When I was a girl, growing up in Bamfield, we had a dog named Tippy. She appeared one day in the woods behind our house. A group of kids were playing when they came across her with her newly born litter of puppies. She was thin, hungry and decidedly skittish.

There was no real doubt where she’d come from. The Huu-ay-aht Indian Reserve was located at the head of the Bamfield Inlet and there were always lots of dogs having puppies that ended up half wild. It was a hike from there though—maybe a kilometer or two—with no trails and lots of dense brush. Quite a trek for a pregnant little mutt.  

With food and some gentle coaxing, a bond slowly grew. Although my siblings clamoured to keep a puppy, our Mum had fallen for the mother. Tippy was a sweetheart. She was smart, loyal, loving, brave and beautiful. She was also a runaway so still technically owned by the Indian Band. The fear of them reclaiming her caused real concern in the family so eventually Dad negotiated a price with Chief Louie. I can’t remember if it was $50 or $100, but it was a good sum of money in those days. But she was worth it.

We moved from Bamfield to Port Alberni in December 1962. My sister Nancy commented recently that it must have been hard for Tippy to make the transition. I know it was for Nan, and I suspect it was for everyone in their own ways. Tippy was a trouper though. I’d dress her up occasionally. She didn’t love it but she let me.

We couldn’t have been living in Port for more than two or three years before Tippy started becoming incontinent. I don’t remember it being dramatic but Mum was on the front lines and I suspect she kept her concerns to herself. One day she announced that it was time to have Tippy put to sleep. It wasn’t a dialogue, as I recall.

Mum took her to the veterinary clinic on the highway outside of town. I don’t remember if she told us it was happening that day, but I do remember the phone call from the vet later that afternoon. Tippy had escaped. Tearfully, we drove around searching for her until it was too dark to see.

We were sitting at the kitchen table when Tippy burst triumphantly through the back door. Thin and hungry once again, but this time decidedly proud of herself. She had travelled over 7 kilometers through unknown terrain to find us. I remember the overwhelming joy at being reunited with our beloved pup, but it was short lived. Mum took took Tippy back to the vet the following day.

I’ve wept so much telling this story. It is truly one of the biggest sorrows of my childhood, but it’s been a healing day for me as well. In my young heart I blamed my mother. Harboured a resentment that was tucked away so deeply that I didn’t know it was there.

But through my grief another truth revealed itself to me—the cost of this to our mother. She loved that dog. In actual fact, I think Tippy was more her dog than anyone’s. As a fisherman’s wife she assumed a lot of responsibility in the home and many of the tough decisions fell to her. This was not one she had made lightly and she paid a dear price.

Tippy started and ended her life with us as a runaway. She was an adventurer, a lover, a teacher, and a friend. Her story has been dancing around my consciousness for weeks now, wanting to be told. She’s come back through time—more than fifty years in ‘human time’—to help me heal a childhood wound that’s kept me judgemental and apart from my own humanity. I’ve now joined the ranks. We all do our best and painful shit happens.

In the end it’s all about forgiveness. Forgiving my mother, yes. But also forgiving Life Itself for being such an uncompromising teacher. We sign up for heartbreak when we adopt these little beings but the return on our investment is unequivocally worth it.  

Is there someone or something that you might still need to forgive? Let me know, I’d love to hear!