My True Companion

Editor's Note: In February 2008, Gabrielle Ford shared her story of how a dog named Izzy helped her deal with a crippling disease—and the bullying she endured because of it. Gabe and Izzy became the faces of a national movement to curb bullying and violence in schools. This week we received the sad news that Izzy passed away at 9½ years old.

Here’s Gabe and Izzy’s story:

“Izzy? Where are you, girl?” I called out from my bedroom, expecting to see my black and tan coonhound come running to my side. But she didn’t. That’s strange, I thought. She was usually the first to greet me when I woke up in the morning. I slid off the side of the bed and got on my hands and knees, crawling out of my room to try and find her.

Finally, I spotted her in the hallway, lying on the floor. “Izzy?” She didn’t budge. Her head was down, her long, floppy ears draped on the ground. Her breathing was shallow. Her brown eyes were open, but didn’t blink. “Mom!” I yelled. “Come quick!”

My mother came racing down the stairs. “Are you all right, Gabe? What’s wrong?” She rushed to my side.

“It’s not me, it’s Izzy.” Lord, please, please let her be okay. She’s my best friend. My only friend.

Friends were hard to come by for someone with my disability. At age 12 I was diagnosed with Friedreich’s ataxia, a progressive disease of the central nervous system that slowly slurred my speech and robbed me of my mobility. I was able to hide it at first, but by the time I entered high school, the disease had gotten worse.

My classmates noticed my stumbling and altered speech. “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?” they snapped when I bumped into someone or something. Being bullied became a daily event. Mom encouraged me to talk about my disease. If the other kids knew, she said, they might not be so mean. “You don’t understand,” I told her. They’d just swoop down on me like I was some wounded prey. If I couldn’t hide my disease, I figured, I’d just hide, period.

For the past two years, since graduation, I’d rarely left the house. I couldn’t walk far without a wheelchair now, and I didn’t want those bullies to see me in one. I begged my mom and stepdad for a dog. I was lonely. I had my parents and my two sisters, but I needed a friend.

Mom agreed to let me have a dog, but with conditions. I had to pay for it and take care of it myself. “Even taking it to the vet?” I asked. Mom just nodded.

I researched breeds online. “Coonhounds are known for their beauty, strength and courage,” I read on one website. Beauty, strength and courage. Everything I wished people could see in me.

Mom worried about how a dog would react to my condition, but the first time we met, it didn’t faze Izzy in the least. On our way home from picking her up, she began whimpering so I lifted her up and laid her in my lap, stroking her floppy, velvety ears until she drifted to sleep.

Every morning I’d lie on the floor with her, ruffle the hair behind her ears; she’d roll over and I’d rub her belly. I told my furry little girl everything, like girlfriends do. She listened intently, focusing on me with those deep brown eyes. I even sang lullabies to her at night.

Mom made sure I fed her twice a day and took her for her walks. It was scary leaving the house, but I did it for her.

Izzy returned the attention. Soon after I adopted her, my mom had company over. Izzy wouldn’t let me just sit alone in my room. “Izzy, stay,” I commanded, wanting to shut my door and hide. But she kept darting in and out of my bedroom, yipping at me to follow her and meet the guests. Courage, I thought. Wasn’t that what a coonhound was known for? I took a deep breath. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Just this once.”