Before I was a whole-ass human mom, I was a dog mom. I've heard people refer to themselves as dog parents, and I've heard human parents say that's nowhere near the same. I'd argue with that, though. It's a creature who depends on you; depends on you for food, housing, to tell them what's right and what's wrong. A creature who looks to you for cuddles when they don't feel well, who look to you to make them feel better, and trusts what you say without hesitation. It's a creature you have the privilege to watch grow up knowing your time together is limited, which is cruel, but beautiful. It's a creature who inherently loves you unconditionally unless you give them a reason not to.
Mr Fox has been on my mind a lot lately. It's been almost two years since he passed. Beau and I adopted our late dachshund in 2010, I think. We were moving into our apartments and we wanted a puppy. I love dogs, but Beau - he loves dogs. He really wanted a dachshund. (He grew up with them and had one that was truly his, though the way he tells it, he was responsible for all of them. Her name was Crispy. She was a very, very good girl from what I gather.)
When we adopted Fox, we didn't really know what we were getting into. I mean, we knew, but we didn't really know. We drove from Austin to Dallas on a Saturday, spent twenty minutes with him, and then we drove home together as a family of three. We didn't know then who he'd become, not only in his personality but to us, to our family. We couldn't have anticipated the way he would face-hug us, as we called it, laying his long neck over our faces (sometimes inadvertently suffocating us). We couldn't have expected just how much cuddling we'd do with him over the next eleven years. How he'd be stubborn as hell, cooperating with crate training until he was about nine, at which point he decided one day he would never willingly enter a crate again, and if he was forced in, he would force himself out by whatever means necessary. We didn't know he'd have debilitating separation anxiety, that he'd grow to prefer to never not be touching one of us. We didn't know he'd have an affinity for french fries with the perfect amount of ketchup. We didn't know he'd be a social butterfly when the moment demanded it, attending all of those silly college parties with us. I would love to get on Facebook the next day, just to see how many people posted pictures with him.
He preferred your pets when he deemed them appropriate, and if you tried to when he didn't feel he needed them, he would look at you with such judgment, sigh, and get up to find a new spot to lay somewhere on his own. He loved his sleep, and he loved his sun. He loved to eat, and he loved to hear what a good boy he was. He'd give kisses when he decided you needed them or when you asked for them. He would make his way into whatever chair you were sitting in, and if you thought there wasn't room for you both, he'd make room. After I became a remote employee, he went with me every time I went into the office, and he'd visit every row of cubicles, checking in. I remember everyone loved him and he mostly tolerated us. He had the internal clock of a military man, never late for breakfast or dinner. He'd holler at us when he was ready for a bone and he'd devour it faster than you'd expect him to. He'd let you know when he was mad at you, but he always forgave you. He didn't care to go on walks or out to play. If he got the zoomies, they were always out of his system within sixty seconds. He had more airline miles than most people I know. He was the bravest dog I've ever met. He never thought he'd lose a fight (even when the odds were stacked against him). He would rarely apologize. He loved to explore independently, but he (almost) always came when called. He found water to be absolutely offensive. He once jumped in the ocean to save Beau and I because we were snorkeling and he deemed that an unnecessary risk. He trusted us to take him anywhere we went and so long as we were together, he was safe.
When he passed, we were devastated. It was pretty unexpected. I mean, I guess it wasn't, because we'd known for about a week that he would unlikely recover from whatever it was causing his anemia. We had taken a trip to Texas, and he was mostly fine. He was old, sure, but Fox had been an old soul for as long as we'd known him. We thought he was just getting older and slower, because life is cruel and dogs don't live anywhere near long enough. When we'd gotten back to St Thomas, I noticed his gums were pale. I mean, they had changed within the thirty minutes before. I think maybe my heart already knew but my head couldn't compute. We took him to the vet every day after. We tried to get him to eat. We tried to save him. I'm not sure I'll ever really forgive myself for not catching it. The day before he passed, we discovered he had a mass in his stomach, and he was too anemic to operate. He didn't have any pain, he was just exhausted. He died at home. This experience is tucked in a place in my mind I can't go. I can't walk past that threshold, can't look it in the eye. I won't let that be the memory of my guy that shines in my mind the most.
Beau had been working for months to get us a weimaraner. He wanted to surprise Fox and I with a puppy. My parents have always gotten a puppy when their oldest dog gets older. There's a theory that it will give an older dog a renewed sense of purpose. They feel they need to be here a little longer to teach this silly puppy how to do things the right way. When Fox died, I sat on the couch and cried for three days straight. We had lost Beau's dad a year before, and his brother a few months before, and Fox's death was the one that shattered any and all defenses I had put up to keep the heartbreak at bay. I mean, it wasn't really at bay, but I was coping, or maybe functioning on a day-to-day basis. Fox leaving brought me crashing back to a reality that I did not much care for. Why did we have to experience this particularly horrible series of bad events? I'll never know.
Beau got the call the day after Fox passed that we had secured our puppy. He was almost sick telling me. He didn't want me to think he was trying to replace Fox, because he wasn't. He was trying to give Fox someone to pass on his love of french fries and sun bathing. Life had different plans, though, didn't it?
I couldn't really wrap my head around it, and I was honestly terrified. We had made a commitment to this puppy, and we needed to see it through. It wasn't his fault this had happened. It's hard putting myself back there, on that couch, talking about booking a flight, feeling numb and scared. I was scared I couldn't love this puppy. I really was. I was scared I would be unable to open my heart. That he'd know I couldn't love him, and he'd think something was wrong with him, when in reality I was reeling from a loss I hadn't prepared myself for, even if I told myself I had. I remember the night we got to Texas to pick up our puppy, our Happy guy. He was so cute, but I couldn't process it. My eyes were puffy from crying. He just wanted to wiggle on me. I felt like I was betraying Fox. Like if he could see me, he'd be heartbroken.
I look back now and I know that's not the case. All Fox wanted was for us to be happy. He wanted us to love, and to be loved, and he did that to the absolute best of his abilities during his time here. When he left, he let the universe give us just what we needed. Happy had never experienced anything bad in his life. Fox was with us through all of the bad. He had wet fur from my tears more times than I care to admit. He was my little spoon while I sobbed. Those were the only times he wouldn't get up and find somewhere else to lay, the times he knew I needed him, and though he preferred the quiet and the sun for sleeping, his needs did not supersede my own. Throughout my grieving process, I wondered if Fox sent us Happy. If he knew we'd need a puppy who was never unhappy, who just wanted to play and be scratched and fetch a damn ball. Ironically Fox wouldn't have cared for Hap at all. They would have driven each other crazy as brothers do. Fox knew me better than most people do. He knew when I needed what I didn't know I needed. He knew I could be loved when I wasn't convinced. He always treated me like I was the best person he knew even when I didn't feel like I was worth it. He knew I needed Hap. I needed someone innocent, someone who wouldn't kiss my tears away, but would instead shove a ball in my hands and ask me to throw, to stop focusing on what's happened, and to focus on what is happening.
Happy turned two the other day, which means Fox's two year anniversary is coming up at the end of September. It may sound silly to you, but it was honestly probably the most devastating loss I have ever endured. I didn't love him more than the people I have lost, but I loved him differently. He depended on me. He was there every time I turned around. The reality of walking into a home and not hearing his little feet clicking, or eating my meals in peace because there was no dachshund standing on the side of my chair waiting for his take, or waking up in the middle of the night because he was supposed to be in our bed but wouldn't be jumping up there any longer - my reality crashed into itself every hour of the day.
He was the first baby who depended on me. Conveniently, he weighed just about as much as RB does right now, and he preferred to be held like a baby, so he prepared me for holding a human sack of potatoes quite nicely. Sometime after he died, I told my dad I still missed him. My dad told me that doesn't really go away, and that he still cries for the dog he lost while I was in college. I still can't bring myself to change my profile picture or my cover photo on Facebook because he's in them. I still look for him some days. I long for him in my dreams. I think of his velvet fur and offensive breath, and I wish he could've stayed forever.
Time is cruel, but it's still beautiful. I miss my little red wagon, the foxy doxy, my beautiful boy. I hate that he's not here, but I feel that he's somewhere in a sunray, sleeping off an order of perfectly ketchuped fries. I'm grateful for the last two years with Happy. I'm grateful for his silly ways, his easy-going love. I'm grateful to have the opportunity for all these little creatures love me just because I'm me, not expecting anything more. It's weird because if I have to be grateful for that, then I have to be grateful for the heartbreak. You can't have the rainbow without the rain. I know he's happy and whole wherever he is. I just hope he knows we are too, and that he will always be my first boy.
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