Faded Red Stripes, a chapter in my memoir, Laney: And Her Unraveling Story of Healing, has been edited and reduced as an excerpt for this publication.
Enjoy reading this little snippet of my story, my real one. Read to the end for a photo of a puppy licking my toddler fingys. It’s adorbs. You’ll swoon.
She’d been reminded recently of a photo of herself as a toddler. Faded red vertical stripes alternate with the white ones on her one piece bathing suit. Bent over at the waist, bottom sticking out as far as it could go as if to keep her balance while her outstretched arms reach forward, finger tips becoming wetter with each swipe of the dog’s tongue. The expression on her face tells a story that goes beyond that photograph. Beyond that little toddler’s understanding. It feels to Laney’s now 33 year old self as if that moment as a toddler solidified her connection with these amazing creatures.
Up to this point in Laney’s adulthood, she hadn’t been able to love and be loved by anything, anyone. Not truly, not fully. There had been people here and there she let in just enough, still guarded, still protected. She experienced her own version of love for others. Limited, boundaried. And letting herself be fully loved, well that felt impossible.
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It’s funny to her now thinking back on those junior high and early high school years. How most of the other teens by then had been crushing on someone they barely knew. When her friends would see a cute boy then giggle quietly together while they each secretly fantasize about him complimenting their outfit. For Laney, though, it’s like she had her radar tuned to a certain frequency no one else really understood. She could spot a dog from two football field lengths away, while her friends noticed the cute guy on the bleachers two rows up. She spent most of her life more concerned about petting the dog on the sidewalk across the street than she’d ever wondered what outfit to wear that would impress Billy in English class.
The one thing she appreciated about her mother is that they always had a variety of pets over the years. Dogs, cats, reptiles and amphibians and fish, a hamster, and pairs of chickens and rabbits. Somehow, though, the dogs were always able to penetrate her barrier more easily than the others. It was Molly, the sweet, fence-jumping mutt, of course, who walked those canyon roads with her under the stars all those decades ago and made those adventures a little bit less lonely.
2008. A couple years into college. Laney had been petless since 2006 when she was kicked out of her mother’s condo a few weeks before her high school graduation. Her soul longed for the companionship she grew to know so deeply, so fully - her only trustworthy thing in this world. Getting a dog was not in the cards for Laney. Not yet, at least.
2010. Four years had passed now since she’d had a pet. The entire four years of college she’d spent planning the moment she would adopt a dog shortly after graduation. Instead of getting a dog, she got married. Their first home ended up being a no-pets-allowed condo rental. Excruciating might be a tad too strong of a word, but it felt pretty close to that for animal loving Laney. Her waiting for a dog would be indefinitely lengthened. Luckily, they’d talked their landlord into letting them adopt a kitten.
His fuzzy little paws popped out between the metal squares of his cage, like he was grasping for their attention. “Talents” is what the shelter staff told them they named the little male kitten, but Laney and her husband thought they said “Talon,” like the talon of a bird, fierce, purposeful, strong. It sounded cool and their hearts dared to love this little fur ball, so they took him home that day and Talon was theirs. But three days before Christmas, he died. Laney cried on and off for weeks. She was crushed. A rare feline disease, the vet told them. Incurable.
A couple of months went by and they were feeling the emptiness that their home was showing them. A litter box that didn’t need to be cleaned. The unfinished bag of cat food in the pantry. Cat toys she found under the couch when she vacuumed. So, they called their landlord, and convinced her to let them adopt a pair of brother kittens this time. Remington and Sig. Fuzzy little crazy things! Their hearts felt full again.
Not for too long, though, the universe told her. In only a few months, Sig would be gone. Rare feline disease, the vet told them. Incurable.
Remington needed a friend, and along came Trigger. If you’re counting, they’re up to four cats in less than two years, two of them now dead. By now, her heart had begun to harden again. She couldn’t take the loss of another pet. And yet, she kept her heart open enough to be able to love these sweet, little creatures.
But by 2013, Remington had died, yet again this cruel, rare, feline disease stealing more of what she had loved.
Let’s back up a little bit, though. Right back to 2012. The buildup was huge. It had now been six years since Laney had a dog. Her true companion. Countless hours over the years had been spent scouring the pages of dog shelter websites. The number of emails she sent to her husband with links to adoptable dogs is unknown. Let’s just say it was a lot. Night dreams and daydreams filled her mind with all the glorious things she would experience with said future dog. Hikes. Dog beach. Cuddles. The way Remington and Trigger and this dog would be best of friends like you hear in the stories. Her long one-way conversations where she would divulge both her silly comments no humans could appreciate and also her innermost thoughts and feelings. She knew this dog would be special.
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We’re going to pause here. Because this dog turned out to be just as special as she imagined and his introduction requires a story all his own. The important thing to note here is that Laney’s history of pets is vital to our understanding of her life. Of her soul. Of her meaning. Of her healing.
On a journey to find herself, yet clueless that she was in fact on said journey, Laney was also on her way to finding love. Maybe all this gets chalked up to being an awkward, misunderstood kid-later-turned-adult, that being excited about dogs was just a good outlet. Think what you will. Laney knows it’s something far more paramount.
Those faded red vertical stripes alternating with the white ones on her one piece bathing suit were like a flag, not planted in the ground as if to stake a location, but worn on her body to mark a moment. The moment she knew she could fully love and be loved with the heart of a dog.
And maybe, just maybe, someday the heart of a human.