I once owned a black-and-tan chihuahua named Foster. When, at the age of sixteen, his health began to fail, I made the painful, but mature decision to have him put to sleep.

Such a choice is often called “the last act of love.”

After I left the vet that day, I messaged my children and told them what I had done. My daughter Heidi immediately sent me a link to Crockett Doodles, a family-owned dog breeder business in South Carolina. She had purchased her dog Phoebe from them and also had several friends who had bought their Doodles there.

The pictures of puppies cheered me up immediately.

I responded I did not want another dog right now, but if I still wanted a dog “in a year,” I would apply.

How exactly it happened, I don’t remember but I sent in an application that week…maybe that day. I honestly couldn’t say.  

After being approved and putting down a deposit, I started looking at puppy litters. I had always owned small dogs, so I thought I would try a bigger breed, eventually settling on a Bernedoodle—Bernese Mountain Dog and poodle—because I loved their coloring and markings. I opted for a “mini-” in order to be more sensible.

E-mails began arriving from Crockett Doodles with notifications about Bernedoodles who were ready for adoption. Once I tried reserve a cute little female named Callie, but by the time I sent in the request, she was already reserved. I kept looking.

The moment I laid eyes on “Willis,” with his curly chocolate brown coat, his caramel-colored eyebrows, and those beautiful eyes, I was smitten.

There was another reason this puppy grabbed my attention. “Willis” was the name of the main character in the novel I was currently writing. It seemed like a sign. “Willis” is not a common name.

I sent the request and received confirmation that Willis had been reserved for me. I named him Fletcher and brought him home six weeks after I lost Foster.

So much for “waiting a year.”

Fletcher was a wonderful dog—never met a stranger, playful, sweet-natured, and so handsome. I started posting “Fletcher’s Friday Foto” on Facebook, and he developed a wide fan base.

Best of all: Fletcher loved riding in the car. Foster always got carsick and threw up… or worse… every time I took him to the vet.

So, Fletcher and I went on daily car rides. He would sit in the passenger seat and survey his surroundings just like a human. Many times, when we returned home, he would refuse to get out of the car.  

He went through the usual puppy stage with all its issues, but eventually, he moved past chewing on whatever was handy and was fully housetrained.

He had a magnificent physique and noble profile, and developed many strong Bernese Mountain Dog traits, including bounding through the house, leaping from one couch to another, and pulling me along on our many walks through the neighborhood.

When fully grown, he weighed thirty-two pounds and was tremendously strong. I lost count of how many times on our walks, the neighbors would call out, “Who’s walking who?”

I had taken Fletcher for professional training, and he was fairly well-behaved. He did not bark excessively. He slept all night in his crate. He was never aggressive toward anyone. However, I never did entirely succeed at teaching him not to jump on people as he welcomed them. When I had company, especially people who did not love dogs as much as I did, I kept him in his crate.

Children loved him, and he loved them, but he did…in his joyful state…unbalance children more than once.

I sometimes thought I should have named him Tigger.

Long before my injury, I would study Fletcher while he was sleeping on the floor and think he should be with a family who could keep up with him…younger people who had more energy and stamina than I did…even back then…when I was in pretty good shape.

When I fell, the general consensus and first question from everyone was: “Was it your dog?”

While I was in the hospital, I missed Fletcher terribly, not only because I was used to his companionship, but because I was worried that he missed me, and would not understand why I had left him.

I need not have worried.

We already had a dogsitter whom Fletcher knew, and loved, and that’s where he stayed while I was in the hospital. Heidi gave me frequent updates. Fletcher was having the time of his life with Frank and his wife.  

With each passing day, as I brooded over my pitiful state, and came to realize how long it would take to get back on my feet and “back to where I was,” hearing phrases such as “six weeks” for this, and “six months” for that, and “a full year,” and “you will be on a walker, then a cane,” I faced the unarguable fact that in no way would I be able to take care of Fletcher when I got home. He was already too strong for me, even when I was steady on my feet, and had a reasonable amount of strength and balance, which I did not have now, and would not have for a long time.  

I could not risk another fall. Fletcher could not stay with the dogsitter indefinitely. None of my children was in a position to take him in.

He needed a new home.

Gradually, I pondered this, eventually admitting it to myself, and then one day I told my daughter I knew I had to give up Fletcher.

It was not “the last act of love,” as my resolve to have Foster put to sleep, but it was “an act of love” nonetheless, a decision that was one of the most difficult…and mature…I ever made.   

My children got busy conducting a private search. Two families we knew well were interested but eventually decided they could not take on the extra responsibility.

And then we received the good news that some longtime family friends were looking for a dog to help their dog (also a Doodle) with separation anxiety. They did not want a puppy. Fletcher was three years old. They also had three teenage sons, and I had long been convinced Fletcher was a “man’s” dog.

Beyond that, the “mom” of this family had been a student of mine the one year I taught middle school English. She had brightened my life even then, and now she wanted to give a home to my dog. I could not have been more pleased and relieved.  

So, one Saturday morning, while I was still recovering at Heidi’s house, my son-in-law Paul transported Fletcher and all his belongings to this family. It was a match made in Heaven. The transition was seamless.

Fletcher fit right in and was “at home” from the very beginning. He and his new doggy brother Marty bonded from their first meeting. All the boys loved Fletcher, and Fletcher also acquired a set of loving grandparents.  

The knowledge that Fletcher was living his best life, and that I had summoned the courage to make this choice and follow through with it, eased my mind and helped me move ahead, taking care of myself and getting back on my feet.

And then one day, about halfway through my recovery, I was sitting in my chair in Heidi’s living room, and she came downstairs and put her phone in my hand.

There on the Crockett Doodles website was a petite red Cavapoo named “Olympia,” one of a littler of eight.

Heidi had already made the necessary phone calls and completed the required paperwork. All I had to do was say, “Yes,” and that’s exactly what I said.

I did not realize till much later that like “Willis”— “Olympia” was the name of a character in my first novel. Again: not a run-of-the-mill name.   

We put down a deposit and Trixie was reserved.

Though Heidi offered to pick up Trixie right away, I declined the offer.

I was in no shape to manage a puppy, and Heidi had enough on her hands taking care of me and her family and her job. We did not need a puppy to house train.

So, we boarded Trixie for several weeks (which included training) and brought her home…to my house…at the end of March.

Trixie filled the spot Fletcher left…just a smaller spot.  

I still get updates on Fletcher from his new family. He and his doggy brother are best friends. He loves to sit in the recliner with his “grandpa.”  

I miss him, but then… I still miss Foster.

It’s the risk you take when you love a dog.

As for Trixie, she has her own fan base now.

She loves the neighbors and children without knocking them over.

As for me: I like to say, Trixie keeps me on my toes without pulling me off them.