Patches
June 2002 — January 2006
American Staffordshire Terrier · She chose me.
Patches was about four years old when I met her. That means she had a whole first life before me — one she carried in her body, and one I would only ever know in pieces.
I answered an ad online that offered her for adoption. It was at a boarding kennel I used to work at years prior. I went to see her, and the girls that worked there told me that the previous owner dropped her off and angrily said, "I can't take it anymore, you take her." He threw the leash down and walked out the door.
They told me that men had come and looked, and she didn't do very well with men at all. I assumed the previous owner was abusive toward her.
I said, "That's ok, let's see what happens."
I went back to where they were keeping her, and the girl went with me. I saw her in the corner and said, "Hi, Patches." She had her head down and she slowly came towards me. She gently came closer, and I started petting her. She seemed happy and content while I was there, and all of the girls were genuinely surprised.
I looked at them and said, "She is great. I'll take her."
She came home with me that day. The girls at the kennel said goodbye like they were sending one of their own off into something better. I think they were.
She thought tag was funny — mostly because she knew you could never catch her. One time she got away from me at our apartment complex and made me chase her around the quarter-mile trail circling the pond in the middle of the buildings. Embarrassing and exhausting.
I finally gave up and told her I was going inside, and she could stay out there if she wanted. About ten minutes later I checked the front door and there she was, laying on the floor, out of breath. Just as tired as I was. She'd had her fun.
— she always won
She was territorial, but in her own weird way. She would bury pig's ears in the sand in our backyard — Florida soil — and then wait. After a stretch of heavy sun and rain, she'd dig them back up, soggy and sand-covered, exactly the way she wanted them.
I have no idea where she learned this. She just knew.
— aged to her specifications
She liked to read the Auto Trader with me. She would sit next to me on the couch like a person, and I'd point at the listings and tell her about the good deals and which ones to stay away from.
She seemed to have opinions.
— a small thing only we knew
She was an intense sleeper. Muffled barking, growling, showing her teeth, running in her sleep — a regular occurrence. Whole adventures happened in there. I never knew if she was chasing something or being chased.
Either way, she was committed.
— she lived in two worlds
In January of 2006, Patches died from complications of heartworm disease. She had it when I adopted her — carried in from that first life she couldn't tell me about. I didn't give it to her. But I lost her to it.
She was about seven years old.
She did not die alone. She did not die in the corner of a place where men came and went and gave up on her. She died at home, with her people, and a pink pillow, and someone on the floor with her.
That is what I had to give her then.
This is what I have to give her now.
RemainWithMe started, in part, because of a dog named Patches.
She was the first one who taught me that a life — any life — deserves to be remembered out loud.
A simple, lasting place to keep the stories, the photos, and the small things only you remember. $95, one time.
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