Dear Nita, it’s me, Leasha….

I was thinking about you today. I was re-playing in my head the events that took place to bring one cream colored Pekingese to us. He has become a beautiful mature boy, at my heels, confident, and knowing exactly where he belongs. This is a far cry from when he first came….

I know you were 85 years old when you and your husband, 87, bought a puppy. I know you had lost your Pekingese and your heart was hurting. When you have everything you need to live your life, there’s one thing our hearts miss and that’s the love of a dog. Oh and if it’s a Pekingese! There is no greater love! I get it. Then in a short span of three years, you lost your husband. I received a call from one of our mutual friends. She told me about you. She told me how she knew you, the story of your puppy, the loss of your husband and she told me you had been to the doctor. The doctor gave you a grim diagnosis. He said your life now was unpredictable at best. In your words, you were a ticking time bomb. Your heart wasn’t stable. You lived alone with your dog. Your children didn’t visit often. They certainly didn’t like your dog, Ricochet. The lady who helped you and cleaned for you didn’t like Ricochet. It seemed you were the only person who did. And who did Ricochet like? You. Only you. He couldn’t even tolerate anyone else in “his” house. He couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being around you. He was your dog. He was interested in no one and nothing else.

Many people your age do not do what you did. They don’t have the courage or the selflessness. You knew your time could be limited. You knew you had a five-year-old dog that was very likely going to outlive you. You made the call to have us take him away to protect his future if something were to happen to you. Our friend said to me, “If you don’t want to mess with this, I totally understand.”

My response to her was, “Who will take him? Her grown children hate him. What will happen to him if we don’t take him? It’s not his fault he is in a situation. We will take him. We have no choice; he has no options.” Ricochet barked like a banshee at everyone and everything. In all honesty, he was a dreadful little dog. It was no surprise no one liked him.

You and our friend set up the heist. You went to the back bedroom, and she drove up, came into your house and snatched Ricochet. She put him in her car and drove away. That was the plan. That was the plan because it was too painful for you to allow her to take him, for you to say “Good-bye” to him. For him to see you in the window as he was taken away. Even though we didn’t know you then, the entire situation was terribly upsetting for us and we weren’t even there! We were heartbroken for you and sad for Ricochet. Our friend brought him all the way to our house. She said it was terrible, like she abducted Nita’s family. We all agreed. That’s exactly what happened. She swooped in and took someone’s dog. I had no say in any of it, other than we would take him and make sure he was safe.

Ricochet was safe. He was safe and depressed. I’ve never in all of my years, ever saw a dog so sad. He knew he was stolen. He knew he was taken from his mama. For weeks on end, he would sit in the corner. He wasn’t interested in food, toys, dogs, or us. He gave me a look like, “I don’t know who you are lady, but you better take me back to my mama.” The rest of the story wasn’t planned. It wasn’t how any of us thought it would go.

He was a striking, stocky, creamy white Pekingese. His coat needed a little help. I asked what he usually ate. As I found out, you cooked for him every day. You cooked him chicken, poured him a cup of milk and made him pound cake. Everyday. That explains the weird coat, and also gave him his new name of Harvey Milk. We laughed about how Harvey would not be eating like the little king he thought he was. He would learn to survive on dog food, preferably fish flavor for his coat and he would drink water. His coat turned absolutely thick and beautiful. His tear stains went away and his attitude slowly started changing. Harvey was learning, ever so slowly, how to be a dog. The vet referred to him as “Grumpy Cat.” His facial expression never changed, but he was watching his fellow dog cousins at the sanctuary. He was running around in the yard, going to the pool, starting to follow “Mommy Person” around. He looked at the “Daddy Person” adoringly. He learned going for a ride was the most awesome part of life. He learned what horses and donkeys were. He learned everything on the planet was just not worth barking at like he used to think (just horses, donkeys and big dogs). He learned people can be nice and pet him. He learned sometimes being a dog wasn’t so bad.

As time went on, you and I talked. You wanted to know how he was. You were spry for 90. You would text me and ask about him. You told me you understood he would be adopted out. You knew those were the rules when we took him. You knew you might lose contact with him. I agreed, yes if he was adoptable, then he would be adopted out. He was young and healthy. He didn’t need us at the sanctuary. He needed a family of his own.

While we were all debating and contemplating, we would set up times to come visit you. You wanted to see him. How could I say no? You were still living in your house, over an hour away. Dave and I would load up Harvey and his new friends and bring them to see you. We would come to your house; Harvey would come bounding through the door! We would all have a glass of tea while you talked to Harvey and held Moe, Frong, Fry, and Meatwad. You would comment on how beautiful JenaSota and Isha were (of course!). We made many trips to your house, bringing whomever we had. We lost Moe and Meatwad during the time we visited you. Morrie was always there to brighten your day, even though he was too heavy for you to lift and hold in your lap! Harvey would run around like a fool and jump in your lap until it was time to go. He always seemed to know he wasn’t staying there anymore.

As age moved in on you, you went to an apartment in assisted living. Well, of course, where did we show up? We brought dogs against the rules and you held the door open for everyone to run down the hall of the apartments! Harvey was the first in, last out. He knew he was going to see his mama! We watched your health deteriorate. We talked about Harvey. We talked about him staying with us. I made you a promise. I told you I would never let Harvey go. He was home with us. He would never go up for adoption.

Soon you had to have your foot amputated, which won you a room in the nursing home. You were positive. You said the food was terrible but everyone was nice to you. Where were we? We were right there, with five dogs in a stroller, heading down the hallway of the nursing home. “Hi, we are here to see Nita.” I would say and act like bringing five dogs was an everyday occurrence. Harvey was always at the bow of the ship, watching down the hall. He seemed to know when we pulled in, we were there to see his mama.

We would come and you would be asleep. I remember one time, we came I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want you to miss seeing Harvey either. So I picked up Harvey and held him at your bedside, “Nita. Nita. Can you wake up for us?” You opened your eyes and that was the first time I had ever witnessed joy bursting out of someone’s heart and into the room. You started crying when you saw that little dog at your bedside, ready to be held. I always did my best to hold it together. I would keep my tears to myself until we got back in the truck to head home. You never cared how weak you were, how sore you were, you wanted nothing more than to hold him. He was never scared. He knew he was there to see you. He knew he needed to tell you he was ok and living a good life. Morrie sat on the bed and talked to you. Marcus snuggled up against you. Harvey, being the youngest of every group we brought, would visit then run around your room, then visit more. When it was time for us to load up and head home, he would run to you as if to say, “I’ll see you next time mama!” He was funny. He didn’t want to stay. When we’d get up to leave he was at our feet, but he knew he’d be back. On the way out, we’d visit the rooms down the hall and each person sitting out in the hall. Harvey was always a perfect gentleman, letting everyone pet him on the head and scuff his ears.

We brought you flowers and framed pictures of Harvey at each place you lived. The house, the apartment and then the nursing home. Your daughter called us and told us you had been sent to the heart hospital in Little Rock and they amputated your other foot. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. You were 93. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem fair. We all knew what your wishes were by now. We brought you new framed pictures of Harvey while you were in the heart hospital. You were too drugged to talk but the smile spread across your face and your eyes lit up when we showed you the pictures of Harvey. You knew exactly who the dog was. I worried that would be the last time we saw you. I never wanted Harvey to see you where you couldn’t kiss him and hold him. That was the mama he knew. As I feared, within the month, we had gotten the call an infection was spreading through your body. We couldn’t come see you and of course they would never let Harvey through the door. Your daughter called me a few days later, letting us know you had passed away.

As the funeral arrangements were made, we stayed in touch with your daughter. We attended the funeral, with side-ways glances and several staring down their noses at us, including the preacher. He said, “Oh I never knew Nita had a dog.” Hmmmm. We brought a dog to a funeral. Did they think we wouldn’t? Ricochet was Nita’s dog. He belonged there. He was almost like a child. We walked in and took our seats at the back. He panted and panted. I got up and took him to the bathroom. I gave him water and told him to settle down, we were just visiting. When we came out of the bathroom, your family was lined up at the double doors, waiting to go into your service. Your daughter, turned to Harvey, reached for his head and said, “Ricochet! Who’s a good boy!” and looked at me and thanked me for coming. We sat in the back, with our dog on the pew. A beautiful service. Again, I found myself fighting the tears. When it was over, the noses started coming down around us. People made a point to come up to us. Almost everyone asked us, “Is this Nita’s dog? Is it Ricochet? He used to be there when we’d play cards. She loved him. Oh and he’d bark and bark and bark.” As each person came up to us, Harvey sat still in my arms. He was watching each person, listening intently to their voices as if he knew what they were saying.

As we were waiting to leave, they loaded up your casket in the hearse. I’ll never forget it. Never. Harvey and I were at the door. He watched every move. He watched that sky blue casket get loaded into the car. He was so still. So quiet. So attentive. I lost it. The tears came (like they are now). I watched him watch his mama leave for the last time. I know you saw it too. I know your arms were around that little dog for the final time. He knew what was happening. He knew I was his mama now.

Since then, people, including my own mother, have asked me, “Why isn’t Harvey up for adoption? You can let him go now. You should adopt him out. He’s young. What’s wrong with him?” What’s wrong with him they ask me? Not a thing. He’s perfect and he’s belongs with us. He was a gift from you, Nita. I made you a promise and I meant it. Harvey has come to love his life with us. He is the official “Tour Guide” of the Walter Wagon. He goes for rides. He is the first one in the car. He isn’t scared. He is confident. He knows he is loved. He knows he is exactly where he should be.

Thank you for loving him and for trusting us. Our hearts are eternally grateful.

Leasha