FAMILY MATTERS
Wagging her world with a will, a woof and a wet nose

By Ka'ohua Lucas

When we first laid eyes on her, she was about four weeks old.

The boys insisted we make her part of the family.

I had my reservations.

"Look at her, Mom," my eldest said. "With those sad eyes."

She was peering back at us.

I really had to think about it.

My family insisted.

I finally gave in.

That day, we left the Hawaiian Humane Society with not only one but two puppies.

And they were sisters.

We brought the girls home and tried unsuccessfully to keep them contained.

The larger one, Makoa, kept leaping over the barricade.

My youngest son would run after her and return her to the makeshift pen, where she would escape, again.

We decided to move them

to the front of the house and secured Makoa and sister 'Eleu to a long tether.

But instead they decided to use the lawn as a wrestling mat, tearing up the grass.

"Makoa! Stop!" I shouted.

She would look at me with woeful eyes.

Then creep over to me in reconciliation.

No sooner would I turn my back than I'd hear a crunching sound.

I peered out the door to discover her gnawing the corner of the house.

"Makoa! Stop it!"

Makoa, always the aggressive one, would stand watch over our property.

She had a special spot in the yard where she would sit waiting for the uninvited.

No animal or human could enter without Makoa alerting us to an intruder.

'Eleu was indifferent to it all.

My husband always referred to them as the "two-headed dog."

We would take long walks with them. We even found a special swimming hole where they could splash around.

Makoa was always the one to fetch the stick.

'Eleu would wait until her sister returned it to us.

Then she would snatch it from her.

A little game they used to play.

So it was a shock to us when Makoa was diagnosed with lymphosarcoma — a type of cancer most common in small animals.

For the past four months, our lives were centered on her.

We kept constant vigil.

My youngest had to sit with her while she ate.

Sometimes up to half an hour.

I administered her daily medication and vitamins designed to boost her immune system.

As the weeks progressed, Makoa became thinner, refusing to eat.

Her breathing was labored, and she was unsteady when she tried to stand.

We knew it was time to put her down.

On that fateful day, my husband drove Makoa to the stream where she used to play with her sister.

He opened the van doors, and let her soak in the environment.

The sound of rushing water.

The smell of decayed leaves.

The gentle brush of the breeze.

She briefly lifted her head, acknowledging her surroundings.

A couple of days after Makoa died, I was sitting on an outdoor bench, stroking 'Eleu.

When I looked up, I noticed one of our native hibiscus bushes was in full bloom.

A misty rain gently brushed its petals.

I called out to my boys.

"Look at the koki'o ke'oke'o, it's in full bloom."

"That's a sign, Mommy," my 10-year-old said. "Makoa is telling us not to be sad. She's happy where she is."

Na wai maka o ka lani.

The tears of heaven.

Translated, this Hawaiian proverb means that the gods weep in sympathy with the mourners.

Reach Ka'ohua Lucas at Family Matters, 'Ohana section, The Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Honolulu, HI 96802; e-mail ohana@honoluluadvertiser.com or fax 525-8055.