On Dogs

Yes, my eventual brother was a dog. A brother from another mother, as we’ve become accustomed to saying. On that day spring day—May 5—we picked him up from a litter just outside Rochester. He was incredibly small with ­black fur, and distinctive white stripe on his chin and chest.

 

Of course, the first task on our collective to-do list was to pick a name. Fortunately, I hadn’t lost my assertiveness on the trek from Pennsylvania to New York. I knew exactly who he was. He was Chudley.

 

For the two or so years preceding that moment, my grandmother had sent me animated videos around Christmastime. Every year there were a series of different episodes, all centered on the holiday and the season. Each episode featured the same small black-furred dog with a distinctive white stripe on his chin and chest, often seen prancing throughout the snow-covered forests. His name was—you guessed it—Chudley. 

 

When our eyes locked that day, I knew he couldn’t be anyone else. It was perfect; a dream come true. I often think that my childhood began that day, driving home with his crate in my lap. I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Mom! Dad! He is moving! What do I do?!” 

 

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February 6, 2020 has come to be another day on the calendar. The night before as I was getting into bed, my phone began to ring. It was from my Dad, looking to catch up. We chatted about our day, what the rest of the week had in store, and how we were looking forward to my family’s visit to Ann Arbor that upcoming weekend. As the conversation came to a close, my Dad said:  “Also by the way, Chuds is acting kind of strange . . . for whatever reason, he doesn’t want to move. I put him on the bed next to me, but he’s unusually still.”

 

OK, I thought to myself—it’s late, maybe he is just tired from the day. It wasn’t necessarily a cause for alarm. After all, he was sixteen years old.

 

And so I went to sleep, not thinking much of the conversation.

 

The next morning at 7:05am, my phone began to ring again—although this time, it was my Mom. It was strange to hear from her so early, and as I motioned to put the phone to my ear, I suddenly knew what was happening.

 

Fighting off tears, my Mom said: “Chuds really isn’t doing that well. We woke up this morning and, again, he’s struggling to move. Dad and I are going to take him to the vet this morning . . . just to see what’s up.”

 

While my Mom’s description was less explicit than it could’ve been, I understood what she meant. It was an idea that I didn’t want to believe. A thought that hurt so much more than I could’ve imagined. I didn’t know what to say.

 

After I hung up the phone, I tried going along with my day—eating breakfast, walking to the library, and then getting ready for class at 11:30am. I couldn’t keep my mind from racing, wishing more than anything that I could be with Chudley and my parents. I found myself at Bruegger’s, ordering a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese to make me feel more at home. As I made my way out, my Mom called me again—this time, a FaceTime.

 

There she sat, with Chuds in her lap and my Dad next to her. They were seated in the vet, calling to make their last goodbye.

 

I hated myself for not being there—or I suppose the circumstances preventing me from doing so. I hated how abruptly this had all happened. I hated having to say goodbye to a dog—scratch that—a person, who had made my life so rich.

 

 

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