Bacardi & Me

After reading the title of this blog, you might think I am going to be writing about my addiction to alcohol, particularly rum. No, actually I'm writing about my dog, Bacardi. She is an 11 years and 9 months old yellow labrador who is the love of my life. She got her name by default the day my parents brought her home. My mom, dad, brother, cousin and his now wife, and I were sitting in our dining room one Friday evening staring at this little creature who was the most adorable thing ever, trying to come up with a name to suit her. Annie! No. Delaney! No. Maggie! No. The name calling continued until my father couldn't take it any longer and decided to get us all drinks. My mother requested a rum and coke and being the alcoholic family that we were, we of course had about 7 different types of rum to choose from. When asked what kind of rum my mother wanted she simply replied, "Bacardi". And at the very moment, as if on cue, our cute little munchkin dog lifted her head and looked up at my mom as if to say, "I like that name. It suits me." And so we named her Bacardi.


I could tell you one disaster story after another of Bacardi's "childhood", but I'm not going to do that. Anyone who has had an animal, in particular, a dog, knows what puppies do. I, however, want to discuss my recent fear of her dying. I moved out East 7 years ago, and Bacardi made her move out East a few short months after that. So while, the family still considers her our dog, I selfishly claim her as my own.


This October, marks the 8 year anniversary of my mother's death. Brain tumors took over her mind and she started to treat Bacardi like her own stuffed animal. Bacardi followed my mother everywhere. Bacardi particularly liked when my mother would have popcorn (which became her daily snack) as she couldn't grasp onto the handful she would try to put in her mouth and inevitably, the majority of the bowl would end up on the floor and then in my dog's mouth. Each night my Dad, Bacardi, and I would make the trek up the steps with my mom to put her into bed. Bacardi would jump up on the bed with my mom, stay there until she fell asleep and would return back downstairs with my Dad and I as if to tell us, "It's ok. She's asleep now." We had a large window in the front of our house, where my dog would rest her head and watch for us whenever anyone would leave the house. The day my mother died, and the funeral home took her away, Bacardi sat at the window all night long, resting her chin on the sill waiting for my mother to come home. She never did come home and to this day I wonder if Bacardi has memories of my mom. They say dogs have no memory, and in a small way, I'm kind of jealous. However, in turn, I hope she didn't forget about her all together.

Bacardi and I have a morning ritual, Monday-Friday I wake up with her and let her outside, she barks at the door to let me know she's ready to come inside and then she runs into the kitchen where her morning breakfast awaits her. On the weekends, it's my turn to sleep in where my husband lets her out and feeds her. When she's done with her breakfast she runs back up the steps, pushes open the door to our room and lays on the floor next to me on the bed. When I finally wake up, she'll sit by the bathroom door while I brush my teeth and then once she sees I'm ready to make my way downstairs, she runs down the steps, sits in our living room where she makes a barking/howling noise as if she is announcing my arrival. She then sits on her hind legs in what we call her sitting pretty position and I scratch her chest until her eyes start to close. I laugh every Saturday and Sunday morning when she does it. It's my favorite part of the weekend.

The other night I watched 'Marley and Me'. I had read the book awhile ago, loved it, and decided to watch it on screen. My husband refused to watch it with me because he knew I would be a crying mess. I secretly think it's because he knew he would cry too and didn't want to in front of me. As I knew I would, I balled my eyes out at the end, watching Marley get old, because it's some of the same aging stages Bacardi is going through. In my blur of tears, I looked down and noticed Bacardi had her chin resting on my leg and those big brown eyes looking up to me saying, "It's okay, mom. Don't cry!" After the movie was over, I sat on the floor petting my big mutt's belly while her head rested in my lap. I whispered to her that she wasn't allowed to die, and I'm pretty certain she agreed.

My heart breaks for her every night as she tries to climb the stairs with me on my way to bed. A few times she'll trip and fall and my heart breaks even more. We try to get her to stay downstairs instead of battling the steps, but I'm certain she would much rather struggle getting up the steps than sleep in the living room without us. There are times when she surprises me and has the energy of a 6 month old puppy. When we walk her, people stop to tell us how beautiful she is, and are shocked when we tell them her age. They say, "but she looks so great!" It's hard to believe she's almost 12. We have been through so much together, death, moves, divorces, marriages, all good times and bad. It doesn't matter what kind of mood I'm in, I know my dog loves me. When I'm outside for 30 seconds getting the mail, she greets me with the same excitement as when I come home from a 10 hour work day. They also say a dog gives unconditional love, and that Bacardi indeed does. To experience that on a daily or even hourly basis is extraordinary. I guess that's one of the reasons why I'm so scared of her dying, I know I'm not going to get that kind of love elsewhere.

I'm going to have to start training my husband the way I trained my dog.