My dog visited me in my dreams.

This is Rocky. He's my Boston Terrier and he's been gone two years now. The other night, I had a very vivid dream about him. I dreamt that I was awake and he was tucked in bed, sandwiched between me and my other dog, Milla. He was staring at me as though to say, "Don't be sad, mom, I'm okay."

I felt my heart sink and I woke up with a gasping sob. I swear, in the dark of the room, I could feel him there, his little spirit floating in the empty space between me and Milla. 

I'd like to think that this is his way of telling me he's passed on now, his way of coming back to let me know he's no longer in pain. You see, he died of cancer and my ex had let it go on until Rocky was in so much pain that he couldn't stop trembling. The vet did the only kind thing left to do and put my sweet baby to sleep.

I'd rescued Rocky when he was a puppy from one of those "designer, high-end" puppy stores in the West Village in NYC. You know, one of those places with lush leather seats, designer breeds like "cockapoo," and $2500 price tags. 

It was nearing Christmas and I'd gone into the City to window shop. I'd had no intentions of buying a puppy, but I saw the storefront and I figured I'd check it out and play with a puppy or two. I knew these were puppy mill pups.

The lights were dim, like some bougie library, with wooden shelves of designer food and bedazzled, studded collars. Behind the counter were rows of cages displaying toy breed puppies, all romping around. 

"Was there a specific breed you were looking for?" the saleswoman asked me. She's blonde and svelt, her hair neatly tucked back behind her ears. She looked nothing like the salespeople at the pet stores at the mall. She wouldn't be caught dead in a logo-emblazoned polo shirt.

"Oh, no," I replied. "It doesn't look like you have the breed here anyway."

I'd been playing with the idea of getting a Boston Terrier to be a companion to my boxer, but I was going to go the rescue route.

"Oh? And which breed is that?" the saleswoman prods. 

"A Boston Terrier," I said as I perused the small shop and its offerings. I didn't think they'd have one since all the puppies on display were some variant of a "poo" dog.

"Oh, we do have one of those," she quipped. "Wait one second. He's in the basement."

There are more dogs in the basement? I thought incredulously. WTF. Just how many dogs were down in that basement?

The saleswoman disappears behind a door and I'm left to stand in the ambient lighting. She returns momentarily with a small, unmoving bundle in her arms. 

"You can sit right there," she said, motioning to the stool inside a gated-off puppy play area. 

Okaaay…I think as I move over to the seat and eye her wearily. She then plops the puppy in my arms and right away, I could tell he was in trouble. Unlike other puppies who would normally want to play and engage, he cowered in my arms. 

"Here," she said, handing me some chicken jerky, "this will entice him. He's just tired from all the playing."

But what this woman didn't know was that I'd volunteered for my local Humane Society for eight years. I knew abuse and bullshit when I saw it; and even without all of that experience, it wasn't hard to see that there was something seriously wrong with this dog. His face was scratched up. He was missing spots of hairs on his hind legs. His eyes were bright red. But more than that, he wanted nothing to do with humans.

"How old is he?" I asked. He looked much older than the rest of the puppies in the store.

"Oh, he's seven months," she replied. 

Seven months. This meant he'd been lingering in this place for at least five months, and god knew how many of those months were in the basement as he got older and was no longer considered displayable. 

I sat with him in my lap for at least 30 minutes, just allowing him to trust me. He'd show a little interest in the chicken snack, trying to nibble, but then cowering back. Eventually, he climbed off my lap and squeezed himself into the far corner of the playpen. Every time the male employee would walk by him, he'd flinch and huddle even lower to the ground. 

I picked him back up then and looked deep into his little face. He looked so much like my Milla, despite being a different breed. I spent an hour with him, just allowing him to bury himself into my embrace; and as I sat there with him, I knew in my heart I couldn't leave him behind. I couldn't leave him to some unknown fate where I knew he wouldn't get the care he needed.

He clearly had an eye infection and mange. 

And he'd clearly been physically abused if his shut-down behavior and flinching were anything to go by. God knew what else was going on. 

"Oh, that's just rough play," the saleswoman said to me when I make a comment about the scratches on his face and the missing fur. "All our animals are vet-checked."

Lies. 

"Look," I said to her. "This dog is already seven months old. He's clearly sick. I think you should just give him to me."

Her eyebrows raised. "Oh, I can't do that."

"It's going to cost me thousands to get him back to healthy," I pushed, holding Rocky closer to my chest.

"He's not sick," she insists, but I wasn't in the mood for arguing. I just wanted to get him safe.

"How much do you want for him?" 

She shuffles some papers around. "He's $700."

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "You're kidding, right? This is a sick dog. He's an older puppy. You're not going to be able to sell him. $200."

She's silent for a long moment, then she says, "$400."

"Fine," I responded, pulling out my credit card and handing it to her. $400 to save a life. I hated that they were getting money from me, but I wouldn't leave Rocky behind. I couldn't.

Before I took Rocky to the vet, I bought puppy health insurance. Aside from what I could visually see, I didn't know what else might be in store for us. I had absolutely no trust that a vet had ever seen this dog before. 

It turned out that on top of what I had already known, Rocky also had a bad case of giardia. It took about two months to turn his health around, but only about two solid weeks to housebreak him. His other behavioral issues - mainly skittishness, eating and drinking so quickly that he'd puke, and refusing to poo and pee in front of humans - were overcome over time as he learned to trust and love. My boxer, Milla, mothered him in those first few months and that helped too. 

Over the next three years, he was a constant companion to me and Milla. It was a long journey from that first meeting. He was so fearless and full of life. When we hiked, he'd often lag behind on trails because his little nose was tucked inside a flower, sniffing deep. Milla would then trot back behind me to go herd him along. 

Even though my ex was in the picture, he wasn't much of a hiker, so it would just be me and the two dogs leaving our footprints all over the Appalachian trails and the wilds of New York state.

I remember Rocky running like the wind, his ears tossed back and his little legs a blur as he'd tear across a field. He'd always try to grab the largest branch and wrestle it away from Milla as he toppled along beside her. She was much larger than him physically, but he never knew it. 

Even when my ex and I broke up, we still shared time with Rocky. He'd spend weekends with me and Milla and the three of us would go hiking. And when my depression got the best of me and I had to pare down, I had to make the hardest decision of my life and I left him to the care of my ex. 

I shouldn't have. I regret it to this day, but that heartbreaking decision was made during a time when my life was in shambles. 

The news of his passing hit me like a ton of bricks. I was 3000 miles away on the other side of America. There was no way for me to say goodbye. There was no way to see him one last time. All I had were a few photos and the pain in my chest as I cried and held onto Milla. 

Maybe Rocky coming to me in dreams is just a working of my subconscious, but maybe if you believe in something more, in something stronger, it was Rocky coming to say goodbye, of letting me feel his presence one last time. Maybe it was his way of reassuring me that he hasn't forgotten me and Milla and that he's okay now and to please don't be sad for him anymore. Maybe this is his way of telling me it's okay to let him go.

Sometimes, when I'm out walking with Milla, we'll pass a field of flowers and the memory of him will be so strong that it's like a visceral punch to the gut. I loved him so much, but I am also glad that he's no longer in pain. I know, somewhere beyond the rainbow bridge, he's romping in lush green forests, waiting for us just at the edge, his little nose tucked into a flower. 

It's said that we are all made of energy and that energy never dies. All that exists and will ever exist is already here, transforming from one thing to another. We're never truly gone, only passed through, so maybe, in some ways, when we see or remember the dead in our dreams, it is their way of visiting us, of telling us how they're doing. Maybe this is Rocky's way of saying he's okay now. Milla and I will never get to see him again in this lifetime, but perhaps, in his own way, he remembers us and came to remind us that he's not really gone, just moved on.

I never knew that a dog could mean so much. Such a short time in my life, but forever in my heart. Tonight, Milla is sleeping peacefully as I tinker away at my keyboard, unbothered by my free-flowing tears, but sometimes, I think she dreams of him too. Her legs twitch as though she's running and her whimpers mirror those of when he was a puppy and she needed to nurture him. 

Dearest Rocky - wherever you are, know that we love you and miss you. Know that when my day comes, I want to be where the dogs are because surely, that is where happiness lives.