In Loving Memory

The morning of September 11th, 
while the nation marked 20 years since 9/11, 

A hero died in my arms.

My hero.

My Archer.

It might sound possessive to call him “my Archer,”
but those who knew him can attest that he was, indeed,
mine.

Because he chose to be.
Of all the people in the world, Archer . . . chose me. 
Why? I’ll never know. 
But I do know that I will be grateful he did 
until the day my own breath stops.

If A Tree Falls In The Forest. . .

It’s been over a month since Archer passed away and I’m still having difficulty writing this. Not for a lack of words. But because saying it makes it that much more real. 

If your best friend, working partner, and the biggest, furriest part of your life dies. . . 

And the rest of the world doesn’t notice . . . 

Does that mean it’s not true? 

I know he’s gone. I was right there, holding him, when he went. But the part of me that doesn’t want to let go keeps waiting for him to peek his head around the corner of the couch again, asking me if I want to play. I keep listening for the shuffling sound of his paws on the floor. I continue to reach my hand out from the covers each morning, hoping to find his soft ears and excitement waiting for me. 

To know Archer was to know unconditional love, loyalty, and joy. 

Archer was such a wonderful being. He wasn’t just big. He was truly larger than life. And he was so FULL of life!

He was forever wanting to play, dancing and hopping around to try and lure me into chasing him when he had a toy or a stick. He was such a CHARACTER! So. Much. Personality.  

Archer was a gift. A blessing. A much needed pain in the ass. 

He played such an integral role in my healing that the two cannot be separated from each other. 

Archer challenged me. He asked me to face my fears. . . and then stood firmly beside me while I did. 

I was such a wreck for so many years. . . and Archer loved me anyway. He kept me going. 

Archer was the beating heart of my life. He was my literal reason for getting out of bed each day. He was my purpose. My link to the outdoors. My push when I didn’t want to. 

Archer was my accountability. My metronome. Counting time for me. Keeping me on task. Connecting me to fresh air and nature and life outside myself. He was my source of personal responsibility. Taking care of him was synonymous with taking care of me. 

Archer was my conscience. The shining light that called me out on my poor behavior in the most obnoxiously gentle way. Sometimes I resented him for asking me do what was difficult for me. But he never held my moods or my failings against me. 

Archer forgave me for every bad day, every ugly moment, every temper tantrum, every raging episode, every anxiety attack. He forgave willingly. And without hesitation. Always. No matter what. 

Archer carried the burden of my PTSD and all it entailed when no one else could or would. When everyone else left me to my own darkness, Archer stayed. He stayed and he helped and he loved me despite myself.

Archer asked for nothing. And he gave everything. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. 

Archer was my security. My safety. My strength. My courage. 

Archer saved me. 

After I was medically discharged from the military following my involvement in a helicopter crash overseas, "the girls" (my two cats) kept me alive. They were my tether to this life because I couldn’t leave them. 

But when Archer came into my world, he became my bridge to life outside the walls and isolation of my home and my mind. When I couldn’t find the courage within myself to leave the house, I would do it for him. 

Archer was my way back into public. While I learned to face my new fears, especially of public spaces, Archer stood by me. Literally. 

I still remember our first outing in public alone, without the trainer. Costco. The checkout line. I started to have an anxiety attack. I had no idea what to expect from Archer. We had trained for public access, but not for this. 

Without any command from me, Archer leaned in against my leg and slid his head under my left hand. I remember my surprise. But more than that, I remember how comforted and safe it made me feel. Archer understood what I needed and how to take care of me. He just. . . KNEW. 

Archer loved me. Period. And bless him for it because I’m difficult to be around.. . and he STILL loved me. 

Most people run when things get tough. Not Archer. 

Archer CHOSE ME. Every time. 

Other people tried repeatedly throughout our time together to win his loyalty. I can't tell you how many times people offered to “take” him, believing he would be better off or happier with them; if he had other dogs to play with; a bigger yard; if he was with someone less strict, etc., etc. 

But Archer ALWAYS chose me. His devotion to me was unquestioned and unshakable. Even to the very end. 

The morning of September 11th, Archer let me sleep in later than usual. Around 8:00 a.m. I took him outside, like we did every morning. He used the bathroom and found a stick to play with, like he did every morning. He pranced around, trying to tempt me into chasing him, stopping occasionally to sniff at an interesting scent, like he did every morning.

And then. . . he stumbled. His back legs looked like they momentarily forgot how to walk. 

I asked him what was wrong. Told him to come to me. He did, but he was swaying as if he was drunk. I told him to sit down. He did.

And then. . . he looked at me. With that look, we both knew. He was dying. 

Still, I refused to believe it. I kept telling him that everything was going to be fine. That I would take him for a walk in a bit and it would all be okay. 

He lay next to me, holding disturbingly still while I repeatedly called the veterinarian. Could they get me in? The receptionist would have to check with the doctor. 

Meanwhile, Archer's breathing became increasingly more labored. His nose turned cold. His ears turned cold. His paws turned cold. I called again. I was bringing him in - I didn't care if they had availability or not. 

Archer rallied for the car ride, but his discomfort was growing. If I could just get him to the vet. . .

By the time we got there, Archer's tongue was beginning to turn blue. His breath had turned icy cold. 

I heard talking. Maybe it was a stroke. Get him an IV. Looks like he might have something wrong with his heart. Could the ultrasound technician come in today? Probably a ruptured valve. 

But Archer was dying. He knew it. And I knew it.

They carried him into the back. Employees only. I explained to them that he was my Service Dog. That we hadn't been apart for six years. I was allowed to go back with him. 

From the table he looked at me, drooling uncontrollably as he struggled to breathe. He didn't care about the I.V. they were putting in - his only focus was on me. I wasn't allowed close enough to touch him, so I held his gaze with everything I had.

Finally, they moved him to a large kennel in an empty room next to the office. He was given a shot to help his heart. The ultrasound technician was on his way. Archer might have to stay overnight. They close early on Saturdays. 

It was all just noise. 

Archer knew. I knew. He was dying. 

I lay on the floor next to him, cradling his head in one arm and stroking the softness of his enormous ruff. I told him how much I loved him. I told him how amazing he was. I lied and told him that if he needed to go, that was okay. 

It wasn't long. Even though he fought SO HARD to stay alive. 

As the end came, with his final breaths, Archer screamed. Something he has only done a handful of times. Only when we get separated. And only when he knows I'm not doing well. 

It's a bone chilling sound. A soul splitting shriek that was imprinted on me forever from the first time he did it - leaving him to go to a dear friend's funeral in England, where Archer could not join me. As a caretaker at the dog ranch he was going to stay at started to lead him away from me, Archer realized it wasn't me by his side. It was someone else. He turned, found me with his eyes. . . and screamed. Then he continued to stare straight at me and scream with such incredible intensity that all I could do was cry while he fought with all his strength to claw his way back to me. A scream to tell me, "DON'T LEAVE ME. NOT NOW. YOU. NEED. ME." A scream to say, "NO. YOU CAN'T GO. I'M NOT WITH YOU." Another caretaker had to come help, dragging him away while the owner hustled me to my car. It was awful. 

And so, with his last gasps, when his sight had already left him, Archer screamed. He knew. It was him leaving me this time. He understood that we were about to be ripped apart from each other. And he screamed until his heart finally drown in its own blood and could beat no more. 

Oh Archer. You are so dearly missed and so deeply loved. It was truly the greatest honor of my life that you chose to be my companion and protector. I’m sorry for every time I didn’t want to play or go for a walk; for all the emotional burdens I put on you; for each time I took a nap instead of taking you to the river or the mountains. 

Oh Archer. I can’t begin to tell you how much I hated having to walk away from your body after you passed. Even though I knew you were gone, I wish I could have held onto you forever. 

Oh Archer. All I can say is “Thank you.” Thank you for bearing what others could not. Thank you for your patience with me. Thank you for your strength and the compassion you never failed to give me, without judgement and of your free will. Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for the unconditional love and loyalty you gave me. Thank you for choosing me. Every time. Despite myself. Thank you for holding me to this life and for the sense of safety I always felt with you. Thank you for being the truly beautiful soul that you were. 

Oh Archer. I love you. . . To the moon and back.