This Body is Bullshit

Today, I’m thinking about dogs. All the dogs I’ve ever had. All the ones I’ve loved and lost. I am a dog person through and through, and non-dog people will probably never understand the grief that comes with losing them. I think they’re the purest love we get in this life. Loyal and good and present in a way people rarely are. A friend of mine is facing that brutal decision right now. Her dog is sick. It’s almost time. And it’s bringing all my old grief up like a wave.

Each of my dogs has marked a season of my life. They weren’t just pets—they were witnesses. Companions. Healers. Guardians.

There was Buddy—my first dog. A German Shepherd. He only made it to seven because of kidney failure. I wasn’t even fully out of my parents’ house yet, but I felt like an adult the day I brought him home. He was so smart. So good. Eventually, I bought a house with Grace’s dad and brought Buddy with me into that next chapter. When Grace was born, Buddy watched over us both. He protected me in ways no one else could or did. He protected her, too. I still remember when I lost him, thinking, Why couldn’t I have put Grace’s dad down instead of my dog? It’s dark, I know—but grief doesn’t make you polite. And he was a piece of shit. When the time came, I called the emergency vet on a Sunday. My dad drove me, and I went in alone. I had never done that before—walked a dog in and not walked out with them. It wrecked me. But it was peaceful, and I knew it was the right thing. When I came out, my dad was crying in the lobby. That moment is seared into me.

Then came Max. Max was actually there at the end of Buddy’s life. He was supposedly Grace’s dad’s dog. I think Buddy felt he could go and Max would take over. Max ended up with Grace and me shortly after I left the asshole. A black lab. Labs are supposed to be the classic family dog, but Max mostly just liked Grace and me. He had zero patience for other kids. He’d bare his teeth and I’d tell them, “He’s not smiling because he’s happy,” which they thought was hilarious, but I meant it.

Max helped me raise Grace in our apartment—our little team of three. And I truly believe he stuck around until he knew Matt was there to take care of us. Once he saw that we were okay—really okay—he let go. Dogs know. They just do. He lived to 13, and I swear he had canine dementia near the end. Barking at nothing. Pacing. Confused. Matt came into the picture during Max’s later years, and Max was not a fan of anyone invading his apartment. Then we all got a house together and he warmed up. A little. One day, Matt came home from work and Max wouldn’t get up for him. He tried, but he wasn’t himself. Once I got home, he made it up—barely. I think maybe he had a stroke. Matt didn’t want me to go alone again, but I needed to. I took Max, held him, and let him go. It was the right call. It always is, when their quality of life is gone. But god, it breaks you. The worst part was picking Grace up from school that day and having to tell her things were different now. That Max wasn’t home anymore.

We swore we wouldn’t get another dog. We were just too heartbroken. That didn’t last long.

Gus came next. He was born the same day Max died, which still feels like something more than coincidence. He was a mastiff—half English, half French (a Dogue de Bordeaux). I had already seen his photo and was obsessed. Matt said no—absolutely not—he didn’t want a dog that big. And then I had a hysterectomy and was home recovering, and the silence in the house was too much. The emptiness without a dog was unbearable. So Matt and Grace went to see the puppies. Pudgy little hippos with paws too big for their bodies. And a few weeks later, Gus was ours. Gus… I don’t even know how to write about him. He was everything. All muscle and drool and snuggles and soul. A giant presence, literally and emotionally. He felt like a person. He had a way of sitting next to you that felt like a hug. He was funny and gentle and just… Gus. Maybe it’s because he was the son Matt and I never had. Maybe it’s because he was the sibling Grace might have needed. He was this huge, soulful presence in our house—funny and gentle and just… more. People would actually stop us on the street to ask if they could take a picture of him. He was that striking. But it wasn’t just how he looked—it was how he felt to be around. Like everything was better when Gus was there. We only had six years with him. He got cancer. We spent everything we had trying to save him. And we couldn’t. I still haven’t gotten over it. I still miss the sound of him walking through the house. I still expect to see drool at some random location in the house. Gus was once-in-a-lifetime. Maybe that’s what my next tattoo should be for. I already have ink for the poems that got me through other dark seasons. Why not one for the dog that got me through the silence?

Now, we have Fiona and Frank—our current chaos crew. Frank was rescued when he was five. A pug with a big dog attitude in a small dog body. I didn’t think I wanted a small dog, but Frank has filled that space in my heart Gus left behind. He’s stubborn, hilarious, thinks he is as big as Gus. He got to live with Gus for a couple years. They were the cutest buddies. Total opposites but also the same. The two of them together were picture perfect. Frank was a total daddy’s boy when we got him. Then after my mastectomy, he never left my side. We’re pals and I miss him when I’m not home. That little silly jerk that he is.

And Fiona. Oh, Fiona. She’s a rescue mutt we brought home three years ago. She’s also my birthday twin—I found that out while reading her paperwork on the drive home. She’s the first female dog I’ve ever had, and she’s scared of everything. It’s sad, it’s sweet, it’s incredibly annoying—and we adore her. She’s fast and vocal and has the emotional range of a Shakespearean heroine. She’s handsy and dramatic and full of love. She keeps us on our toes in all the best and most exhausting ways.

And then there’s my grand-dog, Charlie. He’s a boxer mix, but honestly, he looks more like a Rottweiler—solid body, intimidating at first glance. My daughter rescued him about three years ago when he was three, and he’s been part of the family ever since. He’s… a nut. A lovable nut, but still. We don’t know what happened to him before she got him, but something did. You can tell. It’s in the way he reacts to the world—especially on a leash. He’s leash-aggressive, and there’s this wild unpredictability in him. You can’t always tell if he’s playing or about to throw down. His growl is the same either way—deep and scary and a little too convincing. But underneath all that, he’s sweet. He really is. He just came with some invisible scars that we may never fully understand. Still, he’s family. And I’m proud of how much my daughter has done for him. Loving a reactive dog is no joke. It takes patience and strength and a lot of compassion—which she has in spades. Charlie is lucky to have her. And honestly, so are we.

They were, and are, family. If you’ve ever had to say goodbye to a dog, I see you. I am you. And if you’re lucky enough to have one curled up near you right now—go give them a hug from me.