#missingkimba

[girlonawireblog]

POODLICIOUS

In my mind, this odd little slice of my life runs on a loop:

I am dancing around the kitchen with a black and white miniature poodle. He dances on his hind legs, all people-like, and I sing various made-up songs. Like ‘Poodlicious’—to the tune of ‘Fergalicious,’ of course, with lyrics about how Kimba makes all the girl-dogs go loco.

That poodle goes wild. He chirps, and—I swear—he smiles.

The musical repertoire varied, but for a number of years, this scene was the norm as I put on the coffee and made breakfast each morning. I had somehow become a crazy little-dog lady, and my dances with Kimba put a smile on my own face even in the worst of times.

Our pairing was as unlikely as the bond we ultimately formed.

I grew up with large dogs: German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Newfoundlands. I had nothing against small dogs. I just tended to prefer the big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs I’d known all my life.

But because of my (now ex) husband’s allergies, those big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs weren’t an option. After some research, we ended up with first a Bichon Frise—Harry, who quickly chose my ex as his favorite human on earth—and Kimba, the miniature parti poodle who became my shadow.

Kimba arrived with a serious case of separation anxiety. Or maybe more accurately, everything anxiety. He was constantly between my feet. Noises and sudden movement sent him into a tailspin. He was so terrified in the car, he shook uncontrollably, frothing at the mouth until he looked like a tiny parti-poodle version of Cujo.

In a way, Kimba’s anxieties were a godsend for me. I was dealing with anxiety of my own, and working with Kimba on his issues proved to be therapy for both of us. We spent countless hours on training to alleviate his fears. In time, he learned to accept my comings and goings, and to so thoroughly enjoy car rides, I couldn’t pick up the keys without him going wild with excitement.

I’d say to him each day: Kimba, you are a brave, independent poodle. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

It started as a sort of joke. Who could look at a fluffy little poodle and do anything but marvel at the genetic acrobatics it had taken to create such a creature?

But Kimba took in the words with solemn understanding, and as I watched him grow braver and more adventurous, I wondered if maybe something wolf-like remains in the heart of even the smallest dogs.

Over the years, Kimba earned the nickname The Peace Poodle. He loved everyone he met: people, other dogs, cats, rabbits—you name it. Kids were his favorite. Heck, everyone and everything was his favorite. It was a joke that made it onto our Christmas card just a few weeks ago.

And sure, that level of enthusiasm for life is the hallmark of dogs as a species. One of the things I came to love about Kimba, though, was that he also had a quieter, more serious side.

He seemed downright introspective at times, and he often needed his space in a way that felt more cat-like than canine. He would snuggle up at bed time, but then disappear during the night, choosing to sleep solo on the sofa or in his dog bed by the fire.

Kimba also seemed to instinctively understand how to behave in various environments. He came with me on writing retreats, and was appropriately mellow.

(Well, with the exception of one chicken-chasing incident - which, I maintain, was entirely the fault of the chicken.)

When I was going through my divorce, I brought Kimba to some of my therapy sessions. The first time he came with me, Kimba stood on his hind legs to greet my therapist with a paw-shake. He gave the room a once-over, then hopped up onto the sofa and sat at attention, head tipped, waiting for the session to begin.

The therapist laughed, then said to me, “You do realize that’s not a dog you’ve got there, right? That is an old, old soul in a doggie suit.”

Indeed.

Daily, Kimba would hop onto my lap and I would smooth his ears back and tell him: You are sweetness and light in a poodle suit. Then he would hop back down and go about his business—most of which involved sharing that sweetness and light with the world.

My tendency to rescue animals with disabilities or provide hospice care for those at the end of their lives was something Kimba not only tolerated, but welcomed. He was a natural at being a calming influence. It was almost as if serving other animals was as soothing to Kimba as helping him with his anxiety had alleviated my own.

Only one dog was impervious to Kimba’s charm.

(A few chomps later, we decided Chopper was not best-placed with us.)

When Tiny Tim, the paralyzed Rottweiler, came home with us for his final hours, Kimba lay with me and Tim on the floor all night. He curled up on a pillow by Tiny Tim’s head—which was nearly as big as Kimba’s whole body—and every so often, he would touch his nose to Tim’s. I would hear Tim’s gentle exhale and know Kimba was working his Peace Poodle magic.

He brought so much joy to everyone he met, doing his silly poodle-dance or running in wild circles on the dog beach or tipping his nose at the sunroof and enjoying the wind in his ears on one of our many road trips.

He enthusiastically hiked trails everywhere from New England to California. He reveled in getting filthy, then stoically tolerated being washed in the sink or fully re-poodled at the groomer’s.

Kimba’s sudden passing the morning after Christmas is a thing that will haunt me forever. An open door, a moving car, and a moment’s inattention resulted in a terrible accident with an un-fixable outcome. It is small comfort to me that Kimba was in my arms as he passed.

My brave, independent poodle.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have Kimba back with me. Those who have loved animals understand. They each hold a special place in your heart, yet with some there is just a deeper connection than with others.

Kimba was my little soul-poodle. There is an ache in his absence, and that weird wishful thinking that follows a death: clearly a mistake has been made, and if I can just appeal to the right god, all will be set right again.

As many friends have reminded me lately, the pain I feel right now is not for Kimba. Wherever Kimba is right now, in whatever form, he is not in pain. The sorrow I am experiencing is because his presence in my life was so great, his absence has left a tremendous void.

I used to joke that my primary relationship was with a 12-lb. poodle who loved to spoon.

No joke, really.

Now, as I write this, I have the tiniest dog imaginable at my side.

Mighty Little Max came to me and Kimba just a little over a year ago. His human had passed away and he was failing to thrive. Given his age and overall condition, the animal rescue was going to euthanize him. Kimba and I welcomed Max with the expectation that he might not have long to live.

Ha!

Max rallied big time, becoming Kimba’s enthusiastic little sidekick. I began referring to him as The Doglet Who Lived.

That Max is still here and Kimba is gone seems strangely ironic to me. But that’s how life goes, isn’t it? None of us knows how long we have. The biggest changes in our lives often come down to the smallest moments.

And yet.

Yet...

Mighty Little Max has kept close to my side since Kimba’s passing, and I’ve noticed something.

This 2.7 lb. scrap of a dog has picked up some of Kimba’s mannerisms. Kimba showed him the ropes, and I am certain Max is thriving today because of it. He comes to me each morning after breakfast. I ask him how his meal was, and he high-fives me, putting his tiny paw to my forefinger.

But now, I add: You are a brave, independent chihuahua. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

Mighty Little Max takes in the words with solemn understanding.

And somewhere deep within me, I know Kimba’s sweetness and light go on.

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