There have been a lot of dogs in this house. Senior dogs, mostly - dogs who had a rough life and deserved some respite and a lot of spoiling. Because of that trend, I’ve written a lot of lengthy eulogies for dogs. These were often in the heat of the moment, a bit overwrought - more generated out of hurt and pain without much reflection. Twinkie is sick, and I’m writing about her right now as she’s lying down next to me. I don’t know if this is the end, but I want to write about her correctly. I should stop waiting until dogs pass to write about them.
Twinkie, in all her glory.
I was recently in West Virginia with Liz, her family, and our dogs, Twinkie and Skippy. I made some comment, as I usually do, that Twinkie is the best dog I’ve ever had. My favorite. I was asked, “What makes Twinkie your favorite?” I answered honestly, “She just follows me around everywhere.” The reply back was, “So Twinkie chose you as her favorite.” It wasn’t the time or place to correct that, but I want to do it now.
I went through a rough patch a little over five years ago. I’m calling it a rough patch because that’s how I always referred to it, because it’s embarrassing to address what it really was - a self-destructive cycle. There’s a story from that period that I’ve told to close friends on select occasions. It was about the day I decided I wanted to die, and the panic attack that came along with it. I collapsed on the floor in the bathroom and I couldn’t breathe. Something sparked in me and I reached for my phone. I did something I had never done before. I called my friend and I asked her for help. Her family took me in that night. They made me call my parents and ask for their help. They made me call my neighbor and ask for her help. They made me call other friends and ask for their help. And I did, and I started healing, and everything got better eventually.
I tell this story whenever I feel like someone needs to ask for help. When we’re in dark places, we never really think that our friends and family will be there for us. We think of all of the uncomfortable interactions, all of the unsaid things, and the idea of calling them is worse than death. But what I learned on that day is that there are people who will rally around you when you need their help. When you ask for their help. When you accept their help.
It’s a great story, but it’s not the whole story. After that day I was still a mess when I was alone. I was self-destructive, confused, depressed, etc, etc, etc. Epiphanies need to be followed by work. It took years of therapy to get right; years of friendships and family. And it took Twinkie, because we made a deal.
Something changed in Twinkie when I was self-destructive - she started following me everywhere. She would be up with me on the nights I stayed up to three or four in the morning. If I stumbled into the bathroom at night I’d hear the familiar sound of her standing up, shaking herself out, coming down the stairs, and plopping down in front of the door. She’d follow me outside; she’d sleep by the door while I was out so that I’d have to wake her when I came home. She learned to lay against the legs of my chair so that when I got up, she’d know. She would not leave me alone, but not in the way we associate with needy dogs. More like a motherly way; someone who wanted me to know that she was there for me and that she wasn’t letting me out of her sight.
There was one moment during this period that I remember quite clearly. I was lying down in bed in a mostly empty room. I had a mattress on the floor and a nightstand and nothing else. Twinkie was next to me - she was on her side and locking eyes with me as I rubbed her belly. She wasn’t feeling well - she has a history of eating something she finds in the yard and getting sick for a couple of days. I laid there and just talked to her for a long time. I told her about everything I was feeling, all of my fears, my insecurities. I cried a lot. I lost my breath. The whole time she laid there, looking into my eyes, and listening to everything I had to say. At the end I told her, “I know this sucks but I need you to stay with me for a while. I need to take care of you. I need you to take care of me.”
It’s the kind of thing you say to a dog when you’re drunk, but I was thinking about it the other night. I was lying down with Twinkie and petting her under her chin and locking eyes with her whenever she opened them. My life is better now. The self-destructive cycle is over. I have friends, I have family, I have a home that I love, I have a job that I love, I have dogs that I love, and I have Liz. I cannot discount, for a second, how crucial Liz was to my recovery. Therapy was also crucial. But before all of that and during all of that there was Twinkie, following me around, reminding me that I have something in this world that loves and cares for me unconditionally. Someone who would lay down with me back when I thought death was still an option, and listen to me talk, and sit outside the bathroom when I was sick, and nuzzle up against me if I fell down, and never gave up on me.
And I thought about all of this and I told her, “Look, if this is it, I won’t be mad. You did what I asked you to do, and I’ll never forget it.”
We don’t know what’s wrong with Twinkie. The vet thought it was lymphoma, the oncologist doesn’t think it’s lymphoma. A week ago she stopped eating. The emergency vet said she’s not in pain, her vitals are fine - she can stay at home with us until her oncology appointment or we can keep her at the hospital. The latter was unthinkable. I promised Twinkie I was going to take care of her, I wasn’t going to hand her off to a vet for a bunch of nights. She could just be old. She is old. She could just be hanging on because she loves it here. She is loved here.
It pains me so much to see her the way she is. I can’t stop telling her what a good dog she is.
She is a good dog. She is the best dog I’ve ever had. She is my favorite.