Bob and I have 3 grown children who have soared from our nest and two canine children who keep our nest cozy and crazy. We have 2 poodles (rather… they have us) named Gracie and Cody.

Gracie is a six-year-old toy poodle.  She is the color of my one remaining dietary vice: chocolate. Cody (aka “Code Man”) is a five-year-old miniature poodle who goes well with chocolate- he is white or “vanilla” as we say at our house.

These two canine kids keep our home interesting to say the least.  But, Gracie and Cody are a source of unconditional love and unfathomable comfort as well.

I came home from the hospital following my bilateral mastectomy and immediate reconstruction after just 24 hours.  Not because I am “superwoman;” it was a decision my surgeon lobbied for-  an excellent way to avoid infection and potential loss of my implants.

With drains in tow, we drove home on July 4th- my Independence Day from breast cancer. My mind was foggy with anesthesia and pain meds as we pulled into the driveway.  Bob helped me out of the car and we opened our front door.

My parents were there from Georgia to help take care of me and our household so Bob could head back to work after the long weekend. As the doorknob turned, I heard the familiar barking and my mind woke up.

My parents carefully held Gracie and Code Man so there would be no greetings via jumping.   My canine kids looked at me quizzically as if to say, “What’s wrong, Mom?”

Our nights soon fell into a predictable routine.  I would settle into the recliner in our bedroom and Gracie would sleep on our bed with Bob.  In the morning after Bob left for work, Gracie would scoot toward the foot of the bed.  She would watch me closely.  She did not offer to get down from the bed or ask to go out.  She simply waited.  She waited while I hobbled out of the recliner.  She waited while I went to the bathroom.  Only as I prepared to gingerly walk downstairs did Gracie move.  Then she would tentatively leave our bed and follow me slowly down the stairs.  Gracie understood.  She understood that I was in pain.  She understood that I was moving slowly. She understood that my spirit felt broken. Tenderly she placed her soft head in my lap and lovingly licked my hands.  Gracie was my comforter.

We adopted Cody from my parents and he has always slept in his crate in the family room.  He feels safe there and never argues about relocating to his “den” at bedtime.  After my surgery Cody needed to master a new skill.  He had always gone outside on a leash but after my surgery, I couldn’t handle his pulling on the leash.  Not at the beginning anyway.  So, we introduced a new request: “All done.”  Cody loved the freedom of going out on his own and learned “All done” fairly quickly. He would sometimes run as fast as he could in circles until he inevitably fell over.  Cody was my clown.

Eighteen months have passed since my surgery.  The recliner now sits in the family room. Cody still goes out on his own, although he often ignores “All Done” and stays outside as long as he likes.  He is still my clown- often running in circles and then flopping down as if to say, “Can you believe I just did that?!”  Gracie is still my comforter.  She snuggles up beside me on the couch and paws at my hand until I put my arm around her.  She leans in close and looks up at me with her luminous chocolate eyes as if to say, “Hey Mom- we made it.”

How much are those doggies in the window?  Gracie and Code Man are not for sale.  You can’t buy my heartbeat.