A Very Good Girl

Salamanca Josie Bear Briscoe Terhune should have lost her life years ago, the year I first got her, in fact. 2008. I was walking out of the house holding the Chuck-It in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. Ah, the ever-coveted tennis ball. As was our routine, I was taking Sali out for a run across the street where empty lots stretched in the place of yet-to-be-built houses. Ever-obsessed and laser-focused on the ball, Sali was walking backward ready for me to relinquish the ball and toss it her way. She was so focused that she trotted, still backward, right into the street where a large white van rolled right over her. Everything happened in an instant but somehow also in slow motion. I watched in horror as Sali's 17-pound body of pure athlete tumbled under the van's carriage and rolled from the front bumper right through to the back bumper and out the other end of the van. The van driver caught my eye and the horror was shared between the two of us. I ran to Sali, who was clearly in shock. In a moment, she shook, stared wide-eyed, and then peed all over herself and me as I held her tight. In another instant, like a flash, she was off. Running. A miracle dog.

Sali loved to run.

When she really got going, she would sound like a stampeding herd of horses. I remember Sali took off running once when Raki was supposed to be watching her. He called me in a panic, his tail between his legs. “I was unloading groceries,” he admitted, ”and she just took off...out the door.” I was in Virginia for the summer and the distance made it extremely difficult to hear Raki’s admission. Had he really lost my dog? I could hear how scared he was telling me about how he had printed off pictures to post around the neighborhood. And how relieved he was when he brought the pictures to the end of the road to a group of kids playing in the street. “Hey! We know that dog!” one kid had told Raki. Soon after, Raki was reunited with Sali who had been taken into the home of a good Samaritan neighbor who had seen Sal wandering Pa’aoloulu Way.

Sali has lived in many homes although her origin is unclear. Our story began when co-teacher Anita Jones told me about Mary Stephany’s daughter’s pregnancy. “She’s scared that her animals won’t do well with a newborn so she’s returning them all to the SPCA.”

“I told Mary to talk to you because, well, you know, you’re a sucker for animals.”

And I was. A sucker. From lean one.

I met Mary’s daughter in the Mililani Walmart parking lot. Sali, then Josie, got out of the car and when I stood by her side, she just….leaned. And that was it.

Thirteen love-filled years ago.

I remember being taken by Sal’s natural eyeliner. I wish I had built-in eyeliner like that! Lucky dog. Sali also reminded me of Lucky, Bridie’s dog (but really mine while I lived with her) who has recently been taken out by a car on Kapolei Parkway. The match was kismet.

Sali. Salamanca. SalGal. SalDog. Good Girl. Baby Girl. Or as Jeleen called her, Insect.

Thank you for your love, warmth, gentleness, kindness, fun, energy, amazingness.

I remember lining up kibble on the floor and then flicking each piece to you as you stood in front of me, ready to receive, like a football player poised to intercept. You’d walk backward (you think you’d learn!) on our walks around the neighborhood, again, ready to intercept any popper or rock that I’d kick your way. Always ready to play. Remember the time that Greg and I were ready to sleep and we had finally gotten you to settle down? Then...the ball rolled off the bed and you sprang back to action thinking you were heeding a call to play. Oh, your love of the ball. Relentless.

The other night, I flicked Spottie Dottie’s ball to you as you stood by the door waiting to be let back into the house. I watched as the ball slowly rolled your way, wondering what you would do. For months now, you have been receiving shots for your arthritis and your stiff joints make movement visibly difficult. Still, I watched as you slowly turned to the ball and brought your nose to it. Nothing more than a tap, but it was enough to fill my heart with such love and sadness and remorse and loss for what you once were and what you still carry somewhere within your sweet, sweet, slowing-down self. Oh, Sali. The World’s Greatest Dog. The World’s Greatest Athlete.

I hope we did right by you. You have given us so much. You have taught Chesley how to love animals and inspired what will surely be a lifelong friendship and affection for all creatures, you being his favorite of all. When Ches came home from the hospital, you proved just how ludicrous Mary’s daughter had been in thinking, in entertaining the possibility, that you’d be anything other than a perfect match for the smallest of humans. You have guarded and cared for Chesley and Malaya since the moment they were in my being, just as you guarded Greg and me and our home and life that we have built together.

These last two years of virtual teaching from home, any time I went to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to anywhere, there you were, up and by my side, even though I told you, “I’ll be right back, silly!” Still, you’d follow. Thank you for that.

Until you stopped.

The vet told me to find five things that made you you. To me, they were:

1. Coming to greet us

2. Staying close

3. Giving licks (your Pokemon name is Stinky Sal-Lick, after all)

4. Licking legs after a shower (this was Chesley’s favorite. How excited he was when he called me in Las Vegas to tell me you did this after he showered at Grommy and Papa’s).

5. Eating, drinking, going to the bathroom on your own

Slowly, you let each of those go because you just couldn’t. You tried and we thank you for that, and now it is time for you to rest.

“After everything our pets do for us and give us, this is the least we can do for them.”

Jeleen talked me through...it is the right thing to do. I called the vet today and let them know, “I think Sali has had enough.” I know she is tired. She is hardly drinking. She has stopped eating. I feed her with a syringe, and she takes it as gracefully as she can but I know she doesn’t want this.

July 5, 2021. We said our goodbyes to Sali this afternoon. After days of laying close and holding tight, many tears shed and many thanks were given, we knew it was time to take her in...we knew well before being able to vocalize it, I think. There was a phone call from Dr. Kinashito proposing different things we could do to help Sali. Teeth extractions and blood work and x-rays and oh so much that my heart grew heavy and my head started to pound. I thanked her and asked if we could call her back. Greg and I called Jeleen and she, once again, walked us through. The hope given is for us. Anything that we did to intervene would be for us. None of it would be for Sali.

The entire time I held Sali close. Her warmth, her softness, her sweetness. I knew it was all to make me feel better as I held her tight and squeezed her, wiping my tears on her fur, once red, brown, black, and now mostly white. So much has she given me in my times of pain, yet what comfort was I giving her in her greatest need, with all of my holding on? What would more days of operations and extractions and injections give her? Truly?

Everyone said it was the hardest decision but it was really the only one to make for Sali who has been so selfless, so generous. It was our turn to be strong for her. As Papa said, “It was her time to rest.”

Seeing her in the back room at the vet, tucked in a bright pink blanket, her left foot wrapped in bright pink splattered with purple hearts, wrapped for the catheter. “She looks good in pink,” Dr. Kinashito said, trying to make light of the difficult heaviness. She gave us as much time with Sali, to give hugs and to talk and soothe and cry and mourn. It hurt, knowing this was the end.

One by one we took turns and then took turns once again to give our kisses and goodbyes. It was peaceful and smooth and so damn hard. Sweet Sali. We lifted Mojo up to Sali when she was gone. He gave her two quick licks, which was unlike him and very poignant for we weak humans looking on and bearing witness to the interaction between these two who had been side-by-side for so many years. I felt a paper cut-out of myself just going through the motions. I was the last to leave the room, holding tight to the remaining time that I would have with my best friend. I couldn’t seem to walk out the door. I just couldn’t do it. I made many approaches in the direction and just turned around to give my sleeping girl one last stroke, kiss, hug, love, thank you, apology, goodbye. But she was already gone. Still, I held her. At last, I covered her eyes with that bright pink blanket and tucked her in tight. Turning off the light, I turned, exited, and closed the door behind me.

Tonight I told the kids we have to take extra care of Mojo.

Malaya asked sweetly, “Because Sali is gone?”

Hearing the words come from our sweet baby girl hit in a way that struck almost like a surprise. It seems ridiculous that the tears just keep coming. How do they just keep coming?

Yet.

Sali is gone.

Yet.

I feel her still. I expect we always will.

There have been laughs at random moments that have been popping up as we have been going through old photos and memories and musings.

“How much underwear do you think she ate?”

The photo of her looking back at me while Greg did yard work in the background. Her trepidation was clear in her big brown eyes. “Is this guy sticking around or….?” they seemed to ask.

“How often would we find her on top of the kitchen table?”

“How many tennis balls do you think she is playing with right now?”

Sitting on the front stoop this evening, taking Mojo out, Ches told me that he imagines that Sali is in a field filled with tennis balls….”With rainbows all around?” I added.

“Yes!”

He said she was his best friend, “But mostly yours.”

Thank you, Salamanca. Thank you for teaching us so many lessons.

Salamanca Josie Bear Briscoe Terhune’s time with us came to an end today and the loss has left us raw. Her presence will remain forever. 16 years old, 13 with us. Sali, what a good girl you are and always have been. The very, very best.

We thank you. We miss you. We love you. Be at peace.