A Woman's Best Friend
Reflections on (and a tribute to) one of the greatest loves of my life
Dedicated to Dune Frost
aka “Dune Bug” aka “Bug” aka “Dunebugaboonie” aka “Pupperoni” aka one of the greatest loves of my life
Dune came into our lives on a rainy Sunday in August 2007. For weeks I had been persistently suggesting we get a dog, but Brad was standing firm.
We don’t have the money. Our lives are busy. It isn’t a good time.
The excuses were all true.
What I didn’t know at the time, was that Brad had spent his savings on an engagement ring that was currently stashed in the linen closet of our studio apartment. Maybe for the best, because had I known, I probably would have picked the puppy over the ring as a symbol of our commitment.
“Can we just go look??” I said with big eyes and a desperate plea. I was unrelenting.
This wasn’t the first time I’d successfully used the tactic. In middle school, after weeks of begging for my own dog - and a riveting presentation on why I should be allowed one - I ended up with a reasonably sized Great Dane, who would max out at 180 pounds.
Just like the decade prior, Brad was worn down and off we went to pick out our new dog “look.”
Dune was the first dog we saw. A tiny tuft of sand-colored fluff. He wiggled his little body over to Brad, kissing his nose, as if we were co-conspirators in the plan to win Brad over. I knew then this bond would be for life.
Ten minutes later we walked out with a new dog and a new credit card bill. As we pulled out of the parking lot with this tiny pile of fluff in my arms, we wondered what we would call him.
“How about Dune?” Brad said, without pause. “It beats ‘Sandy.’”
And our life together began.
Dune would join us on all of adventures:
Road trips back and forth to VA to visit family.
Outings to the beach, where we learned as he frolicked full speed up and down the dunes, that he was appropriately named.
Various Detroit bars, where he would sit on our laps while we sipped IPAs.
Through the joy and the grief that accompanies the ebb and flow of life.
In the months before my cancer diagnosis, Dune would “nose me” - stick his nose up against mine and aggressively sniff. We thought it was adorable and hilarious and didn’t understand why he did it to just me. When I went into remission, he never did it again, leading us to believe that he could somehow detect my cancer. He was, of course, a superhero.
Dune hated his crate and barked when we weren’t there, always wanting to be in the midst of us. He was a small, but mighty dog who somehow always managed to hop up onto the kitchen island to eat the leftover snacks when we weren’t looking. He loved hanging out the car window at dangerously fast speeds. 40 miles an hour, 50 miles an hour, 60 miles an hour! A never relenting willpower to the wind.
Dune was stubborn and particular about who he gave his love to, but was fiercely loyal to those in his inner circle. He didn’t much enjoy other dogs (with a couple of exceptions), instead preferring to be the “only” in the family. When Maggie later joined our duo, she cured him of his separation anxiety, but Dune still barely acknowledged her existence.
He was the first of the “grandbabies” and the starter puppy for many friends and family members before getting a dog of their own. His favorite toy was a stuffed penguin, which he was given in the middle of my cancer treatment. It was the only stuffed animal he never destroyed, instead carrying it everywhere for the final decade of his life.
Losing Dune isn’t just losing a dog. It’s losing a companion that has grown with me for over 16 years - most of my adult life. Losing Dune is losing an ally that has been a part of my MOST pivotal moments - starting a life in Detroit, getting married on the rooftop of my home with Brad, our 2-year stint in Boston for Brad’s grad school program, my cancer diagnosis and relapse, Brad’s cancer diagnosis and death, my move from Detroit to Northern Michigan, the addition of Maggie to our little family, my dad’s diagnosis and death, my falling in love again and growing our little family.
Dune bore witness to it all, usually from the passenger seat, perched atop a pile of pillows.
Losing Dune is losing the last tangible connection to my life with Brad. Yes, there are stories and memories and familial connections and all the love we shared, but Dune was the final piece of that family. Of that life. Loss on top of loss on top of loss.
Dune wasn’t the easiest dog ever. He peed in the houses of every single person he loved. He vacillated between wanting space and wanting snuggles. He howled when he was left alone and bumped his butt on the floor when he wanted to go out. He destroyed my wedding shoes and every single stuffed toy he received (with the exception of penguin).
But he was love. He was love. He was love.
He was my love.
In his final months, our life was slow and simple. Naps in the sunny spot of the room, short jaunts in the yard, and small bursts of puppy-like joy that, without fail, brought a smile to my face. I carried him around everywhere. Down the two steps to the yard. On to the couch. Up on the bed. Into my arms, where he leaned in and let go. Where he was safe. Always.
Dune, it was an honor being your Mama.
I am lost. I am heartbroken. I am not fine.
I miss you already.
So sorry, Dana.
As you well know, no words are sufficient for such deep grief. It is agonizing to lose our fur babies! They are never with us long enough - forever would not be long enough - just like with our human loves. So much of our daily rhythms revolve around them. Thank you for giving us a peek into the beautiful life that you and Dune shared. What a special pup he was! Holding you in my heart and sending comfort from afar.