It was at the lowest point in my life that we got Stacy, a cute little black and white Cockapoo puppy. It turned out she was exactly what I needed, just not for the reason I thought.

When I was eleven years old my father died of a heart attack, following years of alcoholism, heavy smoking, and heavier stress. The disease and his death left our family emotionally and financially bankrupt. To be near our relatives, my mother, brother, and I had to move from our home in sunny, warm Florida to live in Ohio. There the fall was settling in with perpetually gray skies and bone-numbing cold.

But that was appropriate, because I already was numb. Years of living with my father’s alcoholism had always been too much for a little child. To escape I would withdraw into myself, hiding the pain and fear and anger and tears deep inside. Unfortunately you can’t throw away bad feelings without getting rid of the good as well. If you can’t cry, you can’t laugh. And so over time I became the hidden, quiet, lost little boy. My dad’s death was just the padlocked lid that sealed my heart for good. I never even cried for him.

But then the spring came. The snows melted and flowers broke through with the promise of hope, the potential of new life. The new life came in the form of an unexpected gift, a small Cockapoo puppy. Cautiously we hoped she could help. Perhaps a little dog could bring some warmth and life back into our empty hearts and home. And she did.

We named her Anastasia, but called her Stacy for short. She had endless playful energy, but still was perfectly behaved, not even doing all those destructive things puppies are so well known for. She wouldn’t take rejection for an answer, forcing love upon me with springs in her legs and an enthusiastic licking tongue. Likewise she demanded love in return, nudging her tiny head under my hand so I would have to pet her and hug her and kiss her.

And somehow she did it. This unassuming puppy flew under my radar, got around my defenses, and picked the lock to my hidden heart. For the first time in years I truly felt loved and I loved in return.

But that wasn’t why she came into my life. That was just the start. Her true purpose was still to come.

Just when she had secured a tender place in my life and planted an anchor deep in my heart, things began to change. She lost her appetite and began to eat less and less every day. Her endless puppy energy disappeared and she preferred to lie on the floor than to run through the house. The twinkle in her eyes faded.

We took her to our local veterinarian thinking there was surely a simple answer, even though inside we were very concerned. Unfortunately he was at a loss to explain what was wrong with her. He tried to give her an I.V. to replenish her strength, but her veins were so small the needle wouldn’t go in. Finally he referred us to another doctor.

We thought for sure the new vet would be able to help, but the story was no different there. After keeping her over the weekend to run a battery of tests, there was still no diagnosis. Finally he decided there must be an internal problem and that exploratory surgery was our only hope. We scheduled the procedure for later that week and brought her home to be with us until then.

It was a very difficult week. Every day I worried while I was at school, unable to concentrate on the lessons, afraid of what I might find when I got home. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another part of my life. Despite our prayers though, she continued to grow weaker each day. At night she would cuddle close to my side, trying to gain some of my warmth.

Then the day of her operation arrived. I clearly recall that morning. Before leaving for school I picked up her frail body, kissed her gently on the head, and looked deep into her eyes. I said goodbye, unsure if it was for one day or forever.

Walking home from school that afternoon, I deliberately took my time, trying to postpone what I feared. When I did get home, my mother was there at the door to meet me. She had a look in her eyes that I had seen before, almost a year ago. The day when I had come home from school under the hot Florida sun, probably consumed with thoughts of afternoon cartoons, blissfully unaware that my life would soon change forever. The day when she explained “Daddy went to be with Jesus,” having suffered a massive heart attack while working at the used car lot. See had that look again.

She explained what happened to Stacy. My mom drove her to the animal hospital and the veterinarian had taken her in for surgery. They put her on the operating table and were just about to administer the anesthesia. Stacy looked up into the vet’s eyes, let out one long sigh, and let go of her life. They never even had to cut her.

Her purpose was now complete. Stacy had done what she came to do. I just didn’t understand it yet.

I stumbled through the rest of the day, unfeeling and in shock. But by the evening I couldn’t hide anymore. I ran out of diversions to keep my mind occupied and sleep refused to come. I thought about Stacy. It wasn’t fair. She was just an innocent, little puppy. She didn’t deserve to die, to feel all that pain. My defenses began to crumble. My heart began to break. And for the first time in years, I began to cry.

My mother sat down on the couch beside me and held me in her arms as simple tears turned to sobs. In between sobs I was saying, “Stacy, Stacy, why?” And as the pain and sadness for my little dog came flooding out, it brought with it years of loss and grief buried deep inside. I began to cry out, “Dad, Dad, why?” I cried for my father, for the years the alcoholism had ruined and the years it had now stolen. I cried for the dad I loved and missed so terribly much.

Several days later we received more information from the veterinarian. When Stacy had died, he chose to do an autopsy to determine what had been wrong with her all along. Upon operating he discovered that she had a congenital liver disease. Stacy had not caught an illness or eaten anything poisonous as we had feared. She had never had a chance. She was born with a flawed liver. Stacy was literally born to die.

And finally I understood. We had chosen Stacy’s full name, Anastasia, because of what it meant, not truly understanding the implications. Anastasia means “Able to live again.” God knew the condition I was in, how I had buried all of my feelings, unable to deal with my pain and loss. He saw that I could not cry and could not laugh. He knew something had to be done to reach me and break me out of my prison.

So He sent a little dog to me. A cute little black and white Cockapoo that slipped right past my walls of defense, won a place in my heart, and then broke that very heart. Because of Stacy I was able to cry again. I was able to love again. I was able to live again.