Remembering Kissy
by Janice Peters
It's deadline time for this column and I've been so busy with the Winter Bird Festival and city council work that I've not given any thought to my column! Today, though, I've been thinking about a personal loss that happened at the end of last year's Bird Festival, so I'm going to write about that . . .
Those of you who love animals understand how they seem to magically enter your life at the right time. My first dog arrived when I moved into my first house. My second decided she liked living inside with me better than living outside at my neighbor's. My third dog, Sabrina, was a Siberian Husky given to my by my sister.
Sabrina was 19-years-old when she "went over the Rainbow Bridge" in 1996. In her youth, she was as powerful as a Husky can be, pulling sleds and running through drifts of snow with wild abandon.
The morning after she died, I attended a church seminar in San Jose. I was fighting back tears as I approached the church. As I neared the door, a beautiful young Husky walked right up to me. I knelt to meet her and she licked my face. I asked about her and was told she'd just showed up when they opened the church. Her tags indicated that she lived close by, so I assumed she'd go home. I gave her a hug and went inside.
At the program break, I went outside, and there was the Husky. Again, she came right over to me. I found her name, Kishka, on her tags, and told her I'd take her home. She followed eagerly, running through the yards, leaping over the hedges, and circling back to me. She was beautiful to watch, and reminded me of Sabrina in her youth.
At her home, the woman had no idea how Kishka had gotten out of the yard, and thanked me for bringing her home. With a wave of her tail, Kishka dashed inside.
I walked back to church smiling, my grief comforted by this "angel" dog messenger.
Back home, two weeks later, my vet called to tell me a client in SLO was moving to another country and had a Husky who needed a home. I went to meet her.
She ran up to me the minute I walked in the door, tail wagging, blue eyes sparkling, and smiling that Husky smile. "What's her name?" I asked. "Kishka," he answered. Of course, I brought her home with me.
Kishka's name morphed into Kissy, which suited her. She made herself at home in the yard and most of the house . . . except the bedroom, where Sabrina had slept. She'd stand in the hall and look at me from there, but she would NOT enter the room, as if she sensed Sabrina's spirit and would not invade her territory.
Kissy loved to play with her rope pull toy, and I decided she needed a playmate besides me. I heard about a Husky mix who'd been abandoned and was in a foster home. I took Kissy to meet her and they got along, so we brought her home. She was a golden blonde, brown-eyed sweetheart, and I named her Taffy.
Taffy happily explored the entire house, including the bedroom. Kissy stopped at the door as usual, and watched Taffy in wonderment as she checked out the "ghost" room. Finally, Kissy's alpha nature won out. Not wanting to give the newcomer rights to the room, she bravely stepped over the threshold, and chased the "ghost" away.
Taffy didn't know how to play with toys, so Kissy taught her. Every evening for almost a week, I watched as Kissy would take the rope pull and bonk Taffy on the head with it. Taffy would look bewildered, not understanding why this was happening. On the fifth evening, when Kissy started bonking her head again, Taffy finally grabbed the other end of the rope pull in her teeth. Kissy immediately pulled and Taffy reacted by pulling back. I could almost see the light bulb go on over Taffy's head as she realized, "Oh, this is a GAME! I get it now!" Mission accomplished . . . they spent many happy hours playing with that toy.
It was fun walking them together . . . both with tails raised and charging ahead, leading me as the "sled." I took them to obedience school, with minimal results. Huskies decide for themselves what they will and won't do.
The two girls were fine until a boy entered the picture . . . isn't that always the way? A boyfriend and his Labrador, Lucky, moved in. Lucky didn't care about rank, but Taffy did, and started attacking Kissy, starting fights daily. Finally, I found Taffy a new home in Cambria with lots of woods to explore and a male Malamute companion who adored her.
So then it was Kissy and Lucky, which worked so well that several years later when the boyfriend moved out, Lucky stayed. Lucky was too old to play much, but he was very affectionate and considerate of Kissy.
Huskies shed continually and need regular brushing. Kissy hated grooming sessions, and the mere sight of the brush would bring on distressed cries. (She was a major drama queen!) Lucky loved to be brushed and often tried to get between Kissy and the brush, probably more for his pleasure than to help her. Eventually, when Kissy would start her pathetic crying, Lucky would calm her by licking her ears and face until the "torture" was finished.
When Lucky died at age 15, my sister decided we should go to Woods Humane Society "just to look." We found Samantha, a 10-year-old Border Collie whose "dad" had moved to a rest home. She looked very lost and scared in a run with several big dogs. We fetched Kissy to see if they'd got along. They did, meaning Kissy tolerated her and Sammi was content to let Kissy be the boss.
At 14, Kissy started losing her hearing and became more vocally demanding to compensate. She started telling me it was time for dinner or a walk with endless high-pitched yelps, accompanied by a determined stare. One time, I'd finished working on a project at 5 a.m., so when Kissy started yipping at 7 a.m., I ignored her. The next thing I heard was her food dish being tossed around the kitchen . . . clatter, clatter, clatter, BANG! I finally got up and went out to the kitchen. She didn't even look at me, just stared at her empty dish. After the queen had her breakfast, her servant was allowed to go back to sleep.
On Bird Festival weekend last year, suddenly something was wrong. One night, we went for our walk as usual. The next night she balked at the door and let me and Sammi go alone. She lost her energy, but the vet found nothing wrong.
The next night she was restless, finally settling down next to my bed. I spent the night on the edge of the bed with my arm over the side, touching her, which seemed to comfort her. I told her about the Rainbow Bridge. I told her about looking for Lucky and meeting Sabrina (the ghost dog), who she could play with. The next evening, she crossed the bridge.
I wasn't ready for this one. With the others there was always a slowing down time . . . time to get used to the pending departure. Not this one. Not in four days. Not Kissy, my feisty, noisy, drama queen.
A dear friend sent me a poem . . .
"When tomorrow starts without me, and I'm not there to see,
The sun will rise and find your eyes all filled with tears for me.
I wish so much you wouldn't cry the way you did today,
Remembering how I'd lay my head in your lap that special way.
I know how much you love me, as much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me, I know you'll miss me too.
So when tomorrow starts without me, don't think we're far apart.
For every time you think of me, I'm right there, in your heart."
That helped, but even now, a year later, I still cry.
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