"They Let You Know."

On saying goodbye to the thing I’ve wanted my whole life.

There’s a picture on my nightstand, one that I’ve had for nearly 30 years. I’m seven years old, outside of my friend’s aunt’s house in Castaic, getting a kiss on the face from a dog I’d only met that day, Barkley. My friend Ashton’s mom gave me this picture on my birthday, and even though I never saw Barkley again, the sentiment behind the photo never changed.

I have always wanted a dog. 

Growing up in an apartment building where neighbors will narc on you for having anything besides goldfish, my wish didn’t come true until my late 20s when I was in a stable relationship and living in an apartment big enough for the responsibility. Friends of my neighbor’s were fostering a dog that was found wandering Compton (his Christian name, Hennessy), and promptly socialized him to a house with cats and other dogs, renaming him Henry. He was doing laps at Pan Pacific Park when the fosters told me to take him home for an hour or two to see if we got along. As I got into my car, Henry immediately plopped onto my lap for the drive. 

That’s when he told me he was my dog. 

It’s been nearly nine years since that summer afternoon, and my bond with him has been one of the most consistent things in my life. Moving cities, changing homes, getting sick, different boyfriends… every day I had with him I celebrated the privilege and responsibility that came with having a fur baby so totally bonded to me. 

I’ll skip past the lymphoma part. It was hard, everyone rallied, he went into remission, but the lymphoma was all but guaranteed to come back. After a healthy debate of “are these swollen salivary glands or lymph nodes” with his oncologist, we had concluded last month that his lymphoma returned. While more chemo was an option, I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of him having another year that was pockmarked with dreadful recovery weeks, all so he could be okay for a few months until the inevitable came up again. She told me that basically the minute he started to feel down, we could put him on steroids, and we’d have about two to three more months before ultimately the palliative measures accomplished all they could.

That’s not quite what happened.

For two weeks, I had my old dog back. It was a blessing. I reveled in it, and didn’t want to tell many people the news because I want to bring down the vibe, nor did I want every visit tinged with “this is maybe your last time seeing him.”

Then, things just got bad. Everything turned. Even putting him on steroids, his disposition got worse. People tell you that the pet will let you know when it’s time, and Henry did so when he stopped grooming himself, and most importantly, he stopped trying to do nose kisses any chance he was near my face.

I listened to all the advice my friends gave me, and waited to give Henry every chance to stop me from playing this game of chicken with him. Movers came in to drop off furniture, Henry didn’t budge or bark. When my friend Chris’ boyfriend came in (someone we joked that Henry hated), Henry didn’t even care. On his final day, I took him to Pan Pacific Park, a last ditch effort to see if he’d give me any sign that he’d come around, or that my guy was still in there. He padded beside me a little, and mostly lay on my lap, unbothered by even the dogs running up to sniff him.

The afternoon of April 26th, that’s when I knew it was time.

My friend Nick told me that in this twilight period, I had to give Henry the same amount of unconditional love that he gave me his whole life. He also told me that these things usually happen at times of great personal change- that Henry had done his job, and his job is done. I live in a city where people believe in Xenu the alien and tarot cards as a way to dictate your life… I have no shame in believing that for as much as I would have sacrificed another two years to constant medication, constant walks, and expensive vet visits- my dog wanted me to have space for what’s coming up next.

A stranger on the internet followed me after I posted the news, and said to me: “There’s a quote about pups that stuck with me-- he was only there for part of your life, but to him, you were his whole life.”  

One of my favorite things I own is a shadowboxed Chanel iPhone case that Henry had chewed up when I left it on the couch after a walk. A very lavish item that I’d purchased with money from my first foreign licensing deal (from France, naturally), it had been rendered useless in a few chomps. An ex had shadowboxed it so the leather sleeve could go from piece of utility to piece of art. The iPhone case sits next to the picture of me and Barkley. Only in writing this did I ever make the connection that I paired those two objects next to each other on my nightstand. My dream of having a dog, and my reality, side by side. 

Henry was the one thing I’d wanted my whole life, even before the dream to make comics or finding love. I had the best dog for me. It was a gift I hope I never forget. 

I miss my dog.