We had wanted a dog so badly.

After our first year of hell living together, we decided the one thing we needed most when we finally escaped the south side of the city would be an apartment that allowed dogs.

When we finally made it out that was our first stop - the local animal shelter. We arrived with our landlord’s stamped seal of approval for up to 30 pounds of furry love. After the judgemental retired ladies running the local humane society shot us down - “You live in an apartment and you work during the day? You couldn’t take care of our dogs, they all need special attention and full day care.” - we tried a private rescue group instead.

“Oh, so you need an older dog that sleeps most of the day, right?”

Bingo!

As they took us back to check out the prospective new BFF’s, a cacaphony of barks rose up around us. So many options to choose from, where would we begin?

That’s when we looked down and locked eyes with her.

A small, 26 pound Corgi with big eyes, jogger butt, and the attitude of a queen.

She did not bark. Instead, she gazed adoringly until we came to her level. When they encouraged us to walk her in their backyard space, she eagerly followed and then immediately sat down in my partner’s lap. She made puppy eyes for a solid five minutes. I realized then my partner could never be my soulmate - she’d already called dibs.

When she walked us out of the shelter it took only a few rapid turns to direct her towards our car. She hopped in and that was the beginning of our life with a Corgi.

At about six-and-a-half years old, she had been abandoned at a vet’s office. Apparently this happens with older breeding dogs, who can’t produce puppies anymore and become a financial burden to their owners. She had one broken canine and the pads of her paws had no calluses to protect her during the short ten minute walks she could handle around our block. Most likely she’d spent her life in a kennel, with little exercise or socialization.

She disliked most dogs and small children - but elderly folk and food vendors she adored.

After work we would take longer and longer walks, slowly building her stamina up until she could go on weekend hikes for forty minutes or so. We took her everywhere with us - to our friends' houses, on our road trip to Canada, to our family homes when we visited them over the weekends. She was never left alone save for those few hours a day at the office. Usually she spent those hours plotting ways to forage for food, yet otherwise her devotion to my partner never wavered. I suppose she liked me too.

After saving up for a couple years we scheduled a vet appointment to have her broken tooth pulled; it wasn’t very sharp but we figured it would be better than leaving it in. The vet called the next day but instead of scheduling a dental visit we ended up scheduling surgery - her bloodwork had come back with worrying results, and a follow up ultrasound showed a large malignant tumor on her liver.

So we saved up some more and about six months later we took her in for tumor removal. Maybe we wouldn’t get to take a big vacation for awhile, but hey, we’d bought more years with our dog.

Until about ten months later when we woke up to find her gasping for breath on the floor.

Rushing her to the emergency vet, we found out the tumors had returned - in force. They couldn’t remove them anymore. The best they could do was give her drugs for the pain and antibiotics to fight infection from the cysts inside. The vet couldn’t give us a definite time frame of how long she might live, and we went home leaving her under observation, wondering whether we would need to put her down.

The next day she appeared in the lobby, her bright eyes locking on to us from across the room. With a loud bark she ran, dragging an IV train and a frantic vet tech behind her. They informed us after recovering from surgery she’d raised general hell, bitten two techs, barked until they gave her some sedatives to sleep through the night, and then had been anxiously trying to escape all morning. Until she found us, of course, and rushed to our side. My partner and I looked at each other.

If she wasn’t done fighting, neither were we.

We scheduled a follow up vet appointment, and got set up on a regimen of pain pills with peanut butter and occasional shots / antibiotics for infection. For the next nine months, she moved a bit slower, but she never slowed down. She continued walking, hiking, and taking road trips with us as we enjoyed every extra day spent together. When the walks got too long we bought her a wagon and she eagerly rode it, tongue out and wagging, until she would start tumbling over the side trying to sniff something we passed.

Then finally one day, she refused her peanut butter coated pill.

She’d laid down in the bathroom on the cool tile, her little belly rising slowly up and down. She hadn’t eaten dinner, and when she turned down her favorite bit of the day we knew.

It was time.

We called the vet, and scheduled to bring her in the next day. We knew we couldn’t ask her to suffer any more for our sake, and she’d already fought so hard for us for the last few months. The vets gave us a room, and a few minutes alone after the injection.

Then we left, back to a very, very empty home.

We went back to work. Our daily routine felt empty without the walks, but we held up okay. Until the day we received a card from the vet.

The front of the card had a pawprint.

It took us a few seconds to recognize it was hers.

For some reason, that broke us. We cried our guts out that day, and drank long into the night.

We’ve rescued two other dogs since then, and our lives have always been full of fur and love. Yet she was our first. Our fighter. Our friend. Our forever pup.

The Corgi Queen of Hearts.

He sat in the cage,

perched on the rocks,

looking at me with his beedy eyes.

this non-rodent drove me to read up,

expand my horizons into taxonomy.

My first 'job',

cleaning at the petting zoo,

after school, weekends.

We had no wild tigers,

We had no lions,

We had no elephants.

the foxes, racoons , the badger,

were the fiercest in the collection.

Somehow the Hyrax did it for me.

I called him Harry.

unimaginative creation ,

of an early adolescent.

Harry liked to sit and look,

he liked boiled eggs,

and greens,

donated from the wholesale market.

Harry did not shy away,

from visitors.

Hyraxes are no mice,

related to the elephant,

showing their regal lineage,

as the commoners came to show homage,

and bring torment to the baby ducks.

Harry stood stoic, as the day moved, cooling himself in his shaded spot,

nothing that grew in the enclosure,

was safe from this omnivore.

his eyes were deep, knowing.

he looked on, taking in this garden,

in which we live.

perhaps a higher incarnation,

than us apes.

He escsped twice,

mind-controlling, surly,

but pitied us , and returned.

on the third time, as I cleaned the cage,

removing his little 'M&Ms',

he walked out,

not running, mesmerized I was,

by the perfection.

Again, he did not venture far.

He stood by the monkeys,

their spherical cage,

as if contemplating the inequality of his residance.

I approached softly, with intent,

but there was nothing to catch,

nothing of the spirit,

only dead flesh.

harry was gaizing blankly at the exhibit,

trying to see the world as a visitor,

he moved no more.

His space, his cage was eventually taken up by a phesant,

who loathed me,

and was far lesser in nobility.

d