Sam's Memory Day

October 26th is Sam's Memory Day. I've decided to call it her Memory Day because I want to focus on what we remember about her, not that it's the anniversary of our first day ever going home without her.

I have countless photos by which to remember Sam, yet still I wish I'd taken more videos of her. I especially wish I had a video of her barking. One of the more difficult and valuable lessons she taught me as her guardian and as a trainer was how to address her barking.

When I say barking, I don’t mean the deep woofs of a dog determined to tell the Amazon delivery person to “F right off, thank you very much.” Sam had a habit of standing and barking non stop directly at us for many long minutes, during which we could do nothing to persuade her to desist. This would usually happen when her needs hadn't been adequately met that day. She didn't know how else to communicate what she needed. Being subjected to incessant loud, sharp barking for several minutes would hurt my ears, throw me into sensory overload, and turn me into a not-nice version of myself. I reacted in ways of which I'm not proud. Just as Sam didn't know how else to communicate her needs, I felt I didn't know how to stop or prevent the barking.

Over time I learned, piece by piece, how to better address Sam's needs and teach her behaviors other than barking that she could do to get our attention. It took more than changing her behavior, though. I had to change my own, too. I had to be consistent in prioritizing her needs, and truly responding to her when she asked for attention in quieter ways. I had to follow through with putting down my phone or book and Actually Give Her Attention. I learned to enjoy those moments of connection, and our relationship deepened.

So, I wish I had a video of her barking, in that desperate way with her eyes slightly unfocused, her stance both resolute and fragile. Even though it was painfully loud and stressful for everyone, I wish I could hear it again; yes, because I miss her and crave any remnant of her that I can find, but also because I have so much more documentation of the "after." I captured many moments of peace, of her resting on her mat or her chin pressing into my thigh. I actually do want to remember the "before" we were our better selves, but this time without the shame that I had felt about my actions while she was still alive. Now I know that this shame only inhibited growth.

One theme of Sam's life with us is that we grew so much together. She helped me be an improved version of myself, someone who not only learned how to do better by her but also how to do better by me. She taught me to live more in the moment and accept the instances of ugliness without shame, knowing that they would always be followed up with forgiveness and a chance to try again.
​
Sam taught me that life with a dog requires training, yes, but that training goes both ways. I had just as much to learn from her as she did from me. Her lessons for me carry on in the bond between us which cannot be severed simply by the process of biological death.