Hello, everyone, and thank you from the bottom of our hearts for joining us today. At first, the thought of having a memorial service for a dog seemed odd. We’d never heard of anyone doing it before, and we worried that no one would come. But then we remembered, Indiana wasn’t just a dog. She was so much more. She conquered so much in her short life. She inspired. She encouraged. She brought people together. For Jim and I, she made us better people.
Sitting down to write out what I wanted to say today was probably one of the hardest things I have ever done. How do you condense 14 years of such intense love and friendship into one speech? I don’t think the right words exist to say what is in my heart. I hope my words can do her justice.
My life was changed forever the day I brought home a tiny, fuzzy little black dog back in the summer of 1998. I had had dogs my whole life, but now, about to start my senior year of college, I was ready for a dog of my very own. I remember choosing her because she seemed sweet, and calm. Maybe she chose me as much as I chose her. And as I drove away with her, leaving her mother and sister behind, I cried, and I promised her that I would always take care of her the very best that I could.
I made a lot of sacrifices for Indiana--and in the early years, I think that says a lot for a college student. But I had wonderful friends and a wonderful boyfriend, and they spent a lot of time at my house, so I could be home with Indiana during my down time.
She was a spirited puppy, to say the least. Though she wasn’t destructive to furniture and personal goods, the inside of my house was covered with as many, if not more, sticks than the outside of my house, all chewed into tiny little bits. I think there were times we couldn’t see the carpeting.
Indiana was your typical puppy--she loved to play with toys, to take walks, to nap on the couch. She was whip smart from the beginning and was housetrained in less than a week. And when the time came to expand our family, she enthusiastically welcomed baby Isis, gently playing with her and teaching her everything she knew.
Indiana was there through all of the major milestones of our adult lives. College graduation, new jobs, new homes, marriage (where she proudly acted as ring bearer, a job Isis could not be trusted with). She was there during happy moments and sad. Indiana was very sensitive to emotion, picking up on our feelings, and, I believe, even taking them on from time to time. As she aged, we learned to avoid being sad around her; it simply made her too sad as well.
Our lives and hers changed forever in June 2006, when we almost died from cancer. I think everyone here knows the story, but her survival during that period really was a miracle. None of the doctors expected it. But we knew we owed her a chance to fight; her time here wasn’t done. So we fought for her, and she fought back. And we were blessed with nearly 6 more years with her, during which time we grew as parents, and as people.
I know I made a lot of mistakes with Indiana in the years before cancer. I was doing the best I could with the information I had, and for the most part, I have forgiven myself for my ignorance. I know Indiana did.
As the years passed, Indiana’s needs grew. She faced a new health obstacle with every turn. First cancer, then a mass in her heart. Next came arthritis, Cushing’s Disease, hypothyroidism, hip dysplasia, then kidney disease and cancer yet again. She almost died again in 2009, and again in the fall of 2011. But still she persevered. And did it all with a smile.
That is the thing I’ll always remember most about my baby girl: her smile. When she smiled, her whole face lit up. And she smiled a lot. She faced every challenge with grace and dignity, and always, always with that smile.
I dedicated most of the last two years of her life, and certainly the last 8 months, to her health and happiness. I suppose I sacrificed a lot, but it never seemed that way--doing the right thing for Indiana was always so easy, because she inspired that in me. I wanted to be a better person for her, to give her everything. Because that is what she gave to those she loved.
The time eventually came when we were more focused on the quality of her life than the quantity. We agreed to stop any invasive treatments and only do the things that would make her comfortable. It seems like it would be hard to make that decision--to stop medical treatment for someone you’d fought so hard for--but it wasn’t. Indiana was nothing if not completely clear at all times about what she wanted, and this was no exception. We knew she was getting tired, and that this was what she wanted. It was easy to simply abide by her wishes.
But in the end, it was none of those. On June 5, 2012, Indiana simply left this world on her own accord. She was tired, and she was done.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the last two months thinking about her life. Who she was. What she gave me. What she gave others. I am a better person because of her--not only a better parent, but a human being better able to understand love and sacrifice. She inspired me to help others struggling with cancer, as I am now able to help others who are caring for an older pet or those who are grieving.
Indiana was so many things to so many people. She was beautiful, inside and out. I never stopped being proud when a stranger would comment on her beauty, or when one of our vet staff commented on her calm, sweet demeanor. Because she was those things--beautiful, calm, sweet. She was the most intelligent dog I have ever met. Her spirit was unlike any other. I always felt like God made a mistake when he made her--putting a human spirit into a dog’s body, but taking out all of what makes humans flawed. What he created was one beautiful, perfect creature. One of a kind. And I was so blessed to have her as my daughter, my best friend.
When Indiana left, she took a huge part of my heart with her, a part that I will never get back. My life is certainly worse for losing her, but, in the end, it is exponentially better for having had her in it.
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