The first real thing of substance I wanted as a child was a dog.
I remember very vividly how I received my first dog. Padre was a little white toy poodle my Grandma Peg brought me from California. I was five, in kindergarten, and she got in so late from the airport that I was already asleep. The next day, I went to school, and at some point she surprised me there with Padre.
My brother came up with the name. The little guy was from California, so he thought Padre was fitting.
I loved that little dog so much. He would jump off the landing of our back stairs into the garbage and get stuff all over his white beard. He was always dressing up and doing everything a five-year-old dreamed of a dog doing. That little guy went through a lot. He even fell down a drain while we were on a walk.
Eventually, Padre passed. He was the first of the dogs I would love as a child.
Next was Patty, who came in looking like she already had glasses glued to her face, ready to watch my every move. She was a very loved, very feisty little corgi angel. She was even part of a science project of mine. Nothing major.
She gave birth to a litter of puppies in my mom’s bathroom. It was, by far, the most exciting thing that happened in my childhood. So many good memories with those little corgi puppies.
After giving birth, old Patty, who wasn’t very old at all, got a little bit of an attitude. We kept one of her daughters, Moon Child, who smiled. She smiled all the time, and it was the best. It didn’t make Patty happy, but it made me so proud.
Moon Child had a crescent-moon marking on her head, hence the name. My mom chose it. She was a hippie.
And then came Francis, the absolute best dog we had as a family. She was the dog I picked out.
I got Francis after the death of my brother Beau. He gave her to me in a dream. I told my dad about it and let him know I had to get a yellow Lab like the one I had been gifted in that dream.
I began my search and found a litter in Charlotte, North Carolina, where my Aunt Tu lived. One snowy winter, we went to Charlotte and brought home Fran, aka Princess.
She was truly the apple of my dad’s eye. I ended up going to boarding school for tenth through twelfth grade, and Francis became the daughter dog my dad had been needing. She visited Montana and loved us all more deeply than we could have imagined. She was the light of our lives in a very dark time.
But family dogs are one thing. I realized there is a huge difference between a family dog and the dog you come to trust with your whole being.
Your dog
The dog you get when you venture into the world on your own. Live alone for the first time. Fall in love. Go through your first real breakup. Get your first nice car.
That’s the dog who teaches you to love yourself and others in a different way.
You know that dog. The one you get in your mid-to-late twenties and have into your late thirties or early forties. That dog. The dog you never get over.
And I say that with so much love, because it’s the dog you don’t ever want to let go of. And you don’t.
There’s a special bond with your first true dog. YOUR DOG. You are the one who takes care of this dog. Your child, your best friend, your date everywhere, your forever valentine, your built-in therapist. The love of your life.
This dog listens like no person can. Your bond is undeniable. You would rather be home with your dog than on an all-expenses-paid trip to your dream destination.
Casey Montana Gumb, aka Rooster, was my dog angel. The one God sent to take care of me through my growth into adulthood and beyond. The one who carried me and showed me I was lovable and worthy of all the good that came my way.
She was, without question, the love of my life.
I believe that first dog of your adulthood is a masterpiece, sent to you with a very important job. And I came to understand that it takes a certain dog to do the job God has set before it.
Before Casey
Clifford came first. He was an Entlebucher, the same breed as Casey. I had him for about a year before he died of a heart attack.
It was terrifying. He was in his crate in the middle of the night when I woke to a scream. I got up and pulled him out, and he was gone.
I called my parents at two in the morning. They rushed over to the house I had just moved into. My mom took me outside while my dad covered Cliff. We went back to their house, and someone came to get him in the morning. An autopsy showed he had suffered a heart attack.
I was devastated. Clifford was my buddy. I had been so in love with him, and I was distraught.
My dad knew he had to act fast. I was having a hard time living on my own and being alone for the first time. I mean really alone. I had always had a boyfriend, lived with my parents, or had roommates. This had just been me and Clifford.
My very resourceful dad found another Entlebucher, a little girl from Ohio, and she was flown to Charleston.
I was excited to have a new bestie. This one felt different.
She had an accident in her little cage on the trip and arrived frightened. She was scared. I was scared. Both a little wounded. And our love affair began.
I didn’t leave her side. After what happened to Clifford, I couldn’t bring myself to crate her. She went everywhere I went. I even became a stay-at-home mom.
This was probably—well, this was unhealthy—but my dad allowed me not to work, and I chilled with my dog. We trained together three times a week. Before she was even a couple of years old, we were doing agility training like you see on TV.
She was the best dog in her class and an amazing listener.
She loved me when I didn’t love me
Then came the relationship with my first real abusive boyfriend.
It was fine at first. Then he moved in, and we argued a lot. Then things got good again. That cycle where your self-esteem starts getting lower, you stop participating fully in life, and you shy away from friends and social functions.
It went on for about ten years. A few months off here and there, but mostly on. The last three years were terrible.
Casey saw to it that I was loved by her, even when I wasn’t always as loving back as I wish I had been. She knew what I needed and when I needed it. She was always more than happy to jump in the car and escape to our parents’ house. Those trips became more and more frequent when things got physical.
I could see it in her eyes. She hated him, but she had to tolerate him because, crazy as it was, I was in love.
She was the best, most solid dog.
I will never have another dog go through what Casey went through with me. She taught me to love me, to know my worth, and never again to accept someone mistreating me the way he did.
She loved me when I didn’t love me. All I ever saw in her eyes was gratitude and love, even when I couldn’t see anything good in myself.
She was also mistreated by this shell of a human. I say that because I cannot understand how someone could mistreat a beautiful angel dog. All dogs are angels in my eyes.
Sometimes a mistreated dog acts out. Casey never did. She did everything right.
They beg and pee, but that’s a dog. To me, they are God’s keepers, sent here to teach us love and compassion. To be your best friend, your valentine, your story.
Your first dog is usually not your last. But that dog holds a place like no other.
Our last hoorah
Casey was the dog who got me sober and kept me sober for the first year of my sobriety.
She lived her whole life and only knew me sober for one year of it. But she will tell you, in spirit of course, that it was her best and final year.
Somewhere along the line, she developed kidney disease. I found out right when I got out of rehab. So we decided together to make it the best last hoorah.
And that we did.
I journaled every day during that time, and I am going to share those memories with you. I do this because I believe they can help you through your grief, if that’s where you are. Or fill you with eagerness to get your first dog. Or meet you somewhere in between.
If you are in the final months, days, or year with your beloved angel, I give you these memories with love from Casey Roo.
Recently, while rereading a poem, I realized again that I had found the connection of a lifetime with my Casey. I will stop at nothing to get this book written for her, and for the people who know.
They know the love. They know the pain. And I believe they will eventually know the peace your dog returns to you with.
It’s not immediate. That’s for sure. But learning all that you do in grief is worth something.
She rode shotgun
Casey is missed by many, and I have come to learn that this makes it easier. The more you share the loss, the easier it is to accept. Knowing you’re not alone sure does beat feeling like the only one.
I often think of Fiona, the gym dog, when I think of a dog who is and always will be loved by everyone. She helped me heal tremendously. I know she has some type of power beyond what we really understand.
She can take an entire gym full of people on the struggle bus and reinvent the mood. There’s not a second that goes by when she isn’t making an impact.
My trainer, JP, who is Fiona’s dad, told me he had to leave his house for a week and go on vacation after his cat, Tiki, passed away.
I remember thinking, there’s no way. After putting Casey to rest, I wanted to soak up every last drop of her that was still in my house.
I did go get my hair done right afterward. Literally, a few hours later, I was in the salon chair.
I took one of the pillows with her face on it. She rode shotgun, and we headed to see Savannah, one of the most comforting, easy people I know.
It was just right.
I feel like a million bucks when I’m back to blonde. And there’s something about the salon vibe that leaves you feeling blessed.
Because Brooks 