012, and before I went to bed on Saturday night, I’d done another web search, and this one resulted in a breeder in northern Illinois. Like Brigadoon it appeared out of nowhere after many previous searches that resulted in nothing. I emailed her, and she replied that she had only 1 girl left and sent me this picture:
I went home on Sunday, and on Monday, after a trip to Pet Smart, I drove to pick up my little fluff ball. When the breeder’s daughter put a restless pup in my arms, I’ll never forget that she stopped squirming and fell right to sleep. She knew she was home. I got to meet her parents and several of her siblings before tucking her into the crate in the back seat for the ride home. Back then, the ferocious-sounding bark she grew into was just a series of infrequent squeaks coming from the back seat.
Having a puppy is a full-time job. She tore through that apartment—and my ankles—like a black, saw-toothed blur. House training her was easy. Crate training her was impossible. And I gave up and put her in bed with me. During those summer nights when we were falling asleep in my bed, I’d whisper as she snored, “You saved me, Kallie.”
Kallie saved me by giving me something to focus on besides my own grief. She made my world make sense again because I was her caregiver, as I’d been for Ken. She was the shepherd who distracted me with infinite cuteness and energy and kisses until I slowly re-emerged from the year-long self-induced social hibernation.
Unlike Quantum and her breed breed-appropriate indifference, Kallie was a social butterfly at the dog park, at daycare, and on our walks throughout the neighborhood. She literally dragged me out of my own indifference to meet new canine and human friends as we walked.
She moved from the apartment I’d shared with Ken and Q to our loft condo two blocks away, and welcomed new friends with me as we built our little neighborhood tribe. She was my willing co-pilot as we moved in with my boyfriend at the time while I looked for a house, then into our little Mid-Centry Modern in the suburbs, where she finally got the yard I’d been promising her since she was a squeaking pup.
Kallie was my conscience, and my daemon (for anyone familiar with His Dark Materials) as Quantum had been Ken’s. She was the manifestation of my soul. But more than that, she was my best friend and companion as we settled into our life complacently together.
It’s worth every second of pain in losing someone you love–because it doesn’t compare to the hours and days and months–and hopefully years–of joy you shared together. It’s the most essential part of being human: to connect. When I knew it was time to free her from her pained and failing body yesterday, I held her close as I snuggled in next to her on the floor of the vet’s office and reminded her in loving whimpering words, “You saved me, Kallie. You saved me.”
Because she did. Thank you, Kalpurnia “Kallie” Kismet Derson Stempkowski. I will love you and be grateful for you forever.