Iâm writing this because I need a distraction. A distraction from my dog who is dying next to me, surely taking in her last breaths. Iâm writing this sitting next to her in the bathroom, a room sheâs always loved because of the relaxation the oasis of cool tiles brings her. Iâm writing this because I donât know how much longer she has left here with us. Iâm writing this because I never want to forget her. Iâm writing this because I refuse to put her down. Iâm writing this because I will not let her die alone.
           My eyes have been puffy and my cheeks have been stained with tears since Wednesday, when she had her second old-age-induced-stroke. And I already know writing this is going to take awhile because after reading that sentence, seeing it in words, as a factual statement rather than emotional turmoil, made another giant dent in the third roll of toilet paper Iâve been using to mop up my sadness.
           Jessie is a 15-year-old sheltie-border collie mix. I write that with confidence, but truth is we never really knew exactly the type of breed she was. But it never mattered. Whatever her lineage, sheâs always been the most beautiful effinâ dog on our block.
           We got her in November of 1998, a little over a year after our cat Tigger died. Another pet that will always hold a place in my heart. Tigger was a yellow tabby, with a fondness for the outdoors. Or, if you like to look at it with the glass half empty-he loved to run away. He scratched me. He gave paw like a badass. My dad recently told me the only reason we ever had him was because my mom brought him home one day after work. And there he stayed.
But Tigger died when I was nine years old. Which means I only really knew him for four years because we all know youâre basically irrelevant in life/memories until you turn 5. Around 3rd grade Christmas, Tigger got cancer. The last night he was alive my brother, sister and I snuggled around him on my parentsâ bed. I was wearing a pink velvet turtleneck. I know this because we took a picture of him so he and, thankfully my amazing fashion sense, would be captured forever. That night, he slept in my bed at my feetâsomething he never did. The next day I came home from school and my mom gave me the news. He was gone. It was the first time I ever saw my dad cry.
It was also the first time I ever cried at school. It being Christmas time, we got to watch Christmas movies and enjoy snacks during the day. I donât recall the title of the movie, but basically a girl met a moose at Christmas time, bonded with it real hard, and eventually had to let it go back into the wilderness. Naturally, I related this to my own life and started thinking about Tigger. The kids at my table made fun of me for crying at a movie. One of those kids is still my best friend today, (COURTNEY ZIENTEK) so I guess I got over it. But that was it. I moved on. We got a new pet. And she became the best thing that ever literally walked into my life.
I remember picking up Jessie from the pet store on a cold Saturday afternoon. It was right next door to a Wal-Mart and run by Amish folks. If my observational humor at evolved by then, Iâm sure I would have had a field day with the illegitimacy of said pet store and convinced my parents to search elsewhere. Thankfully, I was still an awkward 10-year-old who kind of resembled Aaron Carter so no one ever took me seriously.
We walked in and started playing with the puppies. I held Jessie-before-she-was-Jessie and she squirmed in my arms. âThis one doesnât like me, Daddy,â I whined to him.
âSheâs a puppy, she has a lot of energy. She just doesnât like to be held, she likes you,â I imagine he replied back. At least I hope it went something like that. Thereâs a small chance he said, âShe sure as hell doesnât but weâre taking her anyways! See ya later suckers!â and let out an evil laugh, stole the puppy, and sped away in our Pontiac. But, like I said, very small chance.
We took her home that day, and on our drive back it started snowing. Iâm sure the rest of the day was filled with First Day with a New Pet type activities. Getting a cage, buying gates for potty training, debating what color leash should we get her, taking photos of her and posting them on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. Wait, sorry, it was 1998. Social media didnât exist back then. But mainly finding a name for this adorable new fur ball.
Proudly, I whipped out the list I had been discretely working on ever since there was talk of a new dog. Names included- MJ, Jordan, Pippen, Jessie. Clearly there was a pattern that not only described what was going on in the world (the Bullâs infamous 3 Peat Repeat), my massive case of Tom Boy Syndrome, but also my surprise ability to write comparison questions for the ACT/SAT- What name doesnât belong? Anyways, by some miraculous aversion to wanting to have our own little MJ walking around our house, Jessie won out. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
That night, as the snow was silently falling, we put our little Jessie in her cage and all went to bed. Around 2AM, I was abruptly woken by the sad, sad sound of puppy cries from downstairs. When it didnât stop, I dragged my oddly-shaped adolescent body out of bed, put sweatpants on, and grabbed a coat and my boots. I was going to take her outside.
The snow was falling fast and it was up to my shins. Jessie, being new to the world in general, had no idea what the hell all of this white stuff was. It was the cutest thing ever, as confusion can sometimes be. She was so light, she was walking on top of the snow. Every once in awhile, her little paws would briefly sink into the white blanket, startling her and giving me something to giggle at. If YouTube had been invented, that video wouldâve had like a million views. OhMyGodSoCute.
After Jessie did her business, I brought her back inside and wiped her tiny, tiny, fucking cute paws. I put her in her cage and began to trek back upstairs. But she was not having it. She barked, over and over and over again. Clearly, she was saying, âBitch donât you dare take another step. Iâm fucking scared, have no idea where I am, and just relived myself on top of an unknown white-ish substance. Iâm terrified. Do not leave me alone.â Quickly, I ran upstairs, snagged my blanket and my pillow, and made a bed next to her cage, comfortably on the kitchenâs hardwood floor. It was love.
Jessie put up with a lot of classic Child with Dog shenanigans in her early years. âLetâs put her in this tub of toys!â âLetâs try to ride her!â âLetâs put Daddyâs tee shirt on her!â âLetâs pick her up in the most uncomfortable fashion for her and always almost drop her!â She had a lot of patience for bullshit. But she let us do it. And always looked fucking adorable.
Jessie was there for all of my youth tribulations. Not getting asked to the pizza party. Sporting the worst haircut known to man. Plucking almost all of my eyebrows off. Having braces and pimples. Wearing boy-cut corduroy pants because you think wearing what they wear is how you get them to like you. Being the last of my friends to get their first kiss. Missing cheerleading tryouts because I had mono even though I never kissed anyone. Not being invited to the first boy/girl party in my grade. Bringing home a disappointing math grade on my report card. She was always there. Never judging, always loving. Always giving up her beautiful coat for me to wipe my then-justified tears on, and disgustingly snot into. Just lying there, with a smile on her face, ears perked, looking cuter than I ever could, loving me.
Jessie also knew exactly how to make me feel good about myself. Even on days I was already feeling good about myself, Iâd walk in the door and she would just go ape-shit. She would scurry up to me, tail furiously wagging and jump to greet me. When I would attempt to pet her, her excitement caused her to dart away-to the living room, the dining room, through the kitchen, to the family room and back to the foyer. She would circle, as sheepdogs usually do, for a good three minutes, just literally running circles around me and the house. The entire time, sheâd make this adorable noise-not a bark, not a whimper, but something I can only compare to that of an overly excited human saying âOh! Oh! Oh! I canât believe it! You came back! Youâre here! Iâm so fucking excited youâre back! Iâve been waiting for six whole hours! My God! Itâs so great to see you! Youâre the most beautiful thing thatâs ever walked through those doors! And, you probably did something really important today! Did you cure cancer? Huh? Did ya? Did ya?!â It is a sound I will never forget, and one I will miss for the rest of my life.
Fittingly, she was also the smartest dog I have ever come across. Her tricks were typical-sit, bark, paw, roll over, crawl, but the way she played with us still boggles my mind. Since my dad was determined to get one of his kids in the major leagues (daughter, son, it didnât matter) we always had a baseball diamond outlined with spray paint in our back yard. We would have home run derbies on the reg. Jessie became a standard outfielder. Let me rephrase. Jessie became an outstanding outfielder. She would frolic around in the yard, waiting for one of us to knock one out of the park. When said opportunity came along, sheâd sprint towards the ball, her beautiful coat shining in the sunlight. Sheâd grab the ball in her mouth, like most dogs do in a classic game of fetch, but then sheâd turn around and chase us base-runners and TAG US OUT, like most humans do in the classic game of baseball. It was amazing. We probably couldâve gotten her to sign with the Cubs had we thought this thing through a little more.Â
After recounting this memory with my dad yesterday he said, âSheâs the definition of unconditional love.â Not only did my eyes well up for the umpteenth time this weekend, but I realized truer words have never been said. He then went on to recite one of my favorite Bible verses, a feat thatâs actually a lot easier to surpass because Iâve only retained about three since my days as a Catholic School Girl. But itâs beautiful nonetheless. âLove is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preservers. Love never fails.â
Jessie never had to be taught to listen, to forgive, to be modest, to comfort, to not judge. Itâs just how she was. She never held it against me when I muttered under my breath, âGet out of the way, dog,â when simply trying to put my dishes away. She just smiled, and panted goofily back at me. She never stopped any of my self-deprecating monologues when I was unemployed after finishing my first internship after college and actually leaving a dent in my parentsâ sofa. She just wagged her tail and laid at my feet, her way of showing me that employers are stupid and dogs are the key to happiness. She never told me what an idiot I was for believing he still loved me, even after he hooked up with my best friend in our basement. She was there, she knew itâd be hard for me, but sheâd help me mend the wound. She still kept her mouth shut when he never visited me in Chicago, after telling me he loved me in Argentina. She never met him, but she wouldnât have liked him anyways. She just sat there patiently, allowing me to spew emotion after emotion at her. She was always there when I needed to talk to someone, but couldnât bear to listen to any bullshitted-advice or forced words of comfort. Because no one ever knows what your feeling and the proper response. But Jessie did, and she never failed to [not] say the right thing.
Shortly after this internal highlight reel, I caught my dad Googling âCan you pray for dogs?â He voiced this question to me moments after, wondering if it was indeed possible, if anyone is even listening up there? If animals were born without souls, without mortal sin, can they really get into Heaven?
A note about my father: him and I have very different views on religion. Heâs the guy that goes to church every Sunday, Iâm the girl who sleeps instead. I tell him itâs because the God I believe in would rather me find Him and talk to Him while I was doing the things I loved, like say, rollerblading. I tell him this partially because I want him to get off my back about going to church but partially because I truly believe that.
After hearing this seemingly ridiculous question, in addition to pouring over the countless selfless acts Jessie has done for me in the past 15 years of her and my life, I blurted out, âAre you kidding me? Of course.â I donât think my dad was ready for such a blunt reaction, so I softened the blow. âThe God I believe in created dogs for a reason. I donât care what the Bible says, no human could do what Jessieâs done with their âhuman soul.â The only explanation for the bond between man and dog is because they have a soul.â It was very likely a whole lot less eloquent but give me a break, my dog is dying, my memory is jostled and my vocabulary is elementary. My dad, the quasi-Bible thumper, was silent.
Itâs taken me a good chunk of the day to write this, mainly because I canât go a paragraph without losing it. Or going over to pet her. Or beginning to imagine what itâs going to be like without her here. When the doorbell rings, thereâll be silence instead of her bark. When Iâm in the basement, the only sounds Iâll hear is of footsteps, instead of the click click click of her usually-overgrown nails. When I come home, the only things greeting me will be from the waist up. My food will never have a strand of her hair in it. And for the only rational reason of pure love, that makes me indescribably sad. The back door will open and close far fewer times now, without having to let her out to Go Potty! Rogue ice cubes will remain on the floor, causally melting until someone lackadaisically picks them up. Her food bowl will be removed from the kitchen floor, clearing up the little extra space only for dust bunnies.
Jessie, just like her name, is so much more of a human than a dog. Itâs impossible to replace someone thatâs been there through your awkward phase, your grade school, high school, and college graduations. Someone thatâs watched you (and I like to believe) proudly grow up. Sheâs kept secrets of First Times in my bedroom; high school parties in my basement; sneaking in random dudes and sneaking out to see even randomer ones; bullshit drama between drunken friends; and that one time I ate a bag of Cheetos all by myself while watching some crime marathon on USA (characters welcome.) Man, if that dog could talk. Her autobiography would surely soar to the top of Oprahâs Book List. Imagine the reviews. âNoise-picking, shameless farts, sex, drugs, and scandal! This book has it all! Even masturbation!â Damn it Jessie, why canât you speak/write/be an Animorph.
I donât know what part of her Iâll miss more. Her natural white collar of fur. Her perky ears or her excited ones. Her black bushy tail with a dab of white at the end, as if it was dipped in Elmerâs Glue. The white stripe up her nose to her forehead that perfectly divides her perfectly adorable face. Her beautiful coat that outlasted every single one of mine from stupid Old Navy. But probably, actually definitely, Iâll miss her howl that would only be heard when I would horrifically play âMy Heart Will Go On,â for her on my flute. As the notes of the refrain would escalate in tone, her ears would cringe back into her head. First, she would whimper. And then, as the notes creeped higher and higher, she would raise her nose into the air and let out the saddest, most disappointed in my talents, and soul-shaking howl, reminiscent of a werewolf. Awwwoooooo. The audience would collapse in laughter. Yea, thatâs the Jessie Iâm going to miss. My number one source of entertainment. My confidant. My pillow. My Kleenex. My therapist. My confidence booster. My favorite thing for my hand to pet. My best friend.
