This Body is Bullshit

The Dogs

I’ve been thinking about dogs.

All of them. Every single one I’ve ever had. My girlfriend is facing having to say goodbye to her sweet girl soon, and it’s cracked something open in me — that specific grief that non-dog people genuinely cannot understand. I’m not going to try to explain it to them. I’m just going to tell you about mine.

Each one marked a season of my life. They weren’t just pets. They were witnesses.

Buddy was first. A German Shepherd mix. I got him when I was barely out of my parents’ house — he was the first thing that made me feel like an actual adult. Smart, good, loyal. Eventually I bought a house with Grace’s dad, and Buddy came with us into that chapter. When Grace was born, Buddy watched over both of us. He protected me in ways that the person who should have been protecting me wasn’t. He protected her too. I felt safer with him there than I ever did with her father.

When I lost him — kidney failure, only seven years old — I remember thinking: why couldn’t I have put Grace’s dad down instead of my dog? Dark, I know. Grief doesn’t make you polite. And he was a piece of shit.

My dad drove me to the emergency vet on a Sunday. I went in alone. I’d never done that before — walked a dog in and not walked back out with them. When I came out, my dad was crying in the lobby. That moment is seared into me.

Max came next — and actually, Max was already there near the end of Buddy’s life. Technically Grace’s dad’s dog, but we all know how that goes. He ended up with Grace and me when I left. 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 at them and I’d say he’s not smiling because he’s happy — they thought it was funny. I meant it.

He helped me raise Grace in our apartment. Just the three of us. And I truly believe he held on until he knew Matt was there to take care of us. Once he was sure we were okay — really okay — he let go. Dogs know. They just do.

He made it to 13. Canine dementia at the end — barking at nothing, pacing, confused. Matt came into our lives during Max’s later years and Max was not thrilled about anyone invading his space. He warmed up. Eventually. A little.

One afternoon Matt got home and Max wouldn’t really get up for him. When I got home Max made the effort, barely. I think he’d had a stroke. Matt didn’t want me to go alone but I needed to. I held him and let him go. You always know when it’s time. The quality of life is gone and you do the hard thing because you love them.

The worst part was picking Grace up from school and having to tell her.

We swore we weren’t getting another dog. Too heartbroken. That lasted about five minutes.

Gus.

He was born the same day Max died. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. He was a mastiff — half English, half Dogue de Bordeaux — and I had already seen his photo and was completely obsessed. Matt said absolutely not. No dog that big. Hard no.

And then I had a hysterectomy and was home alone recovering and the silence in that house was unbearable. Deafening. A house without a dog is just not a home, at least not mine. So Matt and Grace went to see the litter — pudgy little hippos with paws way too big for their bodies — and honestly what was Matt supposed to do at that point. A few weeks later, Gus was ours.

I don’t really know how to write about Gus.

He was everything. All muscle and drool and soul. A giant presence, literally and emotionally. He felt like a person. He had a way of sitting next to you that felt exactly like a hug. Strangers would 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 it felt to be around him. Like everything was better when Gus was there.

Maybe he was the son Matt and I never had. Maybe the sibling Grace might have needed. I don’t know. He was just Gus. Once in a lifetime.

We only got six years. Cancer. We spent everything we had trying to save him and we couldn’t. I still haven’t gotten over it. I still hear him walking through the house sometimes. I still expect to find a random puddle of drool somewhere and feel that mix of grossed out and completely in love.

I already have tattoos for the poems that got me through dark seasons. Maybe Gus is next.

Now we have Frank and Fiona. Our current chaos crew.

Frank came to us at five — a rescue pug. I never wanted a small dog. Let me be very clear about that. But Frank is not a small dog. He is a large dog in a completely wrong body, with the personality to match. Stubborn, hilarious, absolutely convinced he is Gus’s size. He actually got to live with Gus for a couple years and they were the most ridiculous, perfect pair — total opposites who were somehow exactly the same.

Frank was a daddy’s boy when we first got him. Then I had my mastectomy and he never left my side. We’re pals now. That silly little jerk has my whole heart and he knows it.

And then there’s Fiona. A rescue mutt we brought home three years ago. Here’s the thing — on the drive home, reading through her paperwork, I found out we share the same birthday. I took that as a sign.

She’s the first female dog I’ve ever had and she is an experience. Scared of everything — genuinely, hilariously, sadly scared of everything. Fast as lightning. Vocal. Handsy. The emotional range of a Shakespearean heroine. She loves us so much it’s almost aggressive. She is sweet and exhausting and we are completely obsessed with her.

And finally — my grand-dog, Charlie. Grace rescued him about three years ago when he was three. He’s a boxer mix but looks like a full Rottweiler — solid, blocky, intimidating at first glance. He’s a nut. A lovable nut, but a nut. Something happened to him before Grace got him — you can just tell. He’s reactive, leash aggressive, and his play growl and his serious growl are identical which is genuinely terrifying. But underneath all of that he is sweet. He just came with invisible scars nobody can fully explain.

Grace has done so much for him. Loving a reactive dog takes patience and compassion and she has both in abundance. Charlie is lucky to have her. So are we.

Buddy. Max. Gus. Frank. Fiona. Charlie.

Every season. Every stage. Every hard thing and every good thing — there was always a dog nearby.

If you’ve ever had to say goodbye to one, I see you. I am you.

And if you’ve got one curled up near you right now — go give them a hug from me.