by Janet Huderski

Created on: September 11, 2009   Last Updated: October 01, 2009

Can anyone recover after the death of a pet? I'm not sure, but I hope so. All I know is that when I walk through the door after work, there is no frantically happy bark, no overjoyed pup dancing around with my husband's size thirteen shoe gripped between his teeth, no crazy pit bull careening off the back of my couch and leaping up to try and land sixty pounds of muscle in my arms. There is no sweet companion with his head in my lap, to keep me company while I'm watching TV. No protective watch dog making sure that I'm safe when I'm alone at night after my husband has left for the midnight shift. There is no aggressive pit bull love to greet me when I come out of my bed room in the morning... Remy I miss you.

Don't get me wrong. I've had a few dogs since I married my husband, and each one took a piece of my heart with them when they passed away. But there is something about this dog, this crazy, annoying, anxious, needy, shivering, goofy pit bull that has touched me in a way that none of the others ever did. Maybe it was the droopy ears that perked up so cleverly when he knew that you might take a break and play with him, or the way he shivered uncontrollably and climbed into the closest lap whenever a storm threatened. Maybe it was the unending list of names that my husband gave him, this favored and favorite one, the only dog that he called his dog: the Reminator, Remington, Remzilla, our Pit bull in a china shop, Devil Dog, Fluffy (affectionately named for the three headed dog in Harry Potter) and finally Bubbles! There always seemed to be a new name, a new part of his personality to discover, appreciate and celebrate. Maybe it was the fact that in the beginning I didn't want him, this dangerous Pit Bull, at all. Can you blame me? Every day the news carried stories of pit bull attacks, descriptions of the ferocity and dangerous nature of these dogs. Why on earth would I want one in my house? Who knew what he might do to our beagle, beamer, or one of our grandchildren?

I remember when my daughter's friend dropped off her two month old puppy and asked me to babysit. I grudgingly agreed to take care of him while her family moved into a new home. "To keep him out from underfoot," she told me, just for two weeks. Then, the two weeks turned into three, and the three became a month. When five weeks had passed and she still hadn't returned for her dog, I called her house and spoke to her father. He told me that Remy was not wanted. If we didn't keep this crazy

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