As a little girl, I was fascinated by Lassie and Black Beauty. I always wondered how an animal could have such an impact on one’s life…and then I met Ivy, my Husky. I had nurtured her since she was 2 months old. As a mother watches over her child, I gave her all of my attention, worried about her, played with her, and cooked for her. I watched her sleep just like you do when a newborn enters your universe.
Ivy was forced into my world. I didn’t think I was missing much until she entered my life. This strange love began bonding us together. There was no manual for this puppy, only the facts I read. As with your firstborn, everything became a learning experience. She came with her own personality and her own needs, and I became her second mother. I began to learn her habits and read her behavior. I knew what pleased her, and I knew what brought her anxiety. I trained her and groomed her because she wouldn’t take orders from a stranger.
Ivy had her circle of people she accepted, kind of like me. I related to her; we were very much alike in our habits. Ivy knew me; she knew my times and my whereabouts in the house. She knew how to get my attention and how I would give in to her demands. She ate from my hands; it’s not what I fed her, but the mere act of being accepted and trusted by something that depends solely on you. Ivy came with me every day. I hated leaving her at home, but a part of me was selfish, too. There is nothing so satisfying as being greeted by the animal that was parted from you. The welcome is a feeling that is beyond comprehension.
She gave me puzzled looks but obeyed my demands. My attention towards another animal brought jealousy; my attention towards her gave me a love that words cannot explain. I’d ask her opinion and speak to her when there was no other human to interact with. Ivy taught me a language of gentleness and kindness that animals understand. Just like me, she needed her quiet time; she avoided certain people, but her happy place was our home. She taught me patience of another kind. Children learn to speak and explain, and they grow and walk their own walk. Ivy walked with me; she couldn’t speak, but she was vocal. I felt her pain. Her medical visits brought tears to my eyes, and her freedom in my garden brought me happiness.
Ivy was beautiful, here Icy blue eyes reminded me of a frozen lake. My hand would glide across her slender torso, and her shiny, silky coat would melt into my fingers. Her fur would fall like random snowflakes across the house, and in no time, nothing about her annoyed me. She became an irreplaceable addition to my world. She grew up and became majestic, and we became the two queens in one castle.
And then one day, sadness blanketed over me as I said goodbye to my diva. She had once replaced the two children who filled my home. Ivy had filled an unexplainable void. Suddenly, I lost her. It was grief of another kind, one I had not experienced, ever. She hadn’t left this world; we just parted ways. I could say I left her, but then that would have been my choice. There was no choice. Ivy couldn’t come with me. I left Ivy in her environment, in her castle, where I knew she would be happy and thrive.
The heart is built to be resilient. After it mourns the hardest loss, it slowly learns to live without. I wanted to know what went on in her mind and what she must have felt. I wanted to know if she hurt in the same way. I wanted to blame the universe for being so cruel, for taking away the only love that helped me through the toughest time of my life.
People ask about her as if she were my third child, and in some insane way, she had become just that. I see Ivy once in a blue moon, and how beautiful it is that she still remembers me, and I still love the animal that forever changed my life. And so, just like the stories of Lassi and Black Beauty, I leave behind the story of Ivy and me.
