“What does it mean to live a finite, fragile life in an infinite, eternal universe?” That’s the statement written on my bedroom mirror and the question posed by Brian Cox, a well-known astrophysicist. My dog, Sprocket, passed away two weeks ago after nearly fifteen years in my care. And I’ve been grappling with that question for a minute. My dog came into this universe on a stormy night, while lightning raged and took the power out. I’m told his caretaker had to light a fire in their home to keep the pups warm. He was the smallest of the litter, a runt. I saw him three days later, his eyes still closed, and it was an instant match. He fit inside my hand and his ears did this little “Dumbo” wiggle thing when we met. He was perfect. Just perfect. The only thing I’d ever wanted was my own dog, and when I left everything behind to move to the mountain west in 2008, I got my wish. For the next decade and a half, we were inseparable. A little five-pound munchkin and myself. I don’t know what I’m going to do now, as my whole life has pretty much revolved around taking care of him.
There are only five stages of grief, according to the Kubler-Ross model of psychology, but I would recommend adding apathy, nihilism, and panic because my hands have not stopped shaking since. Everything is the color of one of those frosted indoor hospital lights that doesn’t illuminate anything, yet somehow also makes everything greyer and washed out while hurting your eyes. When the sun does come out on a good weather day, it’s somehow even worse because it feels like Sprocket just missed it. I take his little sunshine cushion and place it in the light in the living room still (like a crazy person, I’m sure) and go out for walks without him, just hoping I don’t run into anyone who might ask where he is.
In the last few years, Sprocket became something of an ambassador for me on those walks. We went differently each time—he had an agenda and led the way. He helped me make friends with neighbors as well as local dogs here and there. I’m chronically shy and he helped me get out of my shell. But he wasn’t always so good at this. I had a therapist assign him the role of ESA (Emotional Support Animal) back before my marriage ended because I was eyeing bridges and overpasses and buying one-way tickets to places and not telling people about it. It was a very dark time for me and she thought it might be a good idea to have someone to live for who really loved me and wouldn’t hurt me. And to his credit, Sprocket took that role seriously. He never abused his position despite his size or the comments we got, like my former VP who told me it was “completely fucking ridiculous” before asking me if she could have my ex-husband’s phone number. (It wasn’t for the reason you’d think, but it was still pretty gross.) Sprocket went through so much with me. He became an intrepid traveler and loved a cross-country road trip. He was by my mother’s side when she was in hospice. He endured Covid-19 lockdowns with me even when we had no place to stay for months at a time. He kept me calm during riots and unrest in downtown Portland and was by my side during two evacuations for wildfires. He surprised me by making new friends even in his later years.
I’m not sure why I wanted to write about losing Sprocket. I know it wasn’t to make people sad. Writing about grief is a cathartic process. But it’s more than that…
Bodhisattva
I so desperately want people to understand how I see him. I know that I was really lucky. Exactly five years ago my life blew up in a lot of ways. I became involved with a toxic person, one who doesn’t deserve room in this post. I lost all my self-respect, and I hit rock bottom. And at the same time, Sprocket was diagnosed with a heart condition. No big surprise, the little guy’s heart was too big (have you met him?) and he needed a lot of care. In Buddhism, once you reach enlightenment, you have the choice to reach Nirvana. But some creatures choose to delay it out of compassion to help those who are suffering. You can’t tell me that dogs aren’t Bodhisattvas. It makes total sense…
Choice
I’ve been trying to put the pieces back together since he left. What do I do with myself now that I don’t have Sprocket to care for? He’s not here when I wake up. He’s not on my lap while I work. We don’t take walks anymore. How do I build a life that doesn’t include him? Why does it feel like my throat is closing up? I’ve tried to keep my chin up and plan things that I “couldn’t” do while we were together these past years: trips, mostly. Travel. But I think it’s pretty clear that I was living the life that I wanted to live. I don’t feel like I missed out on things because I had to take care of my dog. Sure, I didn’t travel for work a few times (boo hoo). And I didn’t make it home for the holidays. I had some quiet, lonely birthdays, sure, and I’m feeling very friendless and lonely now. But I don’t regret it. In fact, when it comes down to it, it’s all about choosing a life, choosing anything really, that’s worth the pain you’re willing to suffer for. Having a dog is actually a lot of work. I do not regret any minute of my life with my dog. Not even when it got hard. Not five years ago when his heart got too big and I had to count his resting heart rate all the time. Not the last two years when an entire shelf in my fridge was full of heart meds and diuretics and plunger syringes or pills. Not when he began having seizures at night. Not even when we added gabapentin for pain or emergency seizure medications – two of them – one he took every eight hours and one that we could use like an epi-pen. Not when we were at the vet every week. Sprocket trusted me to take care of him and I did the best that I could.
We Came So Far
“If you’re lucky you’ll get to fold towels with someone you love and that’ll be enough”. My favorite memories that pop up on my daily diary app aren’t of me doing anything epic like mountain running or traveling or anything like that. They’re of watching my dog play with his toy in the sunshine, or coming home from a walk and getting caught by our ring camera together. I fought like hell to build a peaceful life where we were free from abuse and pain and illicit substances our partners kept secret from us. Sprocket and I moved from place to place escaping people who at best were using us and at worst really wanted to hurt us. Happiness often looks very different than how you’d originally envisioned it. It can look like staying home. It looks like safety and peace. It looks like making dinner together with your little dog, reading a book, going to bed early, taking long walks, and drinking tea. It looks like waking up in your own, warm bed with your dog who loves and cares about you even though you’re not perfect.
Being Kind to Yourself
One of the things they teach you in therapy if you’re very, very hard on yourself is how to speak more kindly to yourself. My therapist told me to speak to myself the way I would speak to Sprocket anytime I felt like I’d messed up. I grew up in an environment where (and a lot of us did) there were consequences to things we didn’t even see coming. You can’t punish a dog for making a mistake like peeing on the carpet long after it’s done. They essentially just learn to fear you and develop anxiety. If you’re having a bad day and you take it out on a small magical creature or child then you need to self-reflect and get some help. I didn’t do that but I certainly took it out on myself. A lot of people pleasers will always pedestalize the ones they love while simultaneously beating themselves up over spilled milk. It takes time to unlearn it but applying the same compassion that I extended to my little sidekick to myself helped me learn how to be kinder to myself. He loves me. That doesn’t go away.
The Immeasurable Size of a Little Dog
I used to joke that Sprocket was “five pounds of fury”. He was small and mighty and fierce and fast. He could run seven miles on rugged trails. He summited mountains, starred in a TV commercial, and had fans online. I shared a queen bed with him and he took up most of it. Between the ramps and staircases, pillows and runways (to launch onto furniture he couldn’t reach) toys, and multiple potty pads, that little guy unapologetically took up space. He demanded bodily autonomy and didn’t allow just anyone to get close to him. I always chuckled at the folks who would get upset at this. They were usually the same people who had a problem with humans who took up space and didn’t like you touching them. Sprocket knew when he was being photographed and dammit he could work a camera. He was such a rockstar.
How to Not Win Friends or Influence People
Chihuahuas are polarizing animals. “Eww is he a yappy dog?” “I would never put up with a dog that didn’t like kids” “I hate small dogs, I bet I could just (insert something awful here) to it.” Yeah, man…I mean he’s a dog. Dogs bark. And no, he didn’t like everyone. In fact, he probably wouldn’t like you. If your flex is bragging about the ability to overpower a small animal, then you have small dick energy and we are done here. Go drink a protein shake and enjoy your ice bath, Chad. Do you want to tell me he looks like a rat, too? Are you going to become eerily racist about my Mexican dog in the next five seconds?
Sprocket was picky. He didn’t like everyone. But he was loyal. When he did like you, he would protect you forever. He loved certain people. He wasn’t a golden retriever. (Neither am I, no offense.) He was never concerned about making everyone like him. And I believe there’s a fabulous lesson there.
We Are Safe. We Are Safe Now.
Socializing your dog is key to puppy development, and I took Sprocket to classes as well as puppy training when he was young. He was super smart and did well. But when he was about two, he started to become aggressive. My theory is that someone at home was making him mean to protect the house. We couldn’t have people over and it was near impossible for Sprocket to be around others for a bit. But, when my living situation changed and it was just my dog and me a few years later, his whole personality shifted. He became calmer, kinder. He made friends. I could invite people over and bring him places. We traveled a lot together. There’s research that shows even talking kindly to plants helps them thrive. When the two of us were together, surrounded by kindness and compassion, we both changed. Our hypervigilance eased. We let our guard down. He would still get upset from time to time (myself included), but we learned to deal with anxiety. The fact is, you can’t yell at a dog barking at a perceived threat. It doesn’t work. You can remind them they’re safe and it’s ok. And then they calm down. Watching my dog grow and become more at ease meeting strangers and making friends reminded me that I was safe. We were both safe.
Loving Yourself Whole
Sometimes healing looks like staying single and vacationing with your dog. It looks like filling your own stocking and your own Easter basket and one of each for your puppy just because it’s something you enjoy and have always wanted and even asked for and never received despite being married for a decade or in some type of commitment with another human being perfectly capable of gifting you a present at birthdays or Valentine’s days or whatever. Sprocket saw me love myself whole again after numerous heartbreaks. He witnessed our lives become peaceful and safe and simple and wonderful. We dedicated our life to happiness and peace. We made it, man. Sometimes, we realized, celebrating looked like living a simple life. We had everything. We had each other. We had it all.
I gave up trying to find my people a few years ago. I went all over looking. I gave up everything I had. I’ve shrunk myself down and made myself small in so many circles just to be accepted even a little bit. But I’ve always been too much and not enough at the same time everywhere I go. But it never mattered to my dog. When I cried and cried knowing nothing I was doing was working for him, that last week that son of a bitch came and sat on my lap and comforted me. He kissed my face. He gave me a hug. He tried to make me feel better. I told him it was OK. I said I would be OK (dammit) and he didn’t need to worry about me. As I said this, thunder rumbled outside, I swear.
We had an important anniversary this month and I know he had been sticking around for it. Just waiting. All these years, the pandemic, the divorce, the jobs, the terrible terrible things. I had this sneaking suspicion that once I just got my shit together…he was going to leave me. Because he knew I would be OK. And he wouldn’t leave me a minute sooner. This little cosmic baby. This perfect being from the universe. He had been taking care of me all this time.
The Land of Dogs
I’m not surprised at all to learn that the earliest written records of humanity include depictions of man’s best friend tagging along. There are entire ancient civilizations devoted to dogs and cats. Chihuahuas have been revered in ancient cultures for their spiritual guidance as far back as any written records go. In the Aztec underworld of Mictlan or the Land of Dogs, you have to face nine challenges before ascending to heaven. If you were lucky enough to have had a canine companion in this lifetime, guess who’s waiting to guide you through those challenges when you get there?
My theory, if you will, is that we’re already in the Land of Dogs. This must be some sort of middle place. We’re facing those dark times and challenges now. Our spiritual guides are clearly here to guide us. It’s so obvious. The veil is too thin. Sprocket used to look at me and look right through me. I swear we could read each other’s thoughts. He would dream at night and “talk” in his sleep. I would ask him a question and sometimes, I swear to God, he would just about nod like a human. He had this little tail waggle that meant “yes” that would kill me, it was so cute. He would give me one simple “thank you” kiss if I gave him whatever he asked for. He was so scary smart. Sometimes he would step on the edge of his plate and lift it up to get a better angle on his food and I think that qualifies as “tool use.” After he passed, I got messages from the universe that I simply can’t explain. I’m afraid to talk about them too much, because, well, I don’t want them to go away. Every song seemed like a message from him. An immense electrical storm raged against the planet sending the aurora borealis down across the lower 48. I was visited by a Peregrine Falcon who waggled its tail at me just so. It goes on…
We can’t measure a soul. We don’t know what our mind is. And we don’t know what the purpose of all of this is. As I said before, we live in an infinite universe and our lives are finite, and fragile; we feel small. But love comes from somewhere. And I don’t think it ends after we’re gone. I don’t. I think it matters.
I think it matters.
I think if anything, Sprocket taught me that love matters. That it endures. That it’s magical. I know he, for sure, is.
I love you, little guy.
