THE END was just the beginning

THE END was just the middle

My dog died. And the first thing I did was go get ‘inferno’ sundubu jjigae soup. Let’s back up a little bit.

I had always wanted a dog, but my parents like all parents did not want to wind up taking care of one. I had always liked ‘interesting’ animals. At the zoo, while everyone else was into the gorillas or elephants, I was into the alligators and ball pythons. I’d just chill there and watch the alligator’s eyes watch me while I watched it. You’d think my parents would have been glad that I became interested in a ‘normal’ pet. As a sibling of mine became responsible, my parents got them a bearded dragon and then an iguana, yet I still didn’t have my dog.

Luckily, people in the neighborhood gladly allowed me to spend time with their dogs; I took on the role of walking, bathing, and sitting them. I spent my youth taking care of dogs big and small. I became the ‘know-it-all’ regarding breeds and their specific ailments. In my high school yearbook, they even thought I would go on to become a dog and exotic animal vet.

In my early teens, I met a family who let me ‘time-share’ their dogs. I would take them for a few weeks a month to walk and feed them, but ultimately, they belonged to that family. Fast forward a few years: I had my permit and would drive to farmer’s markets that had rescues showing. While practicing driving through canyons and on freeways, I made it a point to visit every rescue. Finally, I got a rescue puppy. He was a hybrid: a fast runner with rat-hunter ancestry. He would go crazy monitoring squirrels on hikes, though not quite as crazy as a Vizsla I know.

He was my best pal. We went camping together, and I realized that even a ‘domesticated wolf’ can be scared of the wilderness. I assumed he could smell everything and see in the dark and wouldn’t be spooked, but he barked at every sound. I stayed up all night telling him he was overreacting. Eventually, he became chill enough for thru-hiking, which I think was just maturity. As I got older and talked less, he was still just there; he understood my non-verbal cues.

I had him from my mid-teens into my early 30s. When he died, I was so angry at the genetics books. They said he was supposed to live six years longer. I wondered what I did wrong, but I didn’t want him to live in pain. Those books don’t consider quality of life. The summer before he died, he stopped eating. He was disinterested in chicken, meat, and his own food. He was wasting away. Vets kept talking about his age, but I didn’t want to hear it. Even the holistic vet said surgery would be too hard on him. When we finally had to let him go, I realized I could never have been a vet.