When I was twenty-two years old the first adult decision I made for myself was to adopt a dog. I had just moved to a new state, was starting a new job in a few weeks, and had no idea what I was doing.
After visiting a few shelters to find the right pup, my roommate told me about a colleague of hers who was looking for someone to foster a dog. She showed me a picture of a medium-sized mutt with a dazed expression and one floppy ear. I said sure, thinking it would be a good idea to prepare myself for whatever dog I found in the future that would be my own.
Instead, from the moment I met Rowdy, I knew he was the dog for me.
As a kid one of my favorite movies was Lilo and Stitch, a Disney cartoon about a little girl who struggles to fit in and doesn’t have many friends. Her older sister takes her to adopt a dog, but instead the little girl finds an alien that has been blasted to Earth. The girl and the “dog” become friends, and then family.
Rowdy was definitely a dog, but honestly, could have been an alien. He had no interest in dog toys, treats, or playing, but would get so excited to go on a walk that he would destroy my entire apartment anytime I reached for the leash. He didn’t like other dogs but loved to sit directly next to humans as if he was a person too. His favorite foods were petrified objects he found abandoned on sidewalks, sometimes actual food but also chicken bones, wet newspapers, and one time an already dead lizard. In the entire time he was mine he only barked once.
He was without a doubt the weirdest dog I had ever seen. Other people didn’t fully get why I was so excited about him. “He’s…cute,” they would say, when he sat up tall next to me chattering his teeth, something he did when he was excited or nervous (so always). Strangers would come up to pet him until he fixed them with his wild stare, his lips constantly caught inside his teeth at weird angles, and then they would back away slowly. Kids however, have always loved Rowdy.
For the next eight years, Rowdy and I were inseparable. When I was a teacher, he came with me on Fridays to the school and ran around at recess with my students. When I moved to a new apartment and lived alone for the first time, I wasn’t truly alone; I had his wagging tail and tippy-tappy toes to greet me when I walked through the door. Rowdy followed me across four different states, from Oklahoma to North Carolina to California to Washington, DC. He met all of my new friends and loved them. He met all of my boyfriends and hated them, until he met Bobby who he only grudgingly allowed to stick around. The first summer that Bobby’s son stayed with us in our new house in DC, he was afraid to sleep alone. So we sent Rowdy into his room each night to snuggle up on the bed with him. Now, he’s no longer afraid, but he still looks forward to sleepovers with Rowdy every summer.
Yesterday, I said goodbye to Rowdy for the last time. He was almost eleven years old, and had developed bone cancer in his leg that made it impossible for him to walk.
Even with age he was the exact same dog. His eyes were murkier now, but his crazy stare was exactly the same. His muzzle had gone white but his lips still got tangled in his teeth, and he still loved searching for secret food treasures on the floor. Yesterday for the first time he got to taste chocolate, just before he went to sleep.
Losing a pet is never easy. Losing the first pet that was truly yours is a unique pain that I can’t imagine ever fully goes away. Reminders of him are still all over my house. His water bowl is only half empty. His hairs are coated over every item I know. It used to bother me, how much he shed, that no matter how many times I swept the floor his black and white hairs could still be found. It doesn’t seem worth being bothered by now.
Rowdy truly was my best friend. He moved with me to new places where I didn’t know anyone, and made me meet people (nothing is a better ice breaker than a dog jumping up on the park bench to sit beside you, despite its owners best attempts to get him to act normally). He would walk around an entire city with me, all day, and then sit next to me while I read or listened to a podcast or people watched. He helped me through stress at work, missing my family, breakups, loneliness. When I was happy, he was happy. When I was sad he would touch his nose to my nose and lick my face until my tears were replaced with spit. It was gross but it made me feel better every time, to know that no matter what was going on I had him, and he had me.
My relationship with Rowdy was perhaps the one thing I had that was entirely mine. He loved other people, but not the way he loved me. My relationship with Rowdy was also one of the few I’ve had my entire adult life, from the summer I graduated college to being thirty years old and married.
The vet said that bone cancer can spread quickly, but pet’s try to hide the pain as long as they possibly can. Also yesterday, I learned that an offer Bobby and I put in on a new house was accepted. I think Rowdy held on as long as he could, sensing that a big change was coming up for me. He knew, because he had been there through so many of them before. And he knew this one was going to be a good one; there were no tears to lick away. I think he was sticking it out as long as he could to make sure I was ready, and then he knew it would be ok to go.
On of the things we liked best about the new house was its huge backyard. In all the places I’ve lived with Rowdy, he’s never had his own yard, and I was so excited to finally be able to give him one. A place where he could spend all day wandering around outside, smelling the smells, staring at things only he could see. Now I’ll never be able to give him that. Now I have to trust that the rest of his life was good enough, that he was happy enough, that it wouldn’t have made a difference to him, and he was content to be on his leash because it meant he got to be next to me, going wherever our next destination might be.
When I first got Rowdy, my roommate’s parents came to visit us and meet him. Her mom told me about her first dog, and how you will love all of your pets in life but some will clearly be your pets: like soulmates, they will be pets that could only have been loved this deeply by you, that make perfect sense in your life, and those will be the ones you live the most life with, and that you miss the most when they’re gone.
I don’t think I’ll ever have another dog like Rowdy, because I can’t imagine another dog as weird and wonderful as him could possibly exist. I miss him, and it’s hard, and I’m grateful. Some people go their entire lives without finding their souldog.