That Circle of Life business is total crap, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. The idea had always bothered me in a vague and distant way, up until the day I lost my mother, then it slapped me hard, straight across the face, leaving a mark that never entirely went away. I was pregnant with my son, Chase, and I knew with exquisite clarity that no matter how much I loved this new little boy, and love him I did, he could never take the place of my mother. It would be asking an apple to become an orange, something nature doesn’t allow.

I’d like to introduce Widget and Sprocket, two teacup Yorkies belonging to my sister and her husband, Roni and Matt, but don’t get too attached because they are most assuredly taken. Widget came first, smart as a whip and happy to be carried in your purse. She had plenty of time to wind us around her delicate paws before the dawn of Sprocket, a tiny little mouse dog who could sit on the front of your shoe. It’s probably a felony for a tiny mouse dog to be anything but adorable, but then there was this growing bit, growing and growing, 8 lbs = Widget X 2 + 4X Energy – Half the Brains. I admit, I was skeptical for a while, but over time I realized that what he lacked in brains, he made up in hearty good cheer, adding a full 8 lbs to the sweetness of the world. He also gets so excited at the arrival of a friend, or the suggestion of a walk it sends him right over for a celebratory bite to eat. You might call him an emotional eater, I totally relate.

Widget is four pounds soaking wet, intelligent and reserved, a perfect foil for Sprocket’s wild antics. She sleeps in a circle, and loves to wiggle into small spaces, an unrepentant hider in shoeboxes and sleeves. She was originally Matt’s pet, an unusual black and brown Yorkie with the recessive trait of floppy ears that fluttered as she walked. Before he married, she sat under his desk every day chewing pens to pieces, and exploring through the office, once taking a shine to a co-worker and crawling into his backpack, a stowaway nobody discovered until he was nearly home. Roni says she may very well have married Matt for his dog, which is a fairly astonishing claim from such a sensible girl, but such is the power of Widget.

Years ago, my Uncle Chad brought a gift to his mother, my Grandma Messer. “I don’t wownt no dowg!” she declared in her emphatic Tennessee drawl. But Chad handed the dog over anyway, and she was done for. My grandma didn’t cook for herself, but she cooked for Buttons, to keep him from getting a skin condition, she said. Buttons had a stroller too, and every one of her expensive purses had a grease stain inside where she’d spirited a Buttons-sized treat out of a restaurant. I’ve heard of sociologists giving elderly people small animals because they found that an older person may be too worried about the bills to turn up the heat for themselves, but they will turn it up for a beloved pet. I made fun of Buttons’ stroller, thinking that if your dog had a stroller, you might want to rethink your life choices. “Dogs are good company,” grandma said. I didn’t really understand until Widget.

When we first returned from China, we hadn’t intended to stay more than the summer. Then came my cancer diagnosis and everything upended. Suddenly our six weeks in Matt and Roni’s basement stretched into months as we house hunted in a very tight market, and seemed to meet obstacles on every hand. Matt and Roni welcomed us so lovingly, and I spent the first months of my heaviest chemo largely on the couch in their basement family room. I was wiped out, and had lost most of my sense of taste, except for salty and spicy, so in my long hours alone my comforts included chips and salsa, and Widget.

Matt and Roni had installed a wooden gate at the top of the stairs, and from the basement I would hear Widget chirping like a bird. If I didn’t come up, the chirping would be followed by a jingle, her metal tags tinkling together as she took a mighty leap, clearing the gate and padding down the stairs where she would cuddle in next to me. It was the equivalent of me sailing over the wall of my office, which wouldn’t happen even if my house was on fire, so I’ve got to give her credit. Sprocket couldn’t begin to make that jump, what with being an emotional eater and all, so he let us know he missed his friend, and very much wanted in on the action. I think Widget was happy to take a break from Sprocket’s high-octane play, but she also recognized my need for peace and comfort, and every day she was there to give it to me. Grandma was right, dogs are good company. Read More