Posted December 25, 2000

I wish I had a better picture of this precious one, but unfortunately, this is the only one her adoptive family was able to provide. We've got video of her, but no other still pictures. It is heartening to see her cuddled up in one of her favorite places, though. This is Holly's bed, and she loved to curl up in its warmth and sleep peacefully. It had to be so different from what she had known in the past.

Holly came to us in terrible shape. She was a beautiful old lady, but she was far past her prime. She was all but blind and certainly deaf, and she had a host of other ailments. Extensive ear infections were the least of her problems, but she had those, too. She was incontinent and arthritic. She had heart and lung problems, and much more. She seemed to be failing on multiple levels. I don't know how anyone could abandon her to the filth and fear of one of the worst shelters in Maryland, but they did.

When I first met Holly -- as she was brought out of the shelter -- I wondered (biting my lip as I watched her stagger around shaking) if I was doing her any favors keeping her alive. I held her and talked to her, and basically, I asked her what she  wanted. She wagged her little stub of a tail and gave me a kiss. Question answered. She was coming home with me. 

In spite of all her problems, there was still a gentle spark in Holly's tiny, tiny  body. I knew she could not be kenneled, and naturally, I had no available fosters. It was Thanksgiving weekend, and I was being visited by someone near and dear to my heart. I explained to her the dire situation facing little Holly and asked if she would "foster" her. We both knew full well that fostering was not really in Holly's future, though. She went with me to meet Holly, took one look at her, and said: "Bring her home. She's mine." It was she who named Holly, in honor of the Christmas season. It was incredibly appropriate.

It was also painfully obvious that Holly was at the end of her life and that the most that could be done for her was to give her a safe place to live, to love her and make her as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. I warned my friend that it would be extremely difficult to lose her heart to Holly and then lose Holly herself. She understood and accepted all this -- for her Holly. And she really became her  Holly. It's difficult for me to write of the bond they shared, which was never more present and intense than in the few days before Holly left her. 

In spite of all Holly endured, life held its simple pleasures for her. My gosh, did she love to eat! She would let you know without hesitation that she wanted to share in whatever you were munching on (or even thinking about munching), whether you were seated at the dinner table or watching television or just milling around the kitchen. How she knew that food was about to appear was always a mystery, but she always did.  A Beagle or Basset Hound have nothing on Holly's bark. And she would leap up with her little paws like a tiny reindeer, frolicking. She was so pathetically thin, her family fed her and fed her and fed her. She loved it.

Holly also loved to wander around and sniff, probably in her endless search for food. She was a gentle, loving little soul, who asked very little from life and probably got very little until she was adopted in her final year by some of the best people I have ever known.

It has taken me more than one year to compose Holly's memorial. I thought it fitting to do so at this anniversary, when I think of her most. As if many days pass without my remembering her. 

Because I am close to Holly's family, I had the good fortune of being able to see her quite often. I held her tiny frame in my arms, against my chest, many times snuggling with her. I carried her outside to help her do her business quite often when the walk was too far, or the step too high or the snow too deep. We sometimes lost her when she went outside that Canadian winter. She would disappear in a pile of snow! 

What a little character she was, with her fleecy blue coat, and her quizzical little face. She would turn that tiny head from side to side in the most adorable way. She would pop her head from the snow, looking like Santa Claus with a white beard. You couldn't help but love her.

There will never be another Holly. Everyone who met her was enriched by knowing her. The entire vet staff wrote personal letters to Holly's family shortly after her death. They were all devastated by her loss. It's not something we discuss very easily among ourselves, even now. It does not seem right that Holly had so little time with people who really loved and wanted her. But then so little seems right where these poor rescue dogs are concerned. We have to try to be grateful for what we manage to give them in the time they share with us, I guess. 

Holly's family planted a tree above her grave, a symbol of life going on after a beloved one has left us behind. The tree is growing strong and will not let anyone forget the gentle soul who fought the good fight, loved with a forgiving heart, and is now beyond all the pain. I like to picture her running free and happy, seeing and hearing and frolicking, waiting for her loved ones to greet her at Rainbow Bridge some day. 

God bless and keep you, my little darling. You were one special, special baby, and you are terribly missed.