That was to be the title of this piece.

I thought of it a few months before she died, and I began compiling notes.

I prepared for her death as though I knew how it would all go down.

While it’s a really great title, the manner of her going was as unplanned as her coming.  And as with most things that aren’t ours to direct, the universe has a way of putting us in our place.

In searching for a starting point for the saddest yet most joyful thing I have ever written, I reach to Hemingway’s work A Moveable Feast.

“Do not worry.  You have always written before and you will write now.  All you have to do is write one true sentence.  Write the truest sentence that you know.”

The one true thing I offer to start my writing is this: it is because of Button Viola that I am certain I have experienced the love of God, sent specifically and intentionally to me to soften a unique time in my life, in spite of my own chronic unworthiness.

If the life-giving force of the universe can receive me, even once, with anything close to the same grace and mindful compassion wrapped in humor and adoration as my #1 girl, things really are going to be okay, in any situation.

~~~

Before I share the story, I’ll share a lighter observation.  Here goes –> god:dog.

Do you see it?

Here it is in all caps for effect –>  GOD:DOG.

And from the other direction –>  dog:god.

Any way you slice it, there’s something there.

The visual represents a reality.  One is mirror image of the other.  It is not two words placed in opposition but one unified image.  It is a palindrome, balance and simple truth.

And if you haven’t yet smiled, you probably prefer cats.

Feel free to discontinue reading at this point.

~~~

Have I ever told you the story of Button?

I asked her this question nearly every day.  She would sidle up beside me.  Leaning against me, each and every time, she thoughtfully turned her head upward in my direction and replied with a long and loving stare.

By long, I mean that she gazed at me until she was so tired from love-sharing that she might need a nap.  Other days I awoke to find her sitting feet from my bed wrapping me in love with large, unblinking amber eyes and a gentle smile.

I was regularly roused from my slumber by the silent energy.

Her statement was in the lineage of the Zulu greeting, “Sawubona.”  I see you.  It matters that you live.  Thank you for finding me, for never giving up on me.

Time and again she brought me into existence by seeing through my imperfect surface to the heart of me and gifting me with unspoken acknowledgment of my intrinsic value.

At the risk of overstating a thing, this dog saw clear to my soul and unlike many dogs, offered hers in return just as willingly.  Eyes wide open, beaming pure and eternal love, she looked at me for nearly 14 years the way no dog has ever gazed upon a person.

Like children, all dogs are special.  I have two others; I know.

That’s not what I’m talking about.

~~~

Come let me tell you the story of Button.

It all started a long time ago.  There was a girl who went to visit dogs with her sister at the home of a lady.  The girl didn’t even want a dog—she wasn’t there to choose one.  But the dog chose her.

To say Button chose me doesn’t come close.  She had not only never bonded with a person, she was scared of the world.

When the beast was brought out, she fearfully tip-toed into the room, following a stretch of baseboard until she hit a sofa.  Eyes cast down and slumped over like Eeyore, she froze in our presence.

Without hesitation, I reached to her picked her up.

The dog then did the one thing more remarkable than her daily stare sessions.  She crawled up my torso and hugged me.  Without doubt it was embrace—relief wrapped in a blanket of gratitude.

I felt like a wall flower finally seen as beautiful by an equally shy and awkward love.  I accepted her offer to dance.

With anxious anticipation I called my landlord to explain my predicament.  Not one for bending rules, she reluctantly agreed.

~~~

The only other thing you need to know in detail is what came next.

The day I took home the unexpected half-grown pup with long black curls, she almost died.

I returned to Raleigh after only a few hours to see the lady, afraid of what was happening to my new-found love still vomiting in her crate.  The lady, with tears in her eyes, met me in the driveway.  “We think it’s parvo.  She won’t live—we’ll put her down.  I’m so very sorry.”

Reaching into my car even before examining the beast in the crate, she handed the money back and offered first choice of a puppy from another litter.

Without blinking I said, “I didn’t come here for a dog.  I didn’t want a dog.  But I found this dog—she found me.”

The lady acknowledged our truth and offered to do all they could to save her.

About a month later I returned for her.

I had called twice each day.  “How is she?”

The updates were generally negative.   “She’s depressed.”  “She’s lost more weight.”  “All the other puppies died.”  “We think we’re losing her, too.”

The dog I first took home weighed 12 pounds.  At six months, the beast I returned to find was a stranger.  At just over 7 pounds, there was vomit and poop matted in her long black curls.  They promised to groom her when she was well enough, but it would be a while.

When the man came through the door with the dog, my heart was beating so fast I almost couldn’t stand still.  It felt like childhood Christmas anticipation, times ten.  She really did make it, and I really did have my girl.

When Button saw me, she jumped from the man’s grasp and flew across the space between us, right into my arms.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” was all he could say.

The lady nodded in agreement.

We had only known each other for a few hours, but she had known me forever.

~~~

Reunited at last, we stretched out on the sofa for the first of many naps together.  She sighed a long, grateful sigh and fell asleep gazing into my eyes.

Sweet girl, have I ever told you the story of Button?

This day at this spot the telling of the story began.  I told it nearly every day after, until.

And at the close of each day, I offered my gratitude.  “Thank you, God, for Button.  You gave her to me twice, and she’s a gift every day.”

~~~

We settled in and began the task of living.

Soon it snowed 20 inches in our Southern town, and I crafted a sled from a box to ferry my recovering pup through the tall drifts.

When she was well I took my new love to the coast to run free on the beach.

She loved nothing more than our daily walks, a chance to experience all the things she might not have known.  She became more social and was soon a neighborhood favorite.

It was simply impossible to not fall in love with Button.  She was joyfully in love with the second chance she was given, and she was completely in love with me.

~~~

From this point forward we began an ongoing tennis match of mutuality.  Time and again, without hesitation, we saved each other.

~ She had post-parvo bacterial infections for months.

~ I endured a series of precarious housing situations, including a stalker whom I later learned spent time in our house while we were home.

~ She was poisoned by berries she ate in my mother’s yard and later by sugarless gum and by other things we never identified.

~ I was forced to leave not one but two “interesting” rentals due to mold, the first time losing many possessions.  The second place was tied to my mother’s family, and I grew distant from the people I loved so much who it turned out hadn’t cared so much about me.

~ She suffered liver damage and remained sick for years, finally having surgery in an attempt to identify the disease process – so we would at least know what had killed her.

~ Our new in-town rental was robbed.  Button was hurt.  I found her hiding under my bed, front door wide open and front-room window missing.  She was scared of even me for weeks, and I didn’t sleep through the night for the next nine months.

~ Button had a stroke and lost the ability to close her right eye.  Her gait and balance improved, but she didn’t blink her eye for the next seven years.  I began a fastidious routine to protect her eye and to lessen the discomfort, driving home from work at least once each day to give her much needed medicine.

~ I bought a house with ongoing warranty issues.  Like the affordable rentals of times past, relationships were strained or lost in the conversations that followed as I learned the hard way, again, to speak for myself and that my well-being wasn’t always others’ concern.

~ Button had three knee surgeries in hopes she might walk without pain.

~ My dad died, his diagnosis given the day after my 40th birthday.

~ The week of the diagnosis Button had emergency surgery to replace the lens in her already bad eye, this time due to glaucoma.  Because she couldn’t blink, we didn’t know what was wrong.  She had been in pain for weeks, the pressure so high her lens had been pushed forward in her eye.

~ I lost friends and even my called and intended job to poor leadership.  Of the hundreds of people I had so generously loved through my work, only two acknowledged my personhood in the end.  Two humans and one half-blind dog still saw me.

~~~

Shortly afterward, we began our last long walk.

Button was in renal failure.

She had been diagnosed for more than a year, and her disease slowly progressed.

We were once again regulars at our vet’s office.

There were medications for the disease and others to treat the problems caused by the medications.

Willing under any circumstance to return her undeserved love, I bought supplements online I couldn’t afford that promised months if not years of added health in return for my credit-card number.  This went on through one full year of unemployment.

Finally there were fluids.  I took her in for treatment for a few months and then learned to give the fluids at home.

It hurt.  She was thin.  The nausea from the kidney issues was compounded by trouble with her pancreas.

It would soon be time, and we both knew it.

For three months I anxiously weighed the pros and cons of keeping her going.  After all, this was the dog that was meant to live, given chance after chance when all seemed lost—the one soul who never failed me.

At the same time, the threat of true suffering hung heavy over our home.  It wasn’t yet here, but it lingered just outside the door like a thief in waiting.

At last there were a few crises, and I reached the point of knowing in the way they say you know that removing the pain would be more life-giving than continuing to sustain life.

Our final visit was with the emergency vet.  Through the years the office had become a staple for various reasons.  Even there in that sterile night-time institution, Button was known and loved.  A tech we first knew from another clinic during our parvo days more than a dozen years earlier cried when it became clear we might not go home this time.

We did go home.  Like our very first day together, it lasted just minutes before rushing back.

It was May 12, Mother’s Day.

I had hoped to take final pictures of her at home with the other dogs.  I wanted to sit with her in our yard and be still for a while.  I longed for another night at home to tell her thank you in the way she deserved, her chin tucked against my shoulder as we slept.  Just one more time.

The message I never seem to learn is any time you think you can control a thing, the universe will set you straight.

For the first time in more than 13 years, Button asked for help.

There was no choice but to comply, and we began our final drive down the interstate.

Before going inside, we sat for a few minutes under the shade of an old tree in a patch of clover and lush grass.

This was always a favorite activity, time out from movement and a chance to check in.

I told her the story of Button—that it started and ended well, that the space in between was nothing but love.  I thanked her and tried to prepare myself.  The dog, naturally, was at peace and ready.

For the next few minutes my predictably mindful dog, in severe pain and just minutes from death, sat sidled up next to me on a warm spring day listening to the birds.  She felt the breeze against her face and sniffed the wind.  And when the time came, she turned and loved me with big amber eyes.

This time it was just a glance.  After a knowing nod and gentle smile, she stood, steadied herself and began the slow walk to the building.

~~~

I have been deeply and undeservedly loved.  I have known the purity of grace and steadfast commitment we imperfect humans can’t fully offer.

These are qualities of dogs; it’s what they do.

Once again, that’s not what I’m talking about.  The story of Button is so much more.

How to make an exit is not the lesson Button Viola has to teach.  Her short and endearing life is the model for how to live.

~ In all circumstances, be grateful.

~ Stay present in each moment you can.

~ Forgive and embrace yourself, and others, for falling short.

~ Discern who are the few people who will go to the mat for you, those who deserve you, who if necessary would give it all for you without question.  And once you find them, love them with abandon.

~ Release the others and wish them well; they will only slow you down.

~ Open your soul, and stay open to hurt and pain for the reward of living in the fullness of life.

~ And when the time comes to amble on to your next destination, go with grace and thanksgiving for all of it, even the hard parts.

This is the story of Button.

Thank you for choosing me, Big Girl.  I wouldn’t trade a minute.

© Mitzi Viola, 9/29/13