It was 1997, right before Thanksgiving time; she lived in a row of townhomes.
I was new to the neighborhood and not sure of where I was going and who I would meet there. But it was her house . . . and ultimately it would be her who stole my heart.
Other people were at this party to which I was invited. There was a lot of noise, good food and good wine. A few people I knew, but most were strangers. But she stood out, at first, more than anyone or anything I remember. Maybe it was the way she moved to greet me. Or was it how we instantly "connected" over a common love for things having to do with tennis? It might have been that effervescence, that energy, that almost frenetic movement throughout the long hallway between the front door, through the kitchen and into the back entertainment room.
Or maybe it wasn't her allure, but the child within me that fell instantly, deeply and madly in love with her? It had been years since I felt this attracted to someone like her.
I didn't want the night to end. How could I leave her house knowing that I might never see her again? What could I do to make her fall for me, as profoundly as I had fallen for her? What would I do without her?
Funny how life runs its course. How often, that overused phrase déjà vu has a way of sneaking into relevance. But 12 years later, she's haunting me again.
She is once again, living in a row of townhomes. There are no parties at present, just the quiet of a near sedentary life with her family. The face has changed, aged in many observable ways. Yet if you peer deeply into her eyes, the girl she was twelve years ago still looks out at the world. Those who know her know she yearns to return to the things associated with tennis, to run in frenzied strides down the hall of her house, and to present herself at the door each time a new guest or an old friend comes to visit. Over the years she has slowed. More quiet time, less running around. Walks are just across the street and back, instead of the houses around the neighborhood. So much of her life has changed. She is different. How she shows up in this world is different. However, one thing remains unchanged from that first day in 1997 when she met me at the front door. She remains the embodiment of unconditional love.
In all my years of knowing her, she has never once not, not run to me with a look that says, "You are -- right now -- the most important person in the world."
How could I not fall madly, deeply in love with her? And, now; how can I not but fall so deeply into sadness as we anticipate her leaving this earth, our world, a life so intertwined in the everydayness of being a family.

After nearly fourteen years on this earth we are losing a foundational piece of our combined history: A puppy in Savannah . . . Ron's companion and spirit-guide through his coming out and divorce, rising to "fame" as the namesake of our Siena Society, and a tail wagging, sloppy licking "welcomer" of her other dad.
Ron is losing one of his familiars. He wrote to many of our friends: " . . .Siena has always been at the heart of our life warming our home with her comfy being, exploring both the Atlantic & Pacific Coasts with us on vacations, romping through the rivers, streams, and tidal creeks of Savannah and the Pacific Northwest. Exploring the islands of Coastal Georgia & South Carolina, and hiking the Cascades & Olympics in Washington State. Sitting with us at the Christmas tree every year as we opened presents... And ALWAYS under the dinner table, ON TOP of our feet, as we shared dinner at the end of each day...We've never known "us" without her."
With heavy hearts, we move through these days. On Thursday of next week; a vet will come to our house and be the medical presence as we (Ron, me & Gino) help transition Siena from her weakened and worn body into a permanent place in our hearts and our stories. Gino, deliberately brought into our lives 6 years ago, will assume his role as our only dog. The vet who will come here on Thursday, as well as many of our friends who have lived through this painful experience, are encouraging us to spend lots of time petting, holding and talking to Siena, as well as being aware of how Gino will experience the loss of his pack mate. Ours will be a sad household for a while.
Growing up a "country boy", we had dogs inside and out, most of then large breeds. It was different in the country: When you lost a dog, it was because that dog knew it was time to die and so it went up into the woods behind our house and never came back. Or, a car hit the dog as it walked unleashed along dark country roads. Our dad would "take care" of the dog after finding it along the road or in a ditch. This remembrance is not mean to be disrespectful to the loss we face with Siena's death. It is just my way of dealing with the depth of sadness I feel already. Siena is the first dog I have been "allowed" to love with such attachment and depth, so that a moment like this feels as if a knife has cut deep into my heart.
Ron has called her his one great dog. For me, she has been the dog who has stayed and taught me how to be one great human.