Hearing that your dog has died two weeks ago, is like being told your son has been killed in drunk car accident when you didnt even know he was at a party.
I feel a bit betrayed. I know I'm being irrational because as my dad said it's not something you tell over the phone, it has to be in person. And he waited to do that for me.
But all I can feel is guilt. That I wasn't there for him when he took his last breath. For not being at his ceremony, but most of all for not being around more often.
Me and my baby where both sort of orphans when we were introduced to each other. I had come from a recently broke up family and was with an emotionally shutdown father. Darby was a shipped puppy who was rejected and sent back by the ass of a purchaser I will never know. All he knew for his first months of his life this was darkness, rejection, and isolation. Funny. Kind of like me...
Anyways we were both awkward beginner bonders. Trying to figure out where we both fit into each other lives and when we needed affection most. In my depression though I feel he pulled me out. Just by being him. A soul that was so pure, he would never hurt even if he was attacked. Who openly loved, and snuggled, and waggled his ass over to anyone worth willing a smile or second of attention.
He would proudly and fearlessly would run to other dogs, and I mean huge dobermans who would give him a look like "Are you fucking kidding? I could give you a stare that would kill you" and yet his playful butt waggle and perky ears would melt them all into docile lambs that pranced together. He had this fat little loaf body and teeny legs that are character of Cairn terriers. But that never stopped him from sneaky sweeps of toys under other dogs noses or snarky yaps at the dogs who were outrunning him when I would throw a toy, basically saying, "it's mine bitch!" and the other dog would instantly back away. Even my dad's dog Indra backed off. And just for reference Indra is literally 100 pounds, has the head the size of a soccer ball, and is tall enough to literally walk right over darby without so much as his dinkle slapping his face.
I love the way he would chase the cascading tide on the sand, like is was a running rabbit and he would try and snatch it even as the last lap hit the side.
I love that he could go up to ANYONE, and because he knew he was that cute, he'd roll on his belly instantly, with no fear, and more importantly with the certainty of getting his expectations met.
I love that he ate an entire apple. Like a human. As a I rotated it for him to eat.
I love that for some reason dog treats came second to cheese for him.
I love his scratchy rasta hair which gladly wore and refused to sit still for brushes.
I love how scared, and innocent, and just so dependant he'd look with those big worried eyes when I'd have to put him in the bath, and he'd scramble on his nails to get out but the porcelain wouldn't give him the grounding he wanted. Those moments his big black button eyes were like huge moons on his now skinny rat frame without all his hair to make him chubby.
I think I loved that the most, the first bath. Becuase he made himself vulnerable to me, and I felt deeply responsible and not only priveleged to reassure him, to coo and gently soap him down as he held my gaze the entire time, latching his eye into me like a lifeline hooks in a storm, terrified if he looked away he'd by lost.
I love that he wasn't smart about somethings. and too smart for others. He would actually look at my hand before performing a trick. If there was something (treat obvs) he would huff then dutifully perform. If nothing, he'd take one look at the empty hand, at me, and then turn and run in the other direction. Yes this was my dog.
I love that in the center of my depression era as a weird and confused teenager, he became my pal, my baby, my soother, and my comfort blanket. He could make me laugh by being himself, or just by doing something obviously silly when he'd notice I was down.
In alot of ways he was like me, small, compact, but fiesty and full of zest for life, and sometimes too trusting and too sensitive, getting him into a few bad situations. Mostly I love how goddamn happy he was with who he was. He didn't give a damn about his size, or his limitations, or his shitty upbringing. He would always be counted on to want to run with the other dogs even if it meant he'd be hacking and falling over from exertion at the end. To introduce himself to another dog and walkers a field away. Get to the ball first in a game, and to always come running with his ears perked and his pink palm frond long tongue sticking out, ready and awake for the next thing; with just the call of his name. He had joi de vivre. Positive outlook. A open and fearless heart.
And I love you my dear baby for loving me as best you could like I hopefully did for you. And I'm sorry for all the times I hid the ball so I wouldn't have to continue playing catch, or when I wouldn't let you snuggle with me after you dreads were particularly smelly. Or when I didn't visit as often as I should have when I moved to the city for school. Or because I didn't ever really give you a birthday present because we didn't even know when it was. Or because I couldn't have been the one to coo and talk you down as my beautiful stepmom did for you I hear, as you heaved from too much action, and into your death.
I'm so sorry. And I'll always love you my little bubba. I hope your next life is smooth sailing my dear, my darling, my good natured friend.
