Because You Can't Pet Goldfish

He arrives in a shivering pile of black downy fur, a shiny wet nose twitching in the air, hunting for a scent against the car window. You lock the door, tell your husband that this puppy trick will not work. He can’t come in the car, he will not come home with us. You start reading the paper, unfolding sections of The Times, as the puppy mews through the glass. 

Your husband John looks down with the same sad peepers as the puppy. You relent, open the door and let them in. The puppy pees immediately, flooding your new floor mats with yellow puddles. 

Strike one.

At home, the puppy is a whirlwind of chaos. He rips through towels and shirts and pillows. Training him means shaking a can of coins in air. It hurts your ears more than his and he learns to ignore you. You call him “Chico” but it doesn’t matter. He never responds. He just wants to run and jump and chase birds. 

You take him to the park so he can do those things but he still acts like a scamp and eats your socks when you’re not looking. He chews fabric of all kinds and shits it out in long strips in the yard. This makes you crazy. You yell and threaten to show no love. But still, he doesn’t care. You hire a trainer who tells you that he’s a Lab mix and Labs are tough and that yes, they will eat inanimate objects because that’s who they are.

You realize you don’t like who your dog is.

He grows to be strong and striking with a gleaming black coat, amber eyes and three white paws. He learns to torture you in ways that belie his sweet looks. Food is eaten raw from counter tops. Cats are chased up trees and neighbors shake angry fists at the sky. Then, one evening after a particularly brutal day at work, you find Chico has chewed one shoe from every pair in your closet. The shock takes your breath away. The only full pair left are the shoes on your feet and the sandy flip flops in your car. You cry. You yell and your husband pours you a glass of wine and cleans up the mess. By the third glass of wine, you are cradling a red leather boot, purchased on sale last season and worn just twice. You wail about the $500 spent and lost on this boot and your husband’s head snaps to attention. He asks if it’s true, that there is a boot in your closet that can’t be strapped to a ski that costs $500. You make a mental note to never discuss the cost of shoes with him again.

You don’t really forgive Chico and it takes weeks before you are able to look at him without seething. During that time, you hire another trainer who does even less than the first. Chico fails obedience class and chews through your grandmother’s dining room chairs. John fixes them. You start spending more time at work.

When Chico turns two, there is a new kind of baby wreaking havoc in the house. This one is less furry and wears diapers yet is equally capable of spinning chaos from thin air. Chico takes to this baby instantly, napping under the crib and keeping you company in the wee hours while you are nursing and changing diapers and not sleeping. He doesn’t snap when the baby pulls his collar, steps on his tail and throws blocks at him. You begin to accept Chico into the fold.

Slowly.

You start to feed him scraps and scratch his snout. He learns to sit on command, his one and only trick.

When Chico turns four, you welcome another baby into the house. The dog allows himself to be wrestled to the floor by both babies and never bares a tooth. He does however, start to bark at other dogs when they come near the babies, snarling ferociously and scaring everyone in ear shot. You stop taking him on walks during the day, opting to walk him at night, under the cloak of darkness. He waits by the door for you to finish with everyone, with everything else and then you both head out into the black.

This becomes a ritual like so many other things in your life and you don’t even notice as the years pass and life gets busier, that Chico has fallen into step, becoming your shadow. When you are in the kitchen, he is at your feet. He knows when you cook he will have a full belly. When you are at work, he is stretched on the floor in your office, eagerly awaiting the Fed Ex man who always has treats. He is just one of the many cogs in the machine, humming along, growing quieter and calmer with each passing year.

You watch as the kids use him as a pillow when it’s cold and throw balls for him when it’s warm. You laugh when they dress him up like a queen, slipping colorful paper clips onto his ears and you imagine him saying “Oh the humanity!” and this makes you laugh harder and you begin to understand that maybe, just maybe he is a good dog.

He sleeps on your side of the bed and he waits for you to get up before heading downstairs into the morning. You tell him he’s handsome as you grab for coffee, and his tail thumps against the wood floor. Even when his muzzle starts to go grey and his breathing becomes raspy, he is still handsome, still happy. He slows down and spends more time in your office, not greeting the Fed Ex man in person but waiting for you to bring the treat to him. On your nightly walks, he tires after one turn around the block. For the first time, you are pulling him instead of the other way around.

And one day you notice him slowly walk outside to sleep under his favorite tree. He stays there for hours and now you know something is wrong. You call the vet and the message says they’re closed and you have to go to an emergency clinic an hour away.

You check on him and find that it’s cool and lovely under the tree so you sit and he puts his head in your lap. You can feel his breathing, short quick heaves. But he is serene and sleepy and when you mention the vet, he buries his head deeper into your legs.

You’re not religious but you throw a prayer out anyway and ask the heavens to show him mercy, grant him peace. Minutes later Chico gets up and looks at you and you know he is leaving, his time is now. His legs collapse and he falls to his side. Eyes open, looking into yours, you say goodbye as his last breath escapes from his body. And he is gone.

In the days that follow, you will see him everywhere. In the garden, curled in front of the fireplace, in the kitchen—especially in the kitchen. It’s your eyes playing tricks, you know this and yet it’s still unsettling. In quiet moments, you wonder how ten years could have passed since that first day you laid eyes on him in the parking lot of a pet store. You recall the memories, letting them play out like a slide show and laugh at all those lost shoes, those years of angst and anger and fix on your favorite, the one of the handsome boy with paper clips dangling from his ears.

You pack up his leashes and wipe away the tears and snot from the kids faces. You tell them stories about dog heaven and convince yourself that such a place exists. You want such a place to exist, where tennis balls are plentiful and there is no guilt, no remorse about not paying more attention. He was loved you say to yourself over and over again. 

Your routine kicks back in and the span of days since his death turns to weeks, then months. In the wake, you’re left with a mix of snapshots, a lingering shadow, a bittersweet void that he once filled.

You thought it would be hardest on the kids.

But you were wrong.