Saint Samantha

I bought my seven year old self something last weekend. Something that I didn't need, but she did. I'd really love to tell that kid a lot of things. I can't. She's long gone. But, that seven year old needed something. She needed a dog. Not just any dog. A Saint.

As an aside, my 40something year old self absolutely didn't need another dog. But, here we are.

Perfect place to sleep.

When I was about three my mom dated 'Fun Boyfriend Bill'. Fun Boyfriend Bill gave the three of us a dog. A Saint Bernard. Samantha. The ultimate nanny dog. I can't think of a better way to grease the kids of the lady you are dating than giving them a giant four-legged playmate.

I didn't want her at first. In fact, I sort of freaked out at the sight of her. They put her in my room as I was waking up from a nap, I woke to a giant beast standing there. I said something like, "get that thing out of here!"

We grew on each other. She was the quintessential family dog. Met us when we were walking home from the bus, sprawled on the floor with us, watched over us.

She lasted longer than Fun Boyfriend Bill (although, he returned, thirty five years later). For a few years, she was my best friend.

You'll grow.

Her end was terribly tragic. The seven year old me didn't know. But, the 40something year old me does. The 40something old me is pissed. And, heartbroken.

As I was snuggled on the floor with our new eight week old St. Bernard, a miniature version (at this point) of Sam, I pushed my face into her fuzzy fur and thanked her for finding me and joining our family. I thanked her for healing me.

And then my seven year old self giggled and fell asleep.