The ‘Doggone’ Truth About Community

After saying goodbye to my husband four months ago, one of the soldiers of rear detachment stopped me in the parking lot and told me that if there was anything I needed help with during the deployment to please call him. This is not uncommon in the military community, and his words were comforting on such a raw, emotional day.

I told him there were two things I didn’t want to have to do during this deployment: buy a car or put my dog down.

Sadly, I had to do both this month, and no other words will suffice…

It sucked.

I’m sure if I tried harder I could find a better word. But the truth is that “embrace the suck” is real in our community, and the truth about military life lies in these exact situations.

It is the deep, painful truth that life goes on while they’re away.

It is the truth that, no matter how much we separate jobs in a marriage (buying cars and burying pets most definitely fall into his realm), the truth is that the job has to be done, and the one left behind does the best they can with the resources they have.

Luckily, we have vast resources in our community. My resources include a brother who was willing to help me navigate the overwhelming world of used cars and a neighborhood that answered my cries for help.

In early December, my daughter’s car was totaled driving back from Houston. She was unharmed, but her car was unrepairable. We spent the next few weeks car shopping. To me, used-car shopping is about as fun as preparing taxes or filling FAFSA paperwork. Running VIN numbers and talking to numerous car salespeople, all vying to get me to make a choice that may come back to bite me, was simply exhausting. After lots of prayer and low reserves of patience, we finally purchased a car. My daughter and I are still on speaking terms, so I’ll give myself props for that one.

But shortly after the wreck. our beloved dog’s (Elsa) time had come, and this is where the truth became all too real for me.

I went home from work on my lunch break to check on Elsa. She’d been declining fast at age 14, and the night before had been a rough one. I found her inside the front hallway breathing heavily and unable to move. I called the vet and told her we were coming in, but as I reached down to try and pick her up, I realized I would not be able to get her into my car without help. She was stuck by the front door, swollen and in terrible pain.

After frantically ringing doorbells (realizing my go-to neighbors were at work), I grabbed my phone and made a desperate plea on our neighborhood Facebook page. As I sat down next to my girl and tried to to catch my breath, panic and fear set in.

However, the truth about the people I share my neighborhood with became apparent within three short minutes as four strangers arrived at my house.

A retired veteran, whom I never met came through the door, lifted my girl in one swoop, and loaded her into my car. As I was pulling away, others who had seen my cry for help were heading to my house. One amazing lady ran all the way to my house. Another saw my post and sent her visiting father-in-law. It was overwhelming, and I felt like they were cheering us on as I sped off.

This is the truth about community. We show up and are present for each other. We don’t have to ask questions or know too much. Our support for each other runs deep.

When I finally got to the vet, Elsa was almost gone. All I could think is how I wished my soldier could say goodbye. As I lay on the floor with her, I cried loud, unapologetic sobs. I barely acknowledged the tech as she shaved a piece of Elsa’s leg to prep her. I was unprepared for how hard this was going to be, the pain in my heart was almost unbearable. I stayed on the floor with her until she passed. In her final minute, she put her chin on my face, and I felt the breath leave her.

It wrecked me.

The truth is that a stranger gave me the opportunity to say goodbye to my girl.

A stranger who lives in my community, whom I never met before, answered my cry for help. My pathetic cry for help on Facebook seemed desperate, but the truth is that sometimes we are desperate, and in the moment of true need and real pain, our vulnerability trumps our pride.

Sometimes we need a stranger to help us, and we aren’t weaker for that.

But the beautiful truth—the “doggone” truth—is that no matter how alone we feel or how hard we grieve, our community grieves with us. We love each other’s kids and care for each other’s pets, and when the Facebook post goes up that someone has lost their furry family member, we know how to comfort each other.

I’d forgotten how much our sweet Elsa connected with others over the years. She moved seven times with us and chased squirrels all over the globe. Our friends sent pictures and shared memories with us.

I know someone is thinking, “She was just a dog.”

But she was our dog, and she made every house we lived in feel like home.

As we enter into month five of this deployment, I’m ready for whatever 2020 brings us, because deep in my heart, I carry the spirit of Elsa and the support of my military (and my neighborhood) tribe.

And that is the doggone truth.