It was solely because of my dog, Gracie, that I have re-learned to walk after experiencing a spinal cord injury 8 years ago. So last week, to honor her life, I designed a place where anyone could share whatever they want about their pets. Never would I have expected that by writing one sentence, a community of over 500 would instantly bloom.

Gracie’s fan page is titled, “Saralee Perel Presents Gracie, My 4-Footed Coach.” I had never made a Facebook Fan Page before, because I assumed nothing so wondrous would come of doing so. Part of the attention likely had to do with the first picture I posted. It’s a hilarious picture of Gracie and my husband, Bob, cheating for the SPCA’s dog and owner look-alike contest. (They were disqualified as they should have been.)

The community took on a life of its own, with people sharing hysterical animal videos they had seen on TV, recipes for dog and cat treats, pictures of beloved pets now gone, as well as newly adopted furry friends. There are homemade videos of dogs doing goofy tricks, including singing as well as “saying” in long drawn-out howls, “I loooovvve you.” Funny stories about cats doing anything they want to do, in spite of us trying to modify their behavior (as if we ever could). One gal’s cat enjoys shredding the shower curtain.

So that everyone would feel welcomed, I wrote, “We love not only the lost, abandoned and rescued, but also the safe, sound and found; whether they’re award-winning pedigree champions, no-longer ‘useful’ greyhounds, mutts, runts or a combo of all. They are all the same to me.”
The number of people who read those words? According to Facebook analytics: thirty-one thousand, six hundred twenty-seven.

Someone responded, “Here’s my two cents. Dogs never judge each other by their heritage lines. We shouldn’t either.”

Another chimed in: “Amen!”

When friends introduce their pets by posting pictures and/or telling their pets’ stories, a collective energy emerges. Within seconds, others write comments such as, “Your dog is beautiful!” Or, “You and your cat are both so lucky to have found each other.” This brings happiness and relief to all the people who are sharing. They no longer feel alone; they have a safe, longed-for place in which to communicate. I guess that’s what a community is all about.

When I wrote, “On Father’s Day my husband, Bob, gets presents ‘from’ the animals,” I added, “Gracie gingerly takes her toy out of the box, then scrams outside to our fenced-in yard and hides it. We never see her toys again.”

That opened the door for my friend, Georgia, to write: “My dog, Bobble, used to steal my son’s spoons (and ONLY his spoons) and do the same thing Gracie did. I never understood why I kept having to go back to the store and buy more. That is until after one really strong summer storm. My backyard was infested with mushrooms . . . and HUNDREDS of spoons!”

Gracie’s page has blossomed into something so incredible, funny and meaningful and most importantly – a place for connecting with one another about our love for our 4- footed family members, whether they were pets from our childhood or pets with us today.

I decided to join Facebook because it’s such an easy and great way to connect with others; there is no permanent commitment involved; I can set strict limits as to my privacy so that no information about me is shared. And it’s simple; takes no time to sign up and is free. If you’d like to find my community, just type in the “search” box my title, which you’ll see above in my second paragraph, and once you’re on my page, just click “Like.” Or . . . forget this whole paragraph and just ask me what to do.

A few years ago, I asked a wise woman named Ruth, “What is the most important thing in life?”

She said one word, “Connection.”

Connection can take many forms. It needn’t be in the traditional form of face-to-face interaction, especially when many of us have trouble getting around. We are not here to judge which form of connection is the “right” form.

I have close friends whom I adore that I’ve never even met or whom I haven’t seen for years. When it comes to love, it doesn’t matter if it’s shared at a restaurant, or in someone’s kitchen, or in a group meeting or over the telephone. We are all allowed to make our own choices when it comes to connection. I am so glad I found my avenue with this community. Won’t you join me?

Saralee Perel is an award-winning nationally syndicated columnist. Please join her on Facebook by clicking “Like” on Gracie’s new page: Saralee Perel presents Gracie, My 4-Footed Coach. The link to “Like” is: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Saralee-Perel-Presents-Gracie-My-4-Footed-Coach/193810083997862

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The Dog and Cat Cancer Fund – History from The Dog and Cat Cancer Fund on Vimeo.

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My dog, Gracie, was a year old when she was found abandoned on the streets of Fall River, Massachusetts. When my husband, Bob, and I brought her home, she was terrified of us.

One day she was next to me while I was making soup. As I often do when I cook, I was singing. When I belted out “Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain,” I raised my large spoon toward the ceiling for emphasis. She hit the ground on all fours and, petrified, scooted away as if I was going to hit her with the spoon. Clearly she had been abused. She wouldn’t even let us hug her.

Finally one glorious day, Gracie made a decision. While cooking spaghetti, I told Bob, “Pasta is done when you fling a piece to the ceiling and it sticks.” I balanced a gigantic clump of spaghetti on a huge spoon. “Dare me?”

“No!”

I whipped the spaghetti straight up.

We watched the glob of pasta dangle from the ceiling before it plopped to the floor in one big heap. Bob said, “I guess it’s not done.”

Had I seen Gracie watching us, I’d never have swung the spoon. But there she stood, smiling, as dog lovers can attest dogs actually do. Then she planted happy sloppy kisses all over my face.

“Oh Gracie.” For the first time, she let me hug her. “Welcome to your home, my golden dog.”

Though it may seem silly, lately I’ve been singing my own version of “Amazing Grace” to her.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

That saved and strengthened me.

You once were lost, but now you’re found

Instead of spending her middle years doing fun dog stuff, all she wanted to do was protect me. After my spinal cord surgery, I could barely walk.

She always worried about me. I scrunched her cheeks, “No more worrying. I want you to play, have fun. Be a dog!” But year after year, she would not leave my side, even for her breakfast or dinner. She was my keeper. Instead of playing in our fenced-in backyard, she’d sit outside the glass slider, looking in and watching me.

I told Bob how sad this made me.

“Gracie has never been happier, Saralee.”

“But she’s always on full alert. She never has fun.”

“This is her purpose. She was born for this. She is a lifeguard in every sense. The fact that she is (begin italics) your (end italics) lifeguard is the biggest gift you could give her. She is honored. She is noble. And she is happiest when she is serving her higher purpose.”

It is because of Gracie that I re-learned to walk, though I was scared. But with her assistance, I did it.

‘Twas Grace that taught my heart no fear,

And Grace all fear relieved.

How precious was that Grace was here

The hour I first believed.

Gracie, on my left, wore a harness. I had the grip of the leather as well as her strong body next to me for balance. With no training, Gracie knew to take one step, then waited while I took one step. After we repeated this process 4 more times, I shouted, “HALLELUJAH!” Gracie gave me a billion kisses while we hugged.

Through many dangers, toils and snares

I have already come;

‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

And Grace will lead me home.

Those glory years sped by all too soon. Now, nearly 15 years old, she is feeble and in rapid decline. Though her eyes are cloudy, she sees shapes and knows which shape is me. Though she’s stiff and aches, she always walks by my side. Though she can no longer hear, she feels the vibrations of me getting out of bed, and slowly pulls her body up from her heated dog bed to resume sentry duty.

Sometimes I wonder if she is hanging on because she believes I can’t make it without her.

Last week, out of my love for my beautiful dog, I told her something very hard to say. I believe she heard me. “Gracie, my golden dog.” I glided my fingers through her fur. “I could never have walked without your help. But I can walk by myself now.” I kissed her forehead. “You will forever be my hero and my lifeguard.”

I whispered through tears, “No matter how far I will walk, you will always be on my left. No matter how long I live, I will always see you, looking carefully in front of my path, making sure I am safe.” And then, it was painfully hard to say, “If you’re too tired, you can let go now, and rest in peace my golden dog. Oh, my Gracie.” I lay next to her with my head on her shoulders. “Thank you.”

When her flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease.

I shall possess, within my veil

Her loyal and eternal peace.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, can be reached via her website.

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I can still picture the morning I was sitting with a dozen mewing kittens at the local animal shelter. There was a slight movement between two pillows on the far side of the cage. That’s where I found Eddie. He was on his back trying to get some sleep “in this lousy joint” as I imagined an independent cat like him would say.

He was a plain gray tabby, as common as a housefly.

“He’s the one,” I said to my husband Bob.

Eddie swaggered to the food bowl, pushing four kittens out of the way.

“But he’s so ratty looking,” Bob said, picking him up. “And he only has one whisker.”

Eddie tenderly pressed his face against mine. Then he put his sharp baby teeth around my gold earring and yanked with the strength of a sumo wrestler.

Why did I fall for him so quickly? This cat had chutzpah and he knew how to use it. I would soon find out that there were other vital reasons he was perfect for me.

That first night home, he was restless. I calmed him with a song from the musical, “Oliver.” I sang it softly as a slow ballad, “Food, glorious food, hot sausage and mustard.” He closed his eyes and purred. From then on, that song always soothed him.

Eddie got up before we did. I knew that from the sound of breaking glass.

We found him on the mantel where my favorite crystal plate used to be. The floor was covered with glass shards. He quickly put his paw behind a blue china vase and chucked that off the mantel too.

At first I felt bad. But that didn’t last. Things are just things. Our pets are family.

Our solution? Velcro. And no more glass on the mantel. Instead, we stuck on fake fruit.

Early in his life, I had my spinal cord injury. There were thousands of things I was certain would be impossible for me to ever do again. Eddie’s attitude was what I needed. But that required believing I could actually learn from a cat.

I learned that the word “impossible” was nothing other than a word, which only carried meaning if I allowed it to. Eddie believed nothing was impossible. And by watching him, nothing was.

At the beginning of my life after my SCI, I saw obstacles as just that – obstacles. And therefore put them on my “can’t do” list.

But Eddie never accepted obstacles as anything other than challenges.

He opened cabinets by putting his paws around the knobs and pulling. Vitamin bottles made great rattling noises on crash landings.

We bought child-proof magnets at the hardware store. Eddie simply tugged a little harder.

Back to the hardware store for hook and eye locks. Eddie flipped the hooks open with one paw.

Back to the hardware store for deadbolt locks. He easily slid those bolts to the side.

The guy at the hardware store already had combination locks on the counter.

I was in awe of Eddie’s tenacity. By watching him, I learned that words like “can’t” and “hopeless” were just not in his feline vocabulary.

When I’d see a barrier that would prevent me from getting to where I wanted to go, I’d instantly turn around. This happened recently when I decided to surprise Bob with his favorite bacon, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich from his favorite coffee shop. But there were no railings on their steps. And they had not shoveled their snow-covered ramp. Instead of figuring out a way to accomplish my goal, I turned around and went right back to my car.

Now, I could have simply called the owner from my cell phone and nicely asked her to shovel. But I was locked into my “can’t do” mindset hence that never even occurred to me. Yet when barriers thwarted Eddie, he’d never quit trying. He’d never give up and turn around like I did.

Every morning, we woke to the blaring sound of Boston traffic reports. That’s because Eddie learned to push the button on our clock radio. He wanted to wake us so he’d get fed.

Yes, of course we tried moving the radio. He would simply hunt for two seconds and find it. Yes, of course we tried covering it with books at carefully placed perfect angles. Eddie simply shoved all the books off at once.

So we did the only sensible thing. We got rid of the clock radio. What else could we do with a cat like Eddie? (I heard that!)

To him, anything could fall into the toy category. He’d unravel entire rolls of toilet paper. We then had to keep ours in a coffee can.

One day years ago, he found something else that will surely go down in the “History of the Best Cat Toys” book.

I was on the phone with a rabbi. He was asking me about my mother’s interests for his sermon at her funeral. I said, “My mother loved painting and –”

That’s when Eddie came running in with something in his mouth. He had opened the new box of tampons I bought that morning. He was flinging the tampon in the air like it was a toy mouse.

The rabbi asked if I was all right because not only had I stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, I was having an earsplitting laughing fit that I just could not control.

He assumed I was having a traumatic stress reaction and said, “When we lose a loved one, we’re often not in control of our emotions and that’s okay. It’s fine to laugh.”

That cracked me up even more. I managed to blurt out, “She made jewelry!” before seeing the tampon go flying across the room. Then I hung up – on a rabbi yet. Oy vay.

For the past two years, Eddie has been sick. I spent lots of time massaging him on either side of his face. He always loved that. On one afternoon, I used my fingers to comb through his lovely full set of whiskers he had eventually grown. That’s when I saw the one side effect from the medicine he was taking. As I gently rubbed along his face, all of his whiskers came off in my hands, except for one. I placed them in a tiny needlepoint purse my mother made for me.

He came into our lives with one whisker. And that is how he would leave.

Three months ago, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you.” He looked up at me. His face showed the love he was never successful at hiding.

As Bob softly sang, “Food, glorious food, hot sausage and mustard,” Eddie took his last breath.

While his body was still warm, I cradled him in my arms and rocked him. I held his head so he was nestled against my neck. I said, “You came into my life when I needed you the most.” Bob was crying as he stood next to us, watched me rocking my little soul mate. “Eddie,” I could barely speak. “You will always be a part of me.”

I didn’t want to let him go from my arms. But Bob, so lovingly and slowly, gently took him away.

And so, I honor the life and the lessons of my wonderful cat who, from the beginning, stood apart from all the others.

My beautiful cat, my Eddie, just a plain gray tabby, as common as a housefly.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, can be reached via her website.

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