The Pug Who Refused to Give Up

When my kids were younger, we were a pug family.

We loved those snorty, smooshy-faced, stubborn little comedians.

One afternoon, my stepson came home and said a friend had a pug they didn't want anymore.

They were planning to take him to the shelter.

Could we take him?

I didn't even think about it.

"Absolutely. Bring him over."

A little while later, they pulled into the driveway.

The moment they opened the car door...

I could smell the ear infections.

That's how bad they were.

His nails had grown so long they were beginning to curl.

His coat was greasy.

He smelled awful.

And on the back of his neck was a lump the size of a golf ball.

The couple casually explained that they'd gotten him to breed.

"He just wasn't into it."

I remember thinking...

"Well, buddy...I don't think I'd be into it either."

I thanked them.

Closed the door.

Handed him to my son.

"Please give this poor boy a bath."

That was the day I met Bandit.

I didn't know it then...

But I had just met my soul dog.

The next day, we went to the veterinarian.

Double ear infections.

One ear was almost completely closed.

The lump?

Cancer.

We removed it.

Two thousand dollars later, Bandit came home.

Little did I know that surgery would become a familiar part of our lives.

Every year or so, another lump would appear.

Back to surgery we'd go.

Nine surgeries altogether.

The wonderful thing about pugs is...

They're basically born with extra skin.

Every surgery removed another wrinkle.

By surgery number nine, Bandit looked years younger.

Honestly...

There are a few Hollywood celebrities who would pay good money for that kind of facelift.

Bandit, on the other hand, earned his the hard way.

When Bandit first came home, he didn't trust anyone.

He kept to himself.

He wasn't interested in becoming part of the family.

Except...

For me.

Little by little, he became my shadow.

My gardening buddy.

Every day he'd follow me outside, find the warmest patch of sunshine, and settle in while I worked in the garden.

We spent countless quiet hours together.

No big conversations.

No grand adventures.

Just a woman planting flowers...

and one very determined little pug soaking up the sunshine.

Bandit lived to be eighteen years old.

He left this world exactly the way he lived in it...

Loved.

What Bandit Taught Me

Looking back, I don't think I was the only one rescuing Bandit.

I think we were healing each other.

He slowly learned that people could be kind.

And I slowly learned what perseverance really looks like.

Before Bandit, I think I associated perseverance with effort.

Work harder.

Fight.

Push through.

Don't quit.

Bandit showed me something different.

His perseverance wasn't loud.

It wasn't heroic.

He wasn't trying to prove how tough he was.

He simply kept meeting the life in front of him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Another lump appeared.

We dealt with it.

Another surgery.

He recovered.

And when the hard part was over?

He went back outside and found a patch of sunshine.

There was something beautifully uncomplicated about the way he lived.

Bandit never seemed to waste today's sunshine worrying about tomorrow's surgery.

That doesn't mean his life was easy.

It means the difficult parts weren't all of his life.

There were surgeries.

And there were gardens.

There was cancer.

And there was sunshine.

There were difficult beginnings.

And there were years of being deeply loved.

All of it belonged.

I think humans sometimes have a harder time with that.

We can become so consumed by what's wrong that we miss what's still right.

We worry about what might happen tomorrow while something beautiful is sitting right beside us today.

Bandit taught me that perseverance doesn't always mean fighting harder.

Sometimes perseverance is simply waking up...

accepting the day you've been given...

and finding the warmest patch of sunshine.

Even now, when I'm working in the garden, there are moments when I think of my little Bubba.

And I smile.

Because eighteen years and nine surgeries later, I'm not surprised that the strongest memories aren't of cancer or veterinarians or recovery.

They're of us together.

A woman planting flowers...

and her little pug lying nearby in the sun.

That's what love preserved.

Not the hardest days.

The ordinary ones.

And maybe that's another thing Bandit taught me:

A difficult chapter doesn't have to become the whole story.

You May Be Wondering...

How do our animal companions continue to influence our lives after they're gone?

I think they become part of us.

Sometimes we remember something funny they did.

Sometimes we find ourselves repeating a routine we once shared.

Sometimes we sense their presence.

And sometimes we realize that something they taught us years ago has quietly become part of how we live.

I don't know that we have to define exactly what that continuing connection means.

I only know that love doesn't suddenly become meaningless because a physical life ends.

Bandit's body isn't lying in the garden beside me anymore.

But what we shared there still lives in me.

The patience.

The companionship.

The perseverance.

The appreciation for an ordinary sunny afternoon.

And, of course, the knowledge that nine facelifts really can take years off a pug.

The love we share with our animal companions doesn't end. Their presence simply takes a different form.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.