Tiny dog lives up to great expectations - if only for a while.

Byline: Write on by Jeannine Bertrand For The Register-Guard

"I WANT THAT little dog." It was a simple, declarative statement on a rainy February Valentine's Day.

My husband looked at me, understood the tone as well as the words, and simply nodded.

We would adopt Bridget, a tiny, old lady dog of questionable background, into our pack of two. Or was it a pack of 10? After all, my spouse gently reminded me, we already had seven goats and one very large Maremma livestock guardian dog.

And Bridget did not come without problems. She was underweight, a mere slip of a thing at 5 pounds. Her heart murmur was significant. She would be on heart meds the rest of her life, with no guarantee as to how long that would be. Who knew how many homes this senior citizen had already occupied before she came to stay at the veterinary hospital?

At the counsel of the vet, we slept on our decision. Bridget would need a quiet home where there were no other inside animals. She needed people presence. Meds twice a day, frequent trips outdoors to relieve herself.

In return, Bridget held the promise of companionship and that deep devotion I had read about in books. For sure, I had experienced some of that with the family pets that entered and exited our lives. But they had been just that: family pets. Loved by everybody in our home, mourned greatly when their lives came to an end. Bridget would be different. She would be my dog.

Newly retired from a very active career, I found myself busy enough. Reading to catch up on, friends with whom to reconnect, a husband already retired, patiently awaiting some spousal time. Did we really need a dog, and a high-needs one at that?

The next day, Bridget sealed the deal. Placed in my lap by the vet, she wiggled to my shoulder, burrowed into my neck and laid her head down as if to say, "Take me."

For several weeks we did the dance, Bridget and I. She ate, slept and kept me company. I, in turn, made sure she took her meds and understood household limits. Into her crate at night, out in the morning, a gradual routine taking shape.

Nothing prepared me for the firm hold this tiny creature would come to place on my heart.

An early spring came to Eugene that year of the dog. Bridget accompanied me on my daily rounds: the post office to fetch the mail, a workout, the grocery store. She never tired of going for a ride, doing a little hind-legged dance when invited to come along. "Two girls in a Camry," my husband teased, as Bridget poked her nose out the rear window, white fur catching the wind.

As the seasons changed, so did Bridget. Her tiny frame boasted three more pounds. "She has hips!" the vet exclaimed.

Indeed, Bridget walked with a wiggle, head held high, seemingly saying, "Look at me!" Her coat was thick and lush, her deep, brown eyes wide and trusting. She graduated from the crate to our bed, a warm loaf between us. "You're over the top about her," a friend commented, not unkindly. I agreed.

Preparations for a long-awaited trip to Ohio sent Bridget and me scurrying around town, despite the onset of a nagging canine cough. "Something special for my sister's new home, an Oregon gift for an aging aunt and uncle, purchases with meaning," I commented to my interested companion as she sniffed each parcel with curiosity.

On the day of our departure, suitcases tumbled out of the closet and into the car as Bridget ran to greet Adam, her house-minding buddy.

"Eugene snow," we called it, on the early morning ride to the airport. Thick November fog blanketed the area, canceling departure and postponing travel plans until the following day, if we were lucky. Adam promised a morning return with his big hand on Bridget's tiny head.

By evening, Bridget's cough had turned into an extended gasp for air. Scooping her up in a blanket, we headed off to the emergency vet.

The vigil began. Ohio and relatives would have to wait. At midnight, the call came. One last time, Bridget wiggled her way from a lap to a shoulder as she was lifted by the vet out of her incubator. She gave a tired little sigh as the big heart in her diminutive body stopped beating.

Bridget is buried alongside goats Vinny and Millie, a friend's dog Abby and Corbett the cat. Rhodies will bloom on their hill when milder weather returns to our valley. Perhaps by then, the hole in my heart will be filled with another Valentine dog.

Jeannine Bertrand, 61, is a retired Eugene School District principal. She lives on seven acres of land in Eugene, overlooking the mighty McKenzie, with her husband Frank and their furry friends..

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