From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

November 10, 2022

Jewel

The first time I saw her, she was a three month old puppy, lying, head erect, amid dropped pears in the yellow September sun. She was under the tree in my friend Bonnie’s front yard.

“There’s a puppy outside,” I said to Bonnie as I came in. “Yes,” she said, ” I put her out there because it’s quiet, and away from the others. She has a broken back.”

Bonnie finished the story, explaining that a neighbor boy had climbed the fence to see the puppies, and fallen in, landing on this one’s back. He was okay, but the little puppy couldn’t walk. She would recover, the vet said, but the swelling would take time to go down.

We visited through the afternoon, went to see Jenna and all her bouncing puppies, saw Bonnie’s kids, and then it was time to go. “Do you think you could take the puppy home to your house till she gets better? It’s quieter there” It certainly was. “Sure,” I said. “You’ll get attached,” she warned. “No I won’t,” was my cocky answer.

So we went out front, and I scooped up the little thing from among the pears with all the yellow jackets on them. “What’s her name?” “Jewel,” Bonnie said, “because she is.”

Jewel lay on the seat beside me in the truck. She sat close. We got home, and I fixed a blanket on the floor for her. She really couldn’t stand at all. To go out, I’d just hold her up and she did what she had to do. So I put her on the couch with me. She snuggled.

Suddenly, I knew I was hooked. I called Bonnie. “I was wrong,” I said. “I got attached.” She laughed. “I knew you would!” “Can I keep her?” :”Sure,” she said. And that was the beginning.

Jewel never had an accident in the house. I took her everywhere. She slept on the bed with me. Her hair was marvel; she was a Golden Retriever with a soft, wavy coat, not thick, sleek and shiny, from her black perfect nose to the tip of her plumed tail. If you can imagine a deep orange pumpkin mixed with a daffodil, you’ll have her color. If you’ve ever seen a Touch Me Not, also called Jewelweed, her hair was an exact match for the blossom.

I was in a bad way at that time. My naivete and desire to help everybody had gotten me in over my head. A “friend” I had met at work had singled me out. I didn’t realize she was a sexual predator with a long string of conquests. She told me of her hideous childhood, abused by her father and grandfather. She just wanted a friend, to feel safe, she said. And I threw my heart and soul into this quest for her healing. I told her about Jesus; I didn’t know I was getting emeshed until I was–but I was straight, and innocent. She was on a stealthy campaign to make me otherwise. In the end, it didn’t work. There was a lot emotional pain, stupidity, realization, and breaking of bad patterns, until I got free and sent her packing. There are some people who only want what they want, and not what’s good and true.

But Jewel. I had, in her, something that broke the trap; a little dog whose heart was pure love, that I could love without measure. The obsession with the other began to crack.

And Jewel healed. In about two weeks after coming home, she started standing. Then she tottered. Next, she walked. Her legs got stronger, and she began to run. It’s just a dirt road here, quiet, surrounded by woods; she could go anywhere, and go she did. It was like she’d been shot from a catapult. Long legs stretching, she streaked through the trees, leaping, bounding through the brook and back to me again, face licking, she’d put her paws on my shoulders and just be happy.

She loved rocks. She’d go into the brook and start prying them out, making the most goshawful caterwauling, and then come back triumphant, with one in her mouth. There was a pile in the living room. So, I put them in my old doll cradle; Jewel’s toybox.

When she was over a year old, we got Baron, and that’s the next story. Baron died when Jewel was nine.

Jewel lived a very happy life, and was a joy every single day for ten years.

The summer we rebuilt the house, I noticed she was out of breath a lot. There was a bone on her back ankle that was knarly. “Old” I thought, and “arthritis.” She stayed on the Island with me and slept in the tent, the cats going in and out all night. She loved the cats. They loved her. We’d walk down the road and they’d all three come. But she was limping. And the last week in August, suddenly it was more. The bone knot grew. She was obviously in excruciating pain.

I put her in the truck. We drove, it was hot, I stopped to give her water, but she didn’t want it. We got to the vet’s and she limped inside. It was empty, and they took her right away. The X-rays came back. “Cancer,” said the vet. “This kind starts in the lungs and goes to the bones.” She looked at Jewel. “That’s a tough little dog to walk in here like that.” Did I want chemo? No, I did not. Jewel was not going to suffer one minute longer.

They gave me a few minutes with her; she lay on her side, panting, hurting. “You saved my life, you know.” My sanity, my soul, my heart from destruction. She knew. Baron. She missed Baron. “Do you want to go see Baron?” The tail thumped. And thumped. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll send you to see Baron.”

The vet came in. Jewel was gone to see Baron in seconds.

The vet techs came in. They had a stretcher. They carried her out to the truck, and they actually thought they were going to put her in the truck bed. “No. She’ll go up front with me.” I picked her up, all 80 pounds, and put her firmly on the seat where she always sat. I think they were horrified, but I didn’t care. She was going home with me.

My neighbor, who had Jewel’s sister, helped me bury her. We did it on their land, because mine is too rocky by the brook to dig anywhere. It was me, Jane, her five strapping children and Bob, a friend of theirs in his 80’s, digging a hole. They loved her too. We laid her in, covered her up, and prayed. I put a big quartz rock over her. She would have loved it.

Later, I planted Jewelweed, just the color of her hair. It comes up every year.