A few months ago, I bought Blitz a beach wagon.
Not for the beach, necessarily. Not even really for hauling things.
I bought it because my girl still wanted to go for walks.
Her body just couldn’t always cooperate anymore.
The video in this post was our first trip to the park with it, and watching it now means something entirely different than it did when I recorded it. In the video, I joked that after nearly sixteen years of Blitz taking care of me, I had finally figured out how to become her service human.
I don’t think I realized then just how much those words would eventually mean to me.
A lot of people who knew Blitz didn’t actually know that she was a registered ADA service animal. She wasn’t just my beloved dog who followed me everywhere. She had a job, and she took that job very, very seriously.
It wasn’t even something we originally planned.
When my heart and lungs began giving me problems, Blitz simply… knew.
Before I knew something was wrong, sometimes she knew.
She learned to recognize when her human wasn’t okay, and she would alert the people around us that I needed medical attention. There was a period of my life when that happened far more often than I would have liked. There were times when having another set of eyes on me—especially her eyes—wasn’t merely comforting.
It may very well have saved my life.
People who met Blitz casually saw a beautiful bullie girl with an enormous fat head and an equally enormous personality.
What they didn’t necessarily see was that she was always watching me.
Always.
Before I started working from home in IT, I worked in the back of a Geek Squad precinct building and repairing computers—which I realize will come as an enormous shock to absolutely no one who has ever met me.
Blitz came to work with me.
She had her own designated spot, complete with her blanket, food and water, and she would settle in at my feet while I worked. Computers everywhere, people coming and going, noises and distractions all around us—and there was my girl.
Watching her human.
She went to restaurants with us. She went to the movies with us.
In fact, I had nearly forgotten one of my favorite ridiculous Blitz memories until I started thinking about this post: Blitz went with my family and me to see The Nun.
Yes. My service dog attended a horror movie.
And behaved better than most humans did.
She once received the seat of honor during a night at Hooters, because apparently Blitz understood that being a working professional did not mean one couldn’t also enjoy the finer things in life.
And unlike some service dog handlers, I never needed to have a strict no-petting rule with her. I completely understand why many handlers do, but Blitz was different. She could soak up every single pat, scratch, “Who’s a pretty girl?” and bit of attention anyone wanted to give her without ever forgetting where her attention ultimately belonged.
With me.
Always with me.
She could be surrounded by people loving on her and somehow still have part of herself monitoring me.
That was Blitz.
She lit up every space she entered. Workplaces. Restaurants. Movie theaters. Parks. Stores. Wherever that beautiful bullie girl and her giant fat head appeared, people noticed her.
And she loved them right back.
But I was her person.
For nearly sixteen years, she watched over me.
Then eventually, those strong legs weren’t so strong anymore. The walks became shorter. Her body started telling her no even when her heart was still screaming YES, LET’S GO.
So I bought a wagon.
And we went to the park.
She could ride when she needed to ride. She could get out when she wanted to sniff the grass and investigate the world. She could still feel the sunshine and breeze. She could still go on adventures with her human.
She could still go for walks.
They just looked a little different now.
And after all those years of Blitz watching my heart, watching my breathing, staying alert for the slightest sign that something was wrong with me…
I got to watch her.
I got to pay attention when her body needed help.
I got to make adjustments for her limitations.
I got to carry the supplies, push the wagon, watch for signs that she’d had enough and make sure she was safe.
For once, she didn’t have to take care of me.
I got to be her service human.
I wish more than anything that I still had that job.
But God, am I grateful I got the chance to return even a fraction of what that dog gave me.
Nearly sixteen years of loyalty.
Nearly sixteen years of watchful eyes.
Nearly sixteen years of having my beautiful fat-headed girl beside me, quietly making sure her human was okay.
And toward the end, when those roles reversed, I hope she knew what I was trying to tell her with every wagon ride, every accommodation, every time I slowed down because she needed me to:
I’ve got you now, baby girl.
You spent your whole life watching over me.
It was my turn to watch over you.
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