Bella's Story

 Last Thursday, my boyfriend, Chris, and I took my family’s dog, Bella, for a walk. She clipped along up the neighborhood road with a spring in each little step. When we reached the trailhead blanketed in snow, she poked her snout in, then ran jubilantly ahead, the gray hairs on her face hidden by snowflakes. 

“How old is Bella?” Chris asked. I paused, not totally sure myself. 

“I think she’s 13.”

“Really?” He replied. “She’s like an 80 year old puppy!”

I smiled. It was true. She seemed like a puppy, happy and eager as she waited for us slowpokes 100 yards down the trail. Her tongue lolled and there was a sparkle in her eye. 

Bella had not always looked that happy. My mom and I rescued her from a kennel in Northern Utah back in 2007. We showed up expecting to adopt a different dog, a rambunctious husky male we had seen online. Upon arrival, we were disappointed to learn that the dog had been adopted earlier that morning. Being twelve, and the avid dog lover I am, I asked my mom if we could look at the other dogs available - just in case. 

In the second cage down the row there was a skinny, quiet Border Collie mix named Trixie. She peaked up at us looking scared and defeated as the dogs in the neighboring cages barked madly. My mom and I exchanged glances. We silently decided we would give her a chance. 

A couple hours later, we were making the drive back to Heber with two dogs in the back: smelly, scared Trixie and our beloved husky, Sitka. Trixie, we learned, had been in the kennel for three months after being dropped off by her large family who decided they could not take care of multiple dogs with so many kids. Several other families took her home for trial visits, but all had brought her back. 

“You probably won’t be keeping her,” the woman who signed her adoption papers had said. “Feel free to bring her back here if it’s not working out.”

We didn't know why the woman had said that, but we started to understand when Trixie vomited all over the back of our car and got in several scuffles with Sitka all in the course of the two hour drive. Nonetheless, we decided we were committed. We changed Trixie’s name to Bella. I chose the name. I thought it was original, had meaning (Bella means beautiful in many languages), and most of all it was the name of the main character of my favorite book at the time: Twilight. 

Over the next week, we learned Bella was in even worse shape than we thought. When she tried to eat Sitka’s dog food, she didn’t know how to chew it so it fell out of her mouth and onto the floor. She had never learned how to walk up and down stairs so we had to coax her, step by step. She was terrified of my dad (and men in general) and dribbled pee whenever he tried to pet her. We figured she had probably been hit by her last owners because anytime we approached her with a stick-like object she bolted out of the room. We learned she was jealous of Sitka getting attention and we had to give the two dogs identical amounts of pets to avoid snarling and snapping. I wanted to give Bella a chance, but I couldn’t stand when she was mean to my “Baby Boy” Sitka. I would give her love, I decided, but he was my first priority. 

Bella, who was still skittish and insecure, latched onto my mom who provided the most consistent and comforting presence. She would follow her around as she walked through the house. When my mom stood up, Bella stood up. When my mom went up the stairs, Bella went up the stairs. When my mom petted her, Bella would melt under her hand. It was like she had never experienced love before, the way her ears fell back and her doggy lips curled into a smile. Her black and white tail would thump the floor quietly and each breath she would let out these soft whines, barely audible, as if she were crying with joy. When my mom paused her head scratching for a moment, Bella could hardly contain herself. She would lurch up to lick my mom’s face as if to say, “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

There was nothing Bella enjoyed more than loving and being loved. And she seemed to enjoy most things about life. She loved to run, and she was fast. She didn’t quite know how to play with other dogs, but when there was a ball thrown at the dog park, you could count on Bella being the first one there (bringing the ball back was a different story…). When she ran, her ears would lay flat on her head and her tongue would flap out of her mouth and she would fly. Everyone watching knew she was having fun. She went on long runs with my parents in the spring, summer, and fall, and in the winter she raced behind them as they glided down hills on cross-country skis. Being sixteen and my competitive self, I would sometimes take Bella on runs, but didn’t like it when she snuck past me effortlessly while I labored up steep hills. 

To my family’s delight, we also learned Bella loved to swim. The first time we launched a soggy tennis ball into the pond at Willow Creek Park, Bella sprung into the water without hesitation. We laughed, comparing her to a seal as she doggy paddled so fast a wake formed behind her. From then on, we made the Willow Creek pond a necessary stop during the hottest summer days. Sitka would wade up to his knees (more of an anchor than a boat) while Bella swam laps, chasing other swimming dogs. 

Most of the time though, Bella was not the center of attention. She was a quiet pup, content laying on the floor next to my mom. The only time she barked was when a stranger came the door or when we pulled into the dog park. She didn’t ask for much. She seemed to appreciate every pat on the head and every trail run like it was a gift. And it was a gift. 

Bella was a master of just being there. When life as a high schooler felt like it was falling apart, I would hear the clicks of her nails on the wooden floor as she walked into my room to be with me. When there was yelling, Bella and I would make frightened eye contact and retreat somewhere quiet. I petted her and we comforted each other. Sometimes it felt like she was the only one who got it. She paid attention to each of my family member’s emotions and worked subtly, with a powerful impact. I knew she cared because when I was feeling sad, she would meet eyes with me and hold my gaze longingly. Her tail would rhythmically tap the floor. Bella was never one to contain her affection.

When we put Sitka down due to old age in 2018, I was devastated. I felt I had lost the love of my life. We got home from the vet’s office with no dogs in the back of the car. I felt empty— and when we walked inside I saw Bella, our easygoing sweetheart dog who was a wallflower compared to Sitka. I hugged her and wept. And she whined and tried to sit on me in her derpy Bella fashion. 

Over the next two and half years, I was able to love Bella the same way I had loved Sitka. She had the most pure, goofy soul. I rolled around on the floor with her and she flailed her paws around with a lopsided grin, she did not know what to do with all that attention. She and I became perfect running companions when my passion for competition was fading and Bella’s legs were starting to slow down. We would run from home in Park City and weave the colorful trails in the fall. Bella would go ahead, but always wait for me before turning the corner. 

I started to realize that Bella and I were alike in many ways. She was also nervous around new people and was good at existing in the background. Like me, she thrived in the mountains and disliked being a burden on others. Both of us loved deeply. Bella was one of the most reliable friends I had. Without trying, she became the center of our family. I snuggled, scratched and danced with her. My dad fed her jerky pieces and took her on long hikes. And still, she stayed by my mom most of the day, following her around like a shadow. 

This past Thursday, Chris and I took Bella on what would be her last walk. That night, she became sick and suddenly lost her ability to stand. My mom stayed up with her for most of the night, petting her and loving her. She hoped Bella would bounce back, but she didn’t. She only deteriorated further. At 7:15 am, my mom knocked the door of my apartment in Salt Lake, desperate and sad. She told me it was time to say goodbye. 

Two hours later, my mom and I held Bella on the vet’s exam table while she took her last, labored breath. Minutes earlier, we had learned Bella was living with hemangiosarcoma, or spleen cancer. Her tumor had ruptured and was bleeding into her abdomen and heart. There was nothing the vet could do for her. 

My mom and I drove away from the vet’s office, baffled, with no dogs in the back of the car. How could such a seemingly healthy dog be so sick? We wondered. How had she been running like a puppy just 15 hours earlier? Had Bella known she was sick, but didn’t wanted to cause trouble for us? It seemed like something she would do. A class act, up to her last breath. 

I reminded my mom of something she said earlier that week:

“I can’t imagine Bella being old.” She had said. “It seems like she could live forever.” 

Bella’s death was unexpected and tragic, but also beautiful somehow. She managed to bypass doggy diapers and failing hips. We didn’t have to clean up pee from her leaky bladder or make the dreaded decision of when to say when. She spent the last day of her life fetching tennis balls and romping in the snow. Bella lived every day she was alive. She passed easily and quietly, leaving me wishing I had appreciated her sweet soul even more while she was here. 

My dog Bella was the type of friend who was always there when you needed her most. She was kind, steady, and adventurous. She flew under the radar her entire life — loving people and asking nothing in return. She was easy to take for granted. My dog Bella might remind you of someone you know. And if she does, please tell that person (or animal) that you appreciate them. Tell them how much of a difference they have made in your life. Snuggle with your dog and take them on a walk. Don’t give up on someone who seems hopeless, if Bella can have a comeback like she did, so can they. 

To my friends, family, and anyone else who is reading this: thank you for being a part of my life. To Bella, thank you for being you and for being my goofy, loving friend. I’ll love and miss you forever.