Back in November 2016, I had the privilege of spending the last few days of my mother's life with her. She was wracked with cancer, so much so that a tumor had erupted from her back, and I am pretty sure had also invaded her brain. The pain of cancer and the prospect of impending death left her in a regrettable mood and most days, when she was coming in and out of drug-induced naps, we argued incessantly.
Her favorite phrase at the time was "Sonny Boy strikes again" when speaking about my many financial woes and my poor planning. She didn't know that I was ADHD and my RSD combined with poor emotion control left me often defensive and combative in our dealings.
On November 23, 2016, the arguments stopped and my Mother, Beverly T German passed peacefully in a hospice unit in Morehead City, North Carolina.
Not for nothing, but in July 2023 I said goodbye to my dog Buxton. I had her for 16 years, and she was everything to me. Her tired body gave out, and it was time to let her sleep eternally, but before she went, God and I had a long talk about her. We agreed that if I let her go, he would let me move on with my life, and so we parted ways.
Fast-forward to June 2024 Klamath Falls, Oregon and the arrival of a little blond hellion named "Zeppa June". My wife found her on Facebook, and we met her in the local park. She was born in a nearby town and was a rescue and between the puppy breath and the sad state she was in, I agreed and we adopted her.
Zeppa is of slight build, painfully skinny, and often bounces off walls. She is a mix we think of Yellow Lab and Anatolian Sheppard, and we expect her to top 80 pounds when she is full-grown.
Now, however, she is a slight 35-pound puppy who has my older dog Paisley walking on the wrong side when we take walks and my cats have begun to stutter.
Needless to say, she has somewhat upended our existence.
She's up at 5 AM each day demanding to go potty and have a snack, she pees either from fear or excitement, whenever I look at her. We have just started running together in the early morning, the only way I have found to curb the limitless energy of a four-month-old puppy.
When we got her, my wife declared her name to be Zeppa and I immediately turned it into a Barry Manilow tune combined with an Olive Garden staple. Most evenings you can hear either my wife or I bellow out, "Zeppa, Zeppa Toscana" to the tune of Copa Cabana across our backyards as she wolfs down deer droppings and runs into the neighbor's yard.
And while we are slowly getting to know each other, one fact is becoming readily apparent to me. This dog is the reincarnation of my Mother.
Start with the blond hellion, add in the anorexically-skinny build, the lighting in a bottle energy and the fact that she has managed to find that one nerve I have left and stomps on it daily. I have no choice but to believe God in all his humor sent my Mother back to me in the form of a puppy.
According to Google, "The accumulation of good and bad deeds, words, and thoughts in this life and previous lives determines what a soul will become in its next life. For example, in Hinduism, a soul that desires to do more divine service after death may choose a supportive family to be reborn into."
Lord knows my Mom had a good bit of work to do to get into Heaven, and this past year I was visited by my late Father in a dream. That along with the deal God and I worked out with Buxton, I can only guess He saw fit to send my Mother back to me.
I wish I could say we patched up our differences, and we get along in a way in this life that we never achieved in her previous existence, but that would be a lie. We still argue over her behavior, and the only saving grace is she eats deer crap now and doesn't judge my life choices.
But God works in mysterious ways and every once in a while, Zeppa nuzzles between my legs and looks up as if to say, "Dad, I love you." I don't think she remembers that I used to say that to her when she was my Mom, but I do think she knows that she belongs here and that our souls are connected through the stars. And at the very least, she may not remember what a disappointment of a son I was, but may now see me as a caring father. And with time and patience, maybe I can be a better dog father, and we can see each other in a new light and repair the damage we did to each other in her past life.
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