The Goodest of Boys

It was 2013. Helena had just turned 7; Sam was turning 5. They had been begging me for a dog for an entire year, and I had promised Helena a dog for her birthday. But I kept putting it off, telling the kids that we would get a dog, just as soon as I had my feet under me and felt like I could manage taking care of one more thing.

Finally, when fall started to move in, I started nosing around rescue groups for Yorkies and Bostons. I knew I wanted a small dog, and I knew it had to be a rescue. But I hadn’t found anything yet that was close by or charged a fee that I could possibly afford. 

And then one night I opened Facebook, and the first post I saw was from a high school acquaintance. I don’t remember exactly what it said, but the gist of it was: “Yorkie, free to a good home. I have a friend that is looking for a good home that will take good care of him and clean him up.” The post had been up for 2 minutes. 

I stared at it. I had a small panic attack. Was this the opportunity? But was I ready? Could I really take care of another creature? And what does “clean him up” even mean? But what if someone else got to him first?!

So I messaged her. Why was her friend giving her dog away? What was wrong with him? Was he really free? What was the catch? And was I the first one to contact her??

She responded immediately: her friend just couldn’t take care of him, he was a great dog, he didn’t have papers, but he was trained and knew his name and just needed a good home. I was first.

We drove up to Clare to meet him the next day. 

And we took him home with us.

His name had been Tommy, but we decided to rename him Dobby. It was close enough to Tommy, so he wouldn’t be confused, and it seemed like the perfect name for such a perfect little guy. He was so bouncy and so eager and so friendly and so terrified; we were in love with him before we even pulled into our driveway.

We took him into the house, and he immediately peed on our couch. 

And he’s been our house elf ever since that day. 

He was so full of fleas, he looked like he had mange. He wasn’t fixed, and it was almost impossible to get him into a vet because we didn’t have any papers or vaccination records. But many phone calls and vet visits later, he was cleaned up, and had fully adjusted to his new life and new home. And he was the best dog. He was never aggressive and he never barked; he just wanted belly rubs. We joked that we’d never get robbed because any robber entering the house would immediately fall in love with Dobby and start playing fetch.

Because Dobby LOVED fetch. He would fetch for hours. He would fetch until he couldn’t breathe. If you came to visit, he would bring you a ball, or a rope, or an old sock, or a random stuffed animal and wait for you to throw it. He loved walks, and he loved belly rubs, he loved smelly snacks, and he loved Taco Bell, which he stole from us if we ever accidentally left it unattended. Dobby loved with a passion. He loved hard.

He didn’t bark for at least a year; he never came up onto the furniture or the bed until he was invited. But once he realized he was allowed on the bed, he’d burrow under the comforter all the way down to our knees, a little fuzzy, snoring heater. 

When my nephew was a baby, just crawling, he started edging towards Dobby. My sister was nervous, but I told her to trust me and watch. Sure enough, Dobby managed to show submission to a baby, and he rolled over and got belly rubs. 

We never knew how old he was; we assumed he was maybe 5 when we got him, because of how bad his teeth were. So it made sense that 10 years later he started to lose his hearing. A year after that he ate two brats out of the trash and tried to die from pancreatitis. A couple of years after that, he developed sundowners. His walks weren’t quite as long; his knees were getting stiff; we didn’t let babies crawl over to him any more. But he still loved belly rubs, and he still played fetch with a passion.

Even down to his very last days, that spark of Dobby was still there. 

When it was time to let him go, I called my daughter and told her. Did she want to come home? But she’d come home just a few weeks earlier and had already said her goodbyes. She decided to stay at college, but she asked: Would it be okay if we put an old t-shirt or something next to him that smelled like her? 

I could do one better. I pulled the ratty old quilt off her bed, and folded it up under Dobby. That quilt became his bed for his last 24 hours. 

He was surrounded by the things he loved and the people he loved, and we loved him so hard. He was the best impulse decision I ever made; he had made our family complete for 12 amazing years.

And then, finally, it was time.

Sam gave him a sock.

Dobby is free.