Despite all his sweetness, Comet has never been a snuggly dog. So on that night in March when he nuzzles his head against me on the couch, I smile and boop his nose and rub his ears and relish in the moment. He is, after all, thirteen years old, and I know our time is limited.

As with most things in life, I had no idea exactly how limited these moments would be. Within a month, Comet has stopped eating. There are other messy warning signs that something is wrong, so my husband and I get him to the vet around the same time as our local government enforces mandatory lockdowns in an effort to curb the virus that is knocking on our doors. It is nerve-wracking enough worrying about your fur baby, but waiting in the car while the masked vets and techs do their work makes it even more upsetting. The global pandemic has just begun to creep into our neighborhoods, schools, and offices. When everything in our world has been turned upside down, we relish the familiar, comforting connection with our dog, but now even that hangs in the balance. 

While the vet declares Comet’s outward appearance as positive, we wait twenty-four hours for bloodwork that will eventually break our hearts – our boy’s kidneys are failing, and it’s only a matter of time.

We decide to let Comet go in his own bed, in our own house, and when the kindhearted woman arrives with her black bag and her vials and syringes, the end is swift and sad and coated in unmeasurable and bewildering planes of pain and relief. 

The two of us stumble through the next several weeks. Our routines are not only devoid of friends, of swimming, and libraries and coffee dates, but without the delightful ball of fur that made our lives complete for over a decade.

Spring arrives with its weak sunlight, green buds, and chirping birds, but our world is dead and cold. Our country and our home is cloaked in a gray cloud of death and there is no end in sight.

When my husband suggests visiting a shelter or searching online for a new dog to lift our spirits, I feel only trepidation and guilt. It is too soon to bring another pet into our home or our hearts, and how would we manage such a thing while the state is locked down? Our search begins online, and when I see her face, my heart lifts ever so slightly. 

She is ironically named Kitty, her namesake telling of the four lane highway in Texas where her foster mom discovered her roaming, emaciated and lactating, months before. Now that she is healthy and spayed and ready for her forever home, we apply to adopt her and cling to the only potential light in our lives in the midst of a global crisis and personal heartbreak.

After a warm and lengthy conversation with her foster mom, we are informed that she would be thrilled to let us adopt her sweet Miss Kitty, but my joy is short-lived and laced with anxiety. The dog must be moved from San Antonio, Texas to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania while strict travel restrictions are still in place. Logistics could take weeks or months. I’ve also never adopted a dog I hadn’t had a chance to bond with at a shelter, and I am still reeling over the loss of Comet. No dog will ever compare to his sweet, quirky nature and I am worried that the hole in my heart is too large to ever fully heal. 

The weeks drag by as we wait for updates on Kitty’s transport. I try to occupy my mind and emotions by reading and watching movies and by playing board games and darts with my husband, but the house is empty and quiet and the news, no matter how we try to avoid it, speaks of only death and despair in the wake of COVID-19.

It seems like a miracle when we finally get the word of her arrival date. We are to meet the caravan of volunteers at a nearby Target to sign paperwork and meet Miss Kitty to bring her home. I finally allow myself to feel excited now that we have a concrete date, and emotions are running high when that blue van pulls into the last row of parking spaces in a shopping center outside of Pittsburgh. 

Miss Kitty is so frightened she is shaking uncontrollably, and we offer her a bowl of fresh water, which she drinks without hesitation. This simple gesture is enough for us to greet her for the first time, scratching her ears and rubbing her chest and promising that she is safe and finally home. I burst into tears within minutes, overwhelmed by the waves of emotion I’ve been navigating these past eight weeks.

It does not take us long to discover that our new companion has separation anxiety. To help her through the transition, I decide to come home from work on my lunch break. Never before has my twelve minute commute been so convenient.

During those first few weeks, I rush home at noon, frantically wondering if she’s had an accident or gnawed on the furniture or tried to break through the baby gate blocking the stairs. She manages to get her paws and teeth on a couple of DVDs and the zippers on the sofa pillows, but other than that she does pretty well. I coax her out into the backyard, where she refuses to leave the porch unless I do so as well. She requires endless patience and heaps of positive reinforcement for good behavior as I work to get her familiar with our schedule. I tell her repeatedly, in exquisite detail, that she has found her forever home and that her new mommy and daddy will always come back to her.

Slowly, she begins to trust us and her personality starts to emerge.

Though pools and amusement parks remained closed as the pandemic numbers rise, summer arrives in full force. This Texas-born doggo loves the heat and even the dry, straw-like grass of western Pennsylvania. She enjoys running and rolling on the yellowish green lawn, turning on her back to expose her pink and black speckled belly so she can soak up the sun and humidity while I sit on the porch and polish off a turkey sandwich. As Kitty’s trepidation towards her new home and new family beings to ease, I too realize that the iron grip of grief and anxiety has slowly begun to dissipate from deep inside my chest.

When the heat of the season becomes too oppressive, we find our way back into the air conditioning after Kitty does her business. I sit at the dining room table, listening to oldies from the radio that keeps her company during the day and scratching her ears – both the black one and the white one – as she sits at my feet and I pretend to enjoy my frozen meal.

Kitty eventually learns to love her yard, just as the world is learning to walk the delicate balance between reopening businesses and taking proper safety precautions. Soon Kitty is able to leave the porch on her own without having to wait for me. I stand and observe while she sniffs and squats, and giggle as she watches birds perching on the peak of the garage or the wooden fence. I can tell she is most happy when she breaks into a full-force gallop, running the length of our small suburban patch of land, circling the lone tree and cluster of patio furniture, spraying blades of grass and pausing occasionally to dig a hole beneath the evergreen’s boughs. 

Energy expended, she quickly returns to my side on the stoop, panting and smiling that doggy grin of hers, and plops down next to me as I finish my yogurt. She rarely begs, but always, always, leans against my side, pressing her cookies-and-cream ear against my pierced one and snuggling until it’s time for me to head back into the fray of my office job, which has been made more hectic by the COVID regulations put in place.

My lunchtime dates with Miss Kitty soon become the bright spots in my days that seem to run together. Without aqua Zumba or dinner with friends or wedding showers or shopping plans, I take an immeasurable amount of comfort in looking forward to seeing her grateful face every day at lunch time, and again at the end of my shift. 

Kitty doesn’t know that the world is in chaos, that a deadly virus has gripped the planet, or that political arguments have taken on a whole new meaning. She doesn’t know that I have to wear a mask all day at work or that obtaining basic toiletries has become something like a twisted game show. All she knows is that she has been saved by people who love her. She knows she has a warm, comfortable home and her own patch of grass where she can run, dig, play, and lounge til her puppy heart is content. 

And while I focus on this furry light in my life amid a sea of unprecedented chaos, I can only hope that she has some inkling that she’s saved me too.

– Stacy Alderman

Note: This piece was previously published by the now-defunct Macro Magazine in 2021.

Author’s Note: This essay is a reflection of navigating the complicated emotions of losing one dog and adopting another one in the early days of the pandemic.