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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.

The date of my last post was exactly a month before our wedding, and Sunday will mark our one-month anniversary.

Blogging about my life and wedding plans in this past year has been a fun journey. At times it helped me write through some of the decisions that stumped me and stressed me. And then in the end, it became impossible to Babble, because I was too busy doing.

I know all my fellow brides would agree that the month leading up to the wedding, particularly the two-week countdown, is pure craziness.

It’s a level of stress that most grooms will never understand, including nitpicky responsibilities (last-minute printing of the programs, assembling of the favors, dropping off the personalized reception props and champagne flutes to name just a few) that he will never bear.

BK was a sounding board from start to finish. I could bounce ideas off of him and he’d listen. He helped me make many decisions and even made a few of his own. He offered to help with all of the “little things,” but in the end they were things only I could do. Brides know that those are not the words of a control freak. It’s just the bride-groom dynamic and the way of the wedding planning universe.

Even though I was sleep-deprived and at times in a tizzy during the last two weeks of September, everything got done. One-by-one I checked it all off my list, and the wedding came and went. Here I am, nearly a month later, married.

A few weeks ago I was lying in bed, fresh off of our honeymoon and about to return to work the next day. It felt strange to not have to go through a mental checklist of what was to be done for the wedding when I awoke in the morning. It wasn’t something I thought about in Curacao. That was a true getaway.

But once I was back, I realized that the dress had been worn, and everything I’d worried about and worked on for several months was now done. It felt strange. As I write I realize it may sound like I was sad, but it was more of a moment of peace, like, that was an unbelievably amazing day, but now we can live our lives.

Of course we hit a few glitches that day — the flowers were all delivered to my suite and no one thought to get the guys’ boutonniere’s to them until the photographer asked if the guys had flowers; my dress got a bit dirty as we trekked around the grounds to get the best outdoor shots; and the event planning manager informed me at the start of cocktail hour that we had two number 12 table cards and no number 13.

If I’d read this on another bride’s blog while knee deep in plans, I’d think: Disastrous. But in reality they were all easy fixes, just little bumps in the road on the happiest day of our lives.

Someone ran up to the room and brought the flowers down to the guys while we got some girls-only photos. The videographer got stain stick out of his car and I fixed my sash in the limo on the way to church. As I sat down for the first time in hours and sipped champagne and popped crab Rangoon, chicken fontina puffs and artisan cheeses in my mouth, the double 12’s didn’t bother me at all. I’d had my own table number cards made so the venue stuck their number 13 on that table. Solved.

The flowers were gorgeous, the food was delicious, my outfit and hair came together as envisioned and everyone danced until midnight.

Now, with my brother's and two of my best friends’ weddings coming up in 2012, I get to step back and just be the bridesmaid. Of course that leaves more room for me to fulfill my most important roles: Wife, dog mommy and writer. Keep an eye out for the next chapter in the near future.

Those of you who live in Montgomery County, PA and are getting married in the next couple of months: When you apply for your marriage license you do not go to the Montgomery County Courthouse.

We barely dodged a strip search before realizing the Register of Wills/Clerk of Orphans' Court is actually across the street, located within One Montgomery Plaza, Swede and Airy streets, Norristown. Apparently this wasn't always the case, so we didn't feel too silly as BK put his keys back in his pocket and I took back my leftover club sandwich from the Courthouse Diner that had just missed getting a radiation boost while traveling down the security conveyor belt.

Take the elevator to the fourth floor and go left. The Marriage License Bureau is toward the back left of the room. Luckily there were no other couples waiting, so we were taken almost immediately. Be ready to place your right hand on a Bible next to your fiance's and swear that you are not related. It's oh so romantic!

Hurricane Irene meant that this would be one Sunday we would not hop from store-to-store running errands -- some wedding-related, some to feed our mutual hunger for a new item here and there.

So we spent the day indoors, and I decided to start making tags for the guest favors. It became quite monotonous, cutting card stock into squares, pressing a "K" sticker to the center of each square, punching a hole into each tag. Bentley seemed to think I was doing something really interesting. After a while he got over it and started digging in his toy chest instead. I only got halfway through, so another afternoon of this lies ahead.

What's planned for today is much more interesting -- at least to me. I've taken the afternoon off so that BK and I can head to the courthouse and apply for our marriage license. Apparently all you need is a photo ID (PA driver's license preferred), Social Security number (just knowledge of it, not even the actual SS card) and $45 cash. For something so official and legally binding, it seems so simple. I'll let you know after we go through it if it actually is as easy as it sounds.

Then we're heading to the Perfect Pooch in King of Prussia. We toured the facility a couple of weekends ago and we both like their style. During playtime, which is t he majority of the day, they keep well-adjusted, non-aggressive dogs together and let them socialize in packs (small and large). Bentley has to be evaluated before he can be accepted there, which is what we're going to check off of the list today. Then we have the option to board him there for our wedding. The best part is that PP does transports, so we're in talks to have someone drive him to us on the  big day. That would solve my dilemma of how to get my baby in our wedding album! The idea of boarding him has made me uneasy for a while now, but this place seems so right for him. He's the most social dog I know, and I'm sure he'll have an absolute ball hanging out with the pack.

The week gets even more exciting for me, as my little sister and brother-in-law are set to return home from Guam on Thursday afternoon. This is so overdue I can hardly contain myself. More on that later.

I'm a worrier.

I worry I won't get the house cleaned before guests arrive. I worry I won't get the interview I need to complete a story by deadline. I worry I won't find the right box for guests to slip their envelopes in at the reception. I worry I'll never find time to update my blog. I worry Bentley will get hurt again.

And so I worried again last night, when I saw my handsome Cavalier peering at me through the spokes of our staircase, with a mischievious look in his eyes. And then I worried some more when I heard him chewing. And when I ran up the stairs to see he had my underwear between his two front paws. And when I held them up, realizing he'd eaten about six inches of the nylon/spandex blend -- basically everything but the waist band.

I remember my childhood dog, Taco, eating my grandmom's nylon knee high and passing it within a couple of days. My parents dodged the bullet of an expensive surgery that would have fixed whatever damange the stocking might have done to his tiny insides.

At first I thought, Bentley has a strong stomach. He's sustained a lot. He's eaten mounds of grass and leaves, pieces of wood, lightening bugs, strands of carpet, half of a blue Wubba, and it's all come out the other end, sometimes in full.

But I also thought how I've heard horror stories about dogs and underwear, or dogs and socks. So when the 24-7 emergency vet hospital recommended that we bring him in so they could get him to throw it all up, I stopped worrying and just did.

The waiting was the worst of it. Sure, I worried how he felt about being forced to throw up (I learned later that he actually wagged his tail through the whole thing) or that he wouldn't throw it up and then we'd have to discuss "other options," as the surgeon had said. But waiting meant I had to sit there and remember the last time I'd been in that waiting room late at night into early morning -- when Bentley was attacked.

As BK and I sat there after midnight, half asleep and half laughing at our silly dog's underwear fetish, I kept staring at the spot I was sitting in this past December, when I had a really good reason to worry. I could see myself sitting there, in that terrible situation, and I had to choke back tears. I hated that feeling.

Then my puppy came running toward us, his left eye bloodshot from the apomorphine used to induce vomiting and his head soaked from the water they then used to flush it out, and I thought to myself, 'You worry, and then things are fine. It's always OK.'

Lately I've been "on edge," as my mom put it, about wedding plans. I worry things will get done. I do one thing and give myself half a second to just barely breathe a sigh of relief before I worry about the next few things we need to tackle.

At times it seems neverending, and I know I'm not alone, because three of us stood in the hallway at work the other day and commiserated over what it's like for the bride in the months leading up to the wedding.

But when you think about the big things, the stuff that warrants a bit of worrying, it seems silly to worry about things like how the favors will go over with guests.

And to think, I needed my dog to eat my underwear in order to bring me back to my least favorite place in the world so I could recognize that.

I was more than happy last week to take a little detour from wedding planning and spend my time focusing on a special birthday. Bentley's first.

He was born on July 16, 2010. We brought him home on Oct. 17. Two months later, just before Christmas, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, at 5 months old and weighing not even 10 pounds, was brutally attacked by a vicious dog.

I've never actually written that. And I won't go into the painful details. Obviously my little firework survived, and he has thrived. But that incident has changed me in some ways, and anyone who knows the full story understands how much Bentley's first birthday milestone truly meant to me.


Sometimes I look at my little guy and I'm just overwhelmed with emotions. Yes, he's a dog. But to me, he's also a resilient spirit. I'm just amazed by him and feel lucky to have him in my life -- even when he nips at my toes to persuade me to play rough with him and wakes me up early in the morning by scratching my side of the bed from down below.

To match his personality, Bentley's first birthday party was nothing short of spectacular. He had mini hot dogs as an appetizer, beef and lamb chop stew for dinner and gourmet cookies for dessert. And of course he had his closest family right there with him, feeding him way too many treats and spoiling him with new toys. I still can't believe my puppy is 1!

Looking out for his guests

Birthday toys and treats for my sweet

Doggy theme to honor the birthday boy

Too much partying

Done!