Paws on the Windowpane

You growled. You barked. You ignored me. You treated me like crap and hero-worshiped my mother from the second we brought you home. You were neurotic and epileptic and acted so much like a cat I suspect there was one somewhere in your ancestry. You were arguably the worst dog in the history of mankind, and now that you’re gone you’ve left an ache in my heart that the gallons upon gallons of tears I’ve spilled can’t heal.

You always seemed to hate me; there was very rarely any love in those chocolate eyes of yours, only annoyance and anger. But there were moments. First thing in the morning, for example. I’d come out of my room and instead of charging at me like a tiny little mother bear you would paw my leg and wag your tail. I’d pick you up, and instead of a growl I’d get a kiss. Only one, but a kiss. You gave them so rarely that that one kiss from you was worth a hundred from any other dog. Kisses from you were like diamonds. When I would get really sick, you’d skulk into my room and curl up at the foot of my bed, growling every time I moved. It was your backwards way of trying to make me feel better. And last year, when I came home for breaks, you’d come barreling out of my parents’ room like usual, but when you saw who it was at the door, you’d skid to a halt and stare up at me in utter disbelief, like, “Oh my, God, I thought you’d died! I’ve missed you so much!” And then I’d get more tail wags and kisses and cuddles over the time I was home than I had in the past ten years.

It’s always the little things that we miss the most. Like how, up until the very end, you never lost your spunk. You never got run down and defeated. You always had the energy to explode off the back of the sofa or the foot of the bed the moment the doorbell rang, pick up that stupid little stuffed panda and shake it like it had done you grievous injury. And how when you’d been playing, that one little tuft of hair would fall over your mouth to give you that self-satisfied smirk. And how Dad and I could get you to leap into our laps after dinner, but Mom–the one whom you doted on and couldn’t let leave your sight–never could. You were usually a fairly intelligent dog, but you had your stupid moments: Accidentally rolling off the edge of the bed when you wanted a tummy rub, colliding with the screen door and ricocheting off like a tennis ball. How you would shake your toy too close to the wall and hit your head, or try and jump up on the bed and miss. You were so afraid of thunderstorms and fireworks you would shed your dignity and hide under the bed.
For all your faults you were my friend. You were the first dog I really connected with, and all I can say to you now, Chloe, is that I’m sorry for the times I swore at you and laughed at you; I’m sorry for calling you stupid and saying I hated you, because underneath all your crap, underneath all the fear and anger, you were a great dog. A dog with a heart of gold (although plated with stone) and enough vivacity and personality to satisfy ten dogs. I love you.

Coming up the ramp, I round the corner and there you are, white paws scratching at the glass, back feet planted unsteadily on the back of the sofa. You let out a howl of delight at seeing our return, plumed tail wagging frantically. As we pass, you leap off the sofa and come skidding towards the front door, claws scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. Whether we’d been gone for five minutes or two weeks, you were equally happy to have us back. And it is that delight, those infrequent moments when you let your love for us show, that I remember most fondly.

Submitted by Hilary S