Requiem for a Dog

When I first met you, you were a shivering lump of anxiety, just like me.

You huddled in the corner, shaking with anticipation, dandruff falling, falling like snowflakes. All tick bites and sad eyes. The only small dog left on “every dog must go” day. You had seen and felt hard, sad things. You were lost, literally.

I was lost in my own way. I was “just looking,” riding the return wave of grief, another spring day drenched in loss.

Newly graduated and bereaved, this was the phase I called my “mid-mid-life” crisis. My dad had died two Aprils ago, and nothing made sense, still. Now I was a sad child living an adult storyline. My friends had moved away. It rained, a lot. I moved into a shiny, lonely unit in my college town. I worked and grieved full-time. I was needy, but afraid to get close.

I felt sympathy for you. You were sweet, albeit straggly. But I needed to take care of myself. I made to leave. Then, your little “Raggle” hands wrapped around my knee, held tight. You looked up, pleaded quietly.

I’ve given that look before, in my saddest hour. Stay with me. Comfort me. Hold me. I’d seen people walk away, too. I had passed up happier dogs. But you had gumption. You were riddled with grief, too. It was game over.

I’ve given that look before, in my saddest hour. Stay with me. Comfort me. Hold me. I’d seen people walk away, too. I had passed up happier dogs. But you had gumption. You were riddled with grief, too. It was game over.

I signed the papers, the “yes-my-home-is-safe,” the “no-I-have-never-done-this-before,” riding the buzz of an impulsive decision. Five, they told me. That’s how many families were ahead in line. Each had 24 hours to decide. Five full days of wondering.

Each day was punctuated by a call. “The first family passed her up.” Next day, the same. Hope rose. I mildly wondered what was wrong with you. I Googled PetCo coupons and drew imaginary lines where your bed might go.

Then, the final day. I got the call, and it surprisingly sank me. “I’m sorry, the last family in line has decided to adopt her.”

I fell into sobs, missing something I never had. I didn’t realize how much I wanted you, or wanted not to be alone. I reminded myself that surprising, bad things happened, often.

Then, a minute later, a call back. “You know what? Never mind. Change of plans. She’s yours. Come pick her up tonight.” This was the first but not the last elated moment you gave me. All fate, all along.

I had no money, but I got you the best. You took on new life outside that cage. You beamed in the passenger seat, Cheshire smile and waggling tongue. You walked through the pet store aisles like a mistaken convict freed from prison. You pulled the leash like life had been waiting for you, and you had some smelly, slobbery catching up to do. Your joy was so contagious I cried.

You pulled the leash like life had been waiting for you, and you had some smelly, slobbery catching up to do. Your joy was so contagious I cried.

You were a handful, but it was alright, since I was too. You were scared to see me duck even into a closet for a minute. You tore up my door, destroyed your pink gums on metal kennel bars, whined for hours when I left, exhausted yourself with anxiety when I returned.

We worked on it. We laid in the grass and read books. I held your paw and slept on the floor. Your five-foot vertical jump got us both into trouble. Cost me thousands and sent me into sleepless nights. But you saw me through sleepless nights, too. I hope you enjoyed the Easter chocolate. We both made mistakes; We both groveled and felt bad about it.

You liked peanut butter and eggs. You preferred to act human or cat-like. You never left my lap. Your wispy, white fur felt familiar on my work clothes. I lost track of the times I stained your belly with big, black, grieving tears. You were calm through 4 a.m. anxiety attacks. You waited when I couldn’t get out of bed. You were every dog, yet you weren’t.

Life had dealt you a bad hand. You were smart, sensitive. Your deep fears came up in strange moments, a flurry of memory and grief. But you were so hungry for all life had, anyway. We had so much in common.

Then we moved across the country, chasing love and a dream. And we tried, but we realized that New York City was my ideal home, not yours.

Still, you made a go. You pissed in concrete sidewalk cracks. You gave up grass for love. I dragged you away from rat poison. We collapsed on the third floor of stairs in my tiny three-bedroom after a long, hot day. We both navigated strange hours, loud nights, expensive vets, bizarre smells and neighbors. We snuggled and listened to Brooklyn hum.

When dreadful April 15th came again, I blasted “Come on Eileen” — one of Dad’s favorites songs — and we both danced and barked around the living room with excitement that bordered on hysteria.

When dreadful April 15th came again, I blasted “Come on Eileen” — one of Dad’s favorites songs— and we both danced and barked around the living room with excitement that bordered on hysteria.

You were always there for me in those moments that were too insane, too raw, too gut-wrenchingly sad to share with anyone else.

But we had bad days, too. Both of our anxieties grew. The ten hour work days broke me a little, and you, too. It was all okay, but it wasn’t like before. You felt like a tether, and I probably felt like a void. We both knew something had to give.

Across the country, there was another story brewing. An empty house was now filled to the brim with grief. A family member of mine was facing his own spring rain, and now needed the love of a mutt.

(A medium had even told him so: “Your sister passed away a year ago. You now live in her home. And… I see a small dog….”)

So that was that. You had a new duty to fill. It was the hardest choice I had ever made, but you got me through the hardest parts of my grief. You did your job, and I mine. We had patience for each other when nobody else could. We both battled gut-wrenching anxiety, yet reveled in patches of daisies on a sunny day. You’re a special dog. You always knew that, though.

I can hear my boyfriend chiding, “Dogs aren’t people.” And he’s right. You were better.