Me, BK and Bentley on Sept. 30, 2011

A note to my readers: I have already said “goodbye” as the Babbling Bride, but I don’t have a new home in the blogosphere yet. The story below has been in me for nearly a year now, and as the anniversary approaches (Dec. 17), I’m finally ready to tell it. A friend and colleague pointed out that as a newlywed I am still technically a “bride” for the next several months. So while this post is not at all related to wedding plans, it is about my life. So here goes …


Most people don’t know what it’s like to hold their 5-month-old puppy’s lifeless body against a blood-soaked jacket and wonder if he’s going to make it through the night.

Unfortunately, I do.

It’s an image most people don’t even want to think about, and it’s probably not what you expected to read here on this blog. But it’s part of a story that is crucial to understanding why I love my dog so much that just thinking about him can bring on a slew of emotions.

It explains why I can work him into almost any conversation without even trying; why I sometimes massage his right hind leg and feel so thankful; and why I often watch him fall asleep as he’s resting on a sliver of my pillow and on part of my husband’s, snoring louder than you’d think a 16-pound animal could, without bothering me one bit.

And it may sound odd, but it explains how on any given night, as all three of us are safely tucked into bed, I might just cry a little bit.

I’m a dog person and have been since Taco, the beautifully blonde long-haired Chihuahua, entered my life at age 10 and became my first true love. Then it was Baci, the uber-cuddly long-haired Chihuahua, who in my 20s seemed like the only boy who’d ever show me pure, unconditional love.

Taco was and Baci is a family dog. My parents are his parents, and now that I’m moved out and married, I see him only occasionally. So while there’s already a different level of love that comes with caring for your own dog, especially the first you can truly call your own, my love for Bentley the spirited Cavalier King Charles Spaniel reaches beyond that.

You see, I watched his life slipping away before my eyes, and as the back half of his body was death-locked in the mouth of a red-zone pit bull, it seemed I’d never get him back. “So this is it,” I thought on that cold, bloody December night. “All of my silly worrying, and this is how he’s going to die.”

I’d researched like a maniac and prepared for his arrival with great care, buying him all a dog could possibly need before he even stepped paw in our home. I loved him when I first saw his big eyes and oversized puppy paws. Anyone would. But I fell hard on the drive home from the breeder’s as he rested his head against my chest, obviously confused and probably a little scared, yet so trusting.

I worried about the health problems known to affect his breed and obsessed over horror stories I found on the Internet about Cavalier puppies with heart murmurs and neurological disorders dying at a young age. When in the beginning he didn’t immediately snatch up the treats we offered him, BK and I wondered if he had vision problems. I know, ridiculous.

I couldn’t comb his hair, brush his teeth, wipe his runny eyes or clean his paws enough. Bentley, the anti-Cavalier (Yes, his temperament is by-the-book sweet, affectionate and playful, and in true spaniel fashion he loves to explore, sniff and chase. But he’s not at all fancy or prissy by nature, as this elegant, royal-looking toy breed is usually perceived to be), who only wanted to splash in the mud and eat all of the grass, leaves, twigs and bugs in sight, was a pampered pup with an overprotective mother.

And then that Friday night, a week before Christmas Eve, I grew so weak from screaming as loudly as I could for help while trying to pry his 10 lb. body loose from his attacker, punching its rock solid back, pulling and lunging back and forth in our backyard, that, exhausted, I just about gave up and accepted that my four-legged baby was going to die that way.

As someone who overthinks just about everything, an episode as traumatic and shocking as this was like major overload for my brain. I acted as fast as I could, and I tried with all of my might, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts racing through my head. “Is this really happening?!”

After a while his body was limp. This was no fight. As this unbalanced and frustrated animal-turned-monster threw its head back and forth with my puppy hanging from its mouth, my little guy didn’t stand a chance. He was completely defenseless.

I don’t know how long it really lasted, but it seemed like a hellish eternity. It got to the point where I actually started thinking it wouldn’t be over until Bentley was dead on the ground.

The person responsible for this beast was, in the end, the one who helped me free my baby. She jumped the same fence that the monster had exploded under in mere seconds on its mission to impose aggression upon my innocent lap dog. She pulled, and I tried to pry its mouth open, my hands bitten in the attempt.

After a while we freed Bentley, and as I turned frantically to run inside, the monster ripped him back away from me and it started all over again.

This time didn’t last as long. I just remember hearing the monster’s owner scream, “RUN!” and I headed toward the side of our house, knowing I could get through the back gate faster than I could get in the back door without him getting to us again. I sprinted to the front yard, yelling for help.

We live on a block that’s usually occupied with kids playing and nosy old folks sitting on their porches. But on this horrifying Friday night no one was around. Not even a car had passed by. I banged on my neighbors’ front door, expecting them to be home. But that night they weren’t. Panicked and afraid to check if Bentley was even alive, I kept him close to my chest and dialed 911 from my cell phone, which had been in my coat pocket.

He was stiff as a board. He didn’t move a muscle or even blink his big, beautiful, almond-shaped eyes. My normally animated Cavalier was like a statue in complete shock. His regularly gentle expression was blank. I remember how elated I was, after finally bringing him to safety and working up the courage to check, to see that he was alive and breathing. But at that point I still didn’t know exactly where or how severe his injuries were.

All I knew was that there was blood — on my coat, my jeans, my boots, my hands, and on Bentley’s silky soft white- and chestnut-colored hair. I was afraid to move him to check where it was coming from. After noticing much of it was coming from his right hind leg, I grabbed a wad of paper towels and applied pressure to that area.

Two police officers arrived and began asking me questions I didn’t care about answering. In a confused and panicked state I had called for their help, but at that moment I had only one thing on my mind: immediate medical attention for Bentley.

I was so shaky that I knew I couldn’t drive. And I didn’t want to let go of my puppy to take the wheel. Thankfully, just when I thought I couldn’t wait any longer, BK, who’d been racing home from work not knowing if his dog was even alive, arrived and drove us to a nearby emergency veterinary hospital.

The Christmas of 2010 was blue for sure. We’d gotten engaged at the end of July, I’d officially moved all of my things into BK’s house by September and we brought our puppy home in mid-October. We were a family starting a new life together, and happiness was all we knew.

And then all of a sudden I was handing our new best friend off to a surgeon, helpless to the outcome of his major emergency procedure, and later spending hours in the emergency room (for me) filling out paperwork, stomaching horse-sized antibiotics and listening to talk of rabies shots.

Those few sleepless nights without our dog made me long for the nights the little spoiled brat would wake me up with a nudge asking to get under the covers and rest his head on my stomach. Our bushy Christmas tree dressed in glittery ornaments didn’t emit the same light it did when Bentley was in the house playfully biting at its low-hanging branches.

But then our Christmas miracle limped back into our home with a drainage tube protruding out of his knawed right hind leg and stitches all over the back half of his little body. I realized over the next couple of days — as one moment I’d shed tears of sorrow at how physically awful he looked and the next moment cry tears of pure joy as he’d slowly stand up, wanting to do more than he could and should, like jump off of the couch or play with a stuffed toy — how amazing Bentley is. He had fight in him after all. He fought when it mattered, and this dog inspired me more than any human ever has.

Complications (a traumatic hernia caused by bite wounds) brought us back to the vet hospital a couple of days later, when we learned Bentley would have to undergo a second surgery just before Christmas.

Bentley recovers from a dog attack.

Thankfully the surgery went well, and we were able to bring him home on Christmas Eve. And after much uncertainty we were lucky that this time it was for good. The road to recovery was not easy, but Bentley healed perfectly, both physically and emotionally. Show him a long hallway or an open stretch of land and he’ll run like the wind. Show him a big dog and he may bark, but only because he wants to meet him. Never have I met such a friendly, good-natured and trusting creature.

While Bentley’s spirit absolutely amazed me throughout this turbulent episode we endured early in our human-canine relationship, the human spirit also touched me. Good neighbors, friends and family reached out with get-well cards, toys and treats for our recovering pup. His trainer (after we notified him that we'd be absent for a few weeks) called a couple of times to check on his star pupil and asked the others at puppy class to keep Bentley in mind. When Bentley's regular vet saw a faxed report from the emergency hospital, she called to check on him. She comforted me and told me how dogs like Bentley are resilient. They overcome traumatic episodes like this, she said, and with much more ease than we, as humans know how to.

Sure, he’s a dog. But he knew he was hurt. He knew he had some healing to do. And somehow, after his body was healed, he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t meek or mild or changed in any way. But he changed me.

For a while I couldn’t bear to step foot in our own backyard. I couldn’t even look in that direction. My bruises and cuts on my knuckles were nothing compared to the physical trauma Bentley had gone though. But for me, nearly a year later, the emotional scars remain.

I look at my feather-tailed companion and he gives me strength. He picks me up when I’m having an off moment — or day. Just seeing him standing before me makes me feel so thankful. Thankful he’s here with us, thankful for all that I have and share with my husband, who was by my side through it all. Going through such a testing time together has only made us stronger.

Bentley poses on our wedding day.

I used to be the type not interested in hearing Christmas songs or seeing holiday decorations until after Thanksgiving. It seems the stores try to kick start the holiday season earlier each year, and it’s annoyed me in the past. But this year I started getting excited for Christmas in October, around the first anniversary of bringing Bentley home from the breeder.

Now that we’re a week into December I am more than ready for a jolly Christmas of 2011. Each night I lay in bed with a snoring husband and an even louder snoring dog. They both fall asleep before me, and I’m stuck listening to their musical noses. But I’ll take it —happily, and thankfully.