Arizona, my first baby

So much has happened this year, most notably, I had a baby. So now, I am The Unintentional Housewife ^ and Stay at Home Mom. Every time I flash by this blog I see my previous blog, months, if not a year, old. I am sorry to admit that I am not as studious as I once was, preferring to catch a movie, read a book, or (these days) catch some much needed sleep.
However, tonight I wait for the husband to finish his bedtime routine so that we can finish watching our show in bed, where we can promptly close our laptop and pass out from the day's exhausting activities. So, dishes done, baby down, and my bed time routine done, I decided to make good on a promise I made to myself a while back. I am going to write. Even a little bit.
So, here I am. I notice that my last post was back in 2012, before I found out I was pregnant, in fact before I became pregnant, and I realize that before I can continue writing about my deficient housewifery or contradictorily, my committed and exemplary mothering, I need to take a moment to honor my first 'child'.
We brought Arizona home from North Shore Animal League on August 4, 2002. I had no specific breed or dog in mind when we ventured out to the shelter. I all knew was that we were bringing a dog home. Period. I wanted whichever pup fell in love with us, because I knew I would fall in love with any dog. When we arrived, we were escorted through the kennels of older dogs. We looked briefly, but being first time dog owners, we really wanted the puppyhood experience. We also weren't very confident that we would be able to break any bad habits created by previous owners. So, adhering to the multitude of unsolicited advice, we headed straight to the puppies.

There were dozens. People also looking to bring home a puppy were playing with little furballs at the counters, holding fuzzy, four-legged tongue wagging face washers in each corner and along walls. So, I looked at the pups still in the crates, obviously they were all adorable. The one that caught my eye was a little black retriever/collie mix with a bald spot right on the top of his head. I planned to name him Friar Tuck. Ron made fun of me for wanting the one with a 'defect', then pointed to two quiet mounds in a different cage. I said ok, gave 'Tuck' back to the volunteer and headed over to where he was fawning. There was a little male boxer mix that seemed more intent on sleeping than winning over a new home. He was cute, but Ron said "not him. His sister, over there" and Ron gave me his pout because someone was holding her. Well, I've always been bold, so I went over to the person and asked if she was planning on adopting the puppy, because if not, we were interested in her. She said no, she was just visiting a friend who worked there and handed over the sleeping pup.
The second I held the 6 lb peanut, I knew I was in love. Ron and I had our time with her and in five minutes declared she was coming home with us! During the car ride home, I sat with her in the backseat, varying between letting her sit on the seat and holding her in my lap. She was quiet, subdued, gentle. She would never be those things again.
We did not realize that the puppy we just fell for, hook line and sinker, was still recovering from her spaying surgery the day before. She was drugged, we were duped. By that afternoon, the hellion that would become our beloved first emerged, running from one end of our basement to the other not knowing what to discover first. It didn't matter that she was shockingly hyper, we were in love and determined to keep her no matter what.

So, weeks went by. Her teething period found me sleeping on the floor beside her crate until she fell asleep. Our morning routine included a hour long walk, followed by an hour long nap before I left for work. She potty trained in 3 days. I panicked when someone said she was a pitbull, and I read everything I could get my hands on, eventually becoming a lover and defender of the 'breed'. Weeks turned into months, months into years. We trained her, then trained her and retrained her. I cried and worked hard using other's methods, to no avail. I stopped listening to the noise and listened to her, paid closer attention and worked WITH her and she became the perfect dog for me.

She was rarely obedient when other people were around but when it was just us, her pack, she was ideal. She would curl behind our knees on the couch and cuddle for movies, books, naps, or to make it harder for us to put our shoes on to leave. She would great us at the door with wagging tail and flicking tongue. When given the chance she would kiss our faces with such intensity she managed to nudge out my contacts or push out my earrings on more than one occasion.



She was the shoulder I would cry on when the job I hated pushed me to the brink of insanity. She was the shoulder I would cry on when the humans in my life were cruel. She was my rock, my safe zone, my challenge, my teacher, my baby, my best friend. She was my dog. And I loved her. I love her still. I miss her.


I find it a cruel twist of fate, a harsh reality of the universe, that my first baby passed away in my arms while I was pregnant with my second first baby. The fantasies I had of pictures of my offspring baby posed in the niche of my fur baby's curl while being lovingly and protectively kissed were trampled by a cancer that swept in so fast, unseen until it was too late, that there was nothing I could do. The vet said it was a miracle that she survived the extra two weeks we had her. I treasured those two weeks. Bringing her to bed with me to hold her during my pregnancy induced midday slumbers. I had hope. I hoped that she would fight, we would fight and she would survive. But it would not be.

Arizona passed away on Wednesday, May 29, 2013 at approximately 2:30 am. I held her tight. She had collapsed and began to seize. I lifted her up onto the couch, held her in my arms. I told her she was loved. I told her that she was a good dog, a loved dog. That I was going to miss her, but she did not have to fight anymore. I told her I loved her and that it was ok to just let go. I felt her struggle for her last breath and then I felt the release of her surrendering to her passing. I heard her heart stop beating as I buried my head into her barrel chest, crying for my baby, my friend whom I could not save. I held her until she was cold. I closed her eyes and held her more. I slept only a couple of hours that night, not wanting to let go of her. We waited until morning to call the vet. In tears I relayed her passing and asked for instructions. We delayed carrying her to the car to bring her to the vet until the very last possible moment. At the vet, the technician greeted us peacefully and with tender care lifted my beloved Arizona from the backseat of the car. I kissed my baby one final time and watched as she was carried into the building, the last time I would ever see my dog.

We had her cremated. And I honestly can't imagine ever not treasuring those ashes or the piece of plaster molding of her paw.
I still can't bring myself to remove her picture from my wallpaper on my phone, despite a beautiful new baby to brag about.

She was everything to me. It is hard to describe the profound sorrow of losing a pet. Only other pet owners who have lost a loved fur baby can really understand. They are such a special aspect of us. I lost a piece of myself that day. I still cry about her late at night, in the shower, in a moment of quiet solitude, such as this evening as I type this post. My heart aches as never before. I mourn her everyday, more than six months later.

I loved her. I loved my Arizona. My babygirl, my sparky, my zany zonie, my zona. My best friend. She will always be in my heart. An intrinsic part of who I have become and who I will be. Someday, some very far off day, I will see her again. Until then, I will continue to love her. I will continue to love my Arizona.