They say you can't find the perfect dog
– the perfect dog finds you.
I never really believed in love at first sight – at least not
until I met Harvey. I was volunteering at the local animal shelter
every Saturday morning just to lift my spirits and get my mind
off of work for a couple hours out of the week. I'd walk the dogs,
play with the cats, and haul bags of food from point A to point
B. After a month or two, I kind of considered myself a good luck
charm there at the shelter. Every week, I'd form a bond with a
new animal, and every following week, that animal would get adopted.
One June morning, I walked into the kennels to take the dogs
for a walk. As always, all four rows of chain link cells would
ignite the instant I stepped in the room. Every four-legged orphan
under that roof wanted to be the one to leave on a leash. But there
was one soul across the room who wasn't following suit. A beautiful
full-grown yellow labrador with a big bony head instantly caught
my attention. He wasn't staring at me like all the others. As I
neared his cage, I noticed he wasn't barking like them either.
He almost whispered. He was trying to outdo the others, but it
was almost as if he had lost his voice.
 I
named the dog Harvey. There was no question in my mind that Harvey
was his name. Somehow, I just knew it. By the time I returned from
my leisurely walk with Harvey, I wanted him for my own. But I couldn't
take a dog home... not now. I was moving to Colorado in a month,
and I would have to find a new apartment. Having a dog would certainly
limit my choices. The shelter staff made up my mind when they said
Harvey would have to go in for a vet examination anyway before
they could let him go home with someone. I gave them my work number
and told them to call me after his exam – just out of curiosity.
Two days later, the call was not what I expected. "We're going
to have to put him down. He's been diagnosed with heartworms, and
it's too expensive to treat." That explained why he couldn't bark
in his cage! It also closed the deal. Harvey was special, and no
one was going to give up on him now. "Not this dog. I'll take him,"
I said.
 That
evening, Harvey and I, and a big ol' bag of medicine arrived at home.
As I walked Harvey towards the stairs to my apartment, he stopped.
It was as if he didn't trust them. I practically had to lift him
up one step at a time. Was my dog afraid of heights? When we went
for a walk that night, I led Harvey across the street, and upon
reaching the other side, his nose clocked the curb. It was becoming
very apparent that Harvey was not only recently abandoned and near
death, he was also blind. Had I just adopted the unluckiest dog
in the world?
On the contrary, Harvey was quite lucky. He regained his health
in the next few weeks, and he soon had a new home in Colorado with
a dad who loved him more than anything. Once he learned the layout
of the apartment and stopped bumping into walls, life was good.
Sure Harvey was lucky, but not half as much as I was. I had an
instant companion in my new hometown. I had someone to lick my
face on a bad day, and someone to keep me warm on a cold night.
I had a roommate who made friends with my neighbors before I even
met them, and someone with a handshake a politician would envy.
 I also had an inspiration. Harvey had been dealt some bad cards
in life, but he never let it get him down like his dad sometimes
did. When he bumped into a wall or a tree, he let out a little
sneeze, adjusted his course a few degrees, and forged on. I couldn't
help but think: if everyone behaved more like my dog, the world
would be a better place. I, for one, would do my part in being
more like Harvey. To this day, I remember his example.
After five and a half years of incredible memories, I lost my
best friend. One February night, Harvey's behavior seemed strange.
He appeared to be overheating, so I let him outside to cool off.
I observed as he headed for a corner of the yard and started digging.
He never dug in the backyard. The realization I had at that moment
tore my heart in two. He was trying to escape. He wanted to go
somewhere to die.
After a late-night trip to the animal hospital, I made the long
drive home. Alone.
 A
week later, I went back to the hospital to pick up my dog, this
time in a little cardboard box. I wasn't sure what I was going
to do with the ashes, but for now, I wanted them close to me. For
the next couple weeks, I talked to the cardboard box like it was
Harvey. Then I realized: I'm not talking to the box, I'm talking
to my memories. Everyone else who took their ashes home has a box
that looks just like that one.
I tried to imagine a good way to
memorialize Harvey using his ashes – I wanted something unique,
beautiful, and personalized. I wanted to see a part of Harvey when
I talked to him.
Coincidentally, a few days later, my business partner and I met
with a glass artist on a completely unrelated matter. His work
was incredible, and I was awestruck by the beauty of glass artwork.
I remembered seeing glass artwork that incorporated ash from Mt.
St. Helens, and I had heard about cremated remains being used in
glass as well. I suggested we do it with Harvey's
ashes, and the results were magnificent.
A couple months later, PawPrint Reflections was born. Inspired
by Harvey, and with a number of his sculptures as our showcase
pieces, PawPrint Reflections has continued to garner accolades
from pet lovers all over. As our first satisfied customer, I now
have a striking red and purple piece on my fireplace mantle, surrounded
by my favorite photos of Harvey and his old collar.
I still miss my boy. I frequently stop in front of the fireplace
to say hi to my best friend. But I also find solace in knowing
that Harvey played a part in helping us preserve loving memories
in homes everywhere.
Marty Topping
Co-Owner
PawPrint Reflections |
