You have to listen real hard to hear anything at all: the sound of tippy-toes on wood stairs, the soft tap of a paw on the bedroom door, the digging around in her bed to find a perfect spot for the night, the sound of shuffling cards as she shakes off excess water, and the gentle click from the flap on her dog door.

We bought our Bedlington last Memorial Day. We were spending the weekend on my boyfriend’s sail boat in Harbor Island when we scheduled a meeting with a breeder.

We had talked for months about getting a dog. We’d search the Internet to look at dogs late at night. We called it Internet dog-dating, but just like any kind of Internet dating, we are reduced to making judgments based on physical appearances, and as anyone who’s hoping for a lifetime of companionship knows, looks are the least of it.

We met her for the first time outside of a Subway restaurant when a woman standing in a shaded area appeared holding a nine-week-old dog in the palm of her hand. It’s difficult not to fall in love with a puppy that fits perfectly in your arms and whose hair is softer than a favorite stuffed animal. But I didn’t let myself get taken with the ‘Ah, she’s so cute’ routine. I told myself, “It’s just another puppy and along with raising a dog comes extra work.”



The holiday weekend fell five days after I found a lump on my right breast. Not sure if I should use “on” or “in” because both words define the characteristics of this lump. I hadn’t told my boyfriend about my discovery, partly out of fear that it might somehow change our direction, and because there was so much about this lump that I didn’t know yet.

My hesitation included our relationship as a couple. We had been living together for five months and I seemed to be stuck in the “dating” mode, not wanting to give up the newness of our romance for daily routines. There is something to be said for the beginning of a relationship: it’s fresh, sexy, romantic, and exciting.

We returned to the boat to think things over. My boyfriend seemed excited to bring her home. He kept asking me if I wanted her. I’d reply, “She’s cute and so sweet.” I left out the rest of my thoughts: Not at this time.  

I couldn’t say what I felt to him because I knew he had already fallen for her.

I held Gracie in my lap for the entire ride home to Phoenix. We named her “Say Goodnight Gracie” the day we picked her up.

When we arrived home, I didn’t let myself get attached. He was the one who set his alarm to go off at 3 AM and 6 AM to feed her and take her for walks. He taught her to use the dog door and trained her to sit and stay. I kept our relationship at a distance.

I lived with Gracie and my lump for the same amount of time before having surgery. After an ultrasound in June, the radiologist told me that it was “probably benign.” That seemed to appease me for a while, but I still needed more scientific proof to ease my mind.

During the weeks leading up to surgery, Gracie greeted me each day after work. She was my daily yoga, my meditation, and my personal therapy dog.  She seemed to know when I needed her to comfort me—the way she rested her long face against my neck.

Gracie and my boyfriend stuck by me through the initial surgery, which diagnosed the cancer, and the lymph node biopsy that followed. She allowed me to snatch her up in my arms and tickle her underside after each of my brachytherapy sessions.

The bonding between us happened despite my efforts to stay unattached.  Even when she ate my favorite pair of slippers, had an accident on the carpet, bit my best friend (very lightly without consequence), I took her side.

Sometimes love does not have the most honorable beginnings, and the endings, the endings will  break you in half. It’s everything in between we live for.

OK, say goodnight Gracie.

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About TRatner

Terry Ratner is a freelance writer, registered nurse, and writing instructor in Phoenix, Arizona. In June of 2004, she graduated with a Master of Fine Arts degree in creative nonfiction from Antioch University, Los Angeles. Writing has always served a purpose in her life, but it wasn't until her son died in a motorcycle accident in March, 1999, that she began to publish her works. What's unique about Terry is the way she balances the life of a nurse with the life of a writer. "Nursing allows me to give back to the community and then write about those experiences." Ratner teaches creative writing in a variety of settings from community colleges to a school for homeless children (Thomas J. Pappas) to wellness communities throughout the Valley of the Sun. In 2004, Terry launched an Arts and Healing program for children undergoing dialysis at Banner Good Samaritan Medical Center. She has published numerous personal essays, cover stories, interviews, and book reviews for a variety of national and regional publications. Her manuscript, a work in progress, features a series of twelve essays, ten of which are introduced with black and white photos, dealing with issues of family and identity.
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