Birdsong No.3 - The Dog Days Are Over

And that's okay.

Dear Reader,

Tonight I’m writing to you from my bed. As I’m starting this it’s 1:30am and I’ve been kept awake by something I can only refer to as a writer’s urgency. It may sometimes be better known to us who write as a ‘writer’s burden’. That is, our (or at least my) dire need to listen to that voice in our head, or maybe our heart, no matter the time or situation, that says “This thing that you’re feeling needs to come out and it might be gone if you don’t get to it now.” It’s our call to action. It’s the thing that frees us of the most frustrating writer’s block, yet also the same thing that can distance us from something as vital as sleep. It’s the reason that our Notes apps are full of document after document of unfinished thought. A sentence here, a title there, sometimes a single word. Hoping that when we come back to it we will snap right back into our previous thought process and finish off where we started. But unfortunately it rarely, if ever, works that way.

As I’ve started sharing my writing over the past year or so, I’ve come to learn something about writing that often perturbs me. Which is that the most uncomfortable writing to carry out is often the most necessary to share. It speaks directly to a belief that I’ve carried for a while now that art ought to sometimes spark controversy, whether that occurs within the artist themselves or amongst its observers. Overall, writing, and sharing my writing, has been an overwhelmingly pleasurable experience for me. It has helped me meet myself in ways I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. It has introduced me to people and places that I now call home. It has given me renewed life in periods of time that I otherwise felt dormant, alone, cold. It has quietly fed me the most necessary energy, and provided the necessary solace when I’ve needed it most. I write because I have to. Because it’s how I see the world. It’s how I know the world. I write because I want to know the truth and tell the truth. And I share what I write because somehow, people like yourself, have given me the gift of believing that my writing can bring comfort, or provide understanding to someone who feels they aren’t understood. And the fact that one of you incredible people actually pays to support my writing makes my brain hurt and my heart swell.

To quote one of my biggest sources of human and creative inspiration

Anna Fusco

: “Tears mean it is time to write.” Seriously, if you aren’t subscribed to her newsletter, I can’t recommend it enough. And on top of that she makes the most incredible bumper stickers, prints, and overall cool things. Support her.

A well spent life, Anna Fusco

As I was lying down in bed tonight, my tears informed me that I must write. And what I am writing to tell you, amongst other things, is that I miss my dog.

While spending the summer of 2013 back home from college, and against the wishes of my mother, I decided that I both wanted and needed to get a dog. I had moved away without any friends or family in the city I was now living. My partner at the time was 600 miles away. I’d been in the midst of one of the worst bouts of depression that I’ve ever faced and I wasn’t handling it well at all. So after great discussion with myself and my partner, the solution to my loneliness and my struggle to cope was to have something that provided a distraction, a companion, and provided me with some purpose.

My partner and I went to the local rescue on a Friday and when we got to one of the last kennels, there was a brother and sister who were listed as lab mixes. I was adamant that I was going to get a female rather than a male, mostly because of my dire need to become a girl dad, but also because of my well documented history of connecting emotionally to women rather than men. Admittedly, this was probably also due, at least in part, to my unconscious belief at the time that men aren’t as loving as women, and what I desperately hoped for from this dog was love. But when we opened the door, the sister sat quietly in the corner, while the brother jumped straight into my arms. Leaving no question as to which pup we’d be taking home. When we talked about this moment later, we always said that my dog, Atlas, chose us, not the other way around. And it’s a decision that I will be forever grateful for.

Since it was Friday, we couldn’t finalize the adoption that day, but we fostered him over the weekend. Which gave me a few days to ponder my decision, even though I didn’t need it. From the moment we brought him home he was incredibly loyal, loving, and generous. We spent the first night picking fleas off of his belly one by one while giving him a bath on the brick patio at my childhood home. He slept for what felt like an entire day the first night. He had the typical mishaps that any puppy would: the time he pooped in my mom’s carpeted bedroom closet, his incessant drooling during car rides that usually led to him vomiting if we went on long enough, his early (but temporary) habits of eating plants and books (he once chewed up an entire Bougainvillea on our apartment patio, thorns and all), the time he famously piled up every shoe in the laundry room and sat on them like a throne. And through the nine years that I got to spend with him, he was absolutely the best dog I’ve ever been around, and beyond that, he saved me in a way nothing else could have.

I unapologetically echo the paw print bumper stickers found on Subaru after Subaru that say: ‘Who rescued who?’ Because for me that question was not only pertinent, but also easy to answer. For the first year of his life he and I lived alone in an off-campus apartment. There were moments where I struggled mightily at first while training him. He was obedient but I was broken. There were nights where I would be brought to tears when he didn’t come when I called his name. Many people say that we often have secure attachments to our pets, but like so many other areas of my life, my attachment was anxious even with him. He was the one thing I didn’t want to be rejected or ignored by, but every single day with him taught me something new about myself, about life, and I wouldn’t trade my time with him for anything else in the world. I have never felt more gratitude to belong to something than I did to him.

Atlas, 2013.

It’s been over two years since I last saw him. I remember the day well. I remember the way he ran to me in the driveway, his always-too-long nails scraping the concrete. I remember the way he licked me with excitement, so aggressively that his tongue hit the roof of my mouth in the midst of our shared laughter. Early in 2022, I made the decision to end my relationship with my partner, whom I had been with for over a decade, and with that decision, we agreed that it would be best for him if he stayed with her. It was one of those things that we alluded to throughout our relationship, that if anything ever happened between us, he would stay with her. And it’s something that I knew and accepted without hesitation. In the eight years we lived together as three, he grew closer and closer to her emotionally, and I knew if he had to live without one of us, it would be me.

In the two years since, I’ve thought about him every day. He’s the background on my phone. I have a painting of him on my dining room wall. I had an appointment to get a tattoo of him, which unfortunately fell through with the artist, but it’s something I’d still like to do. I’ve celebrated his birthday, which we don’t technically know, but we chose to celebrate on Valentine’s Day because if he’s anything he’s a lover. For months after I left I found his hairs throughout my new house, which he’s never been to, but they were left all over my things as they had been for years. In those moments of unprecedented transition in my life, it made me feel like he was still around. There have been many nights, especially in winter, where I’ve wanted nothing more than to scratch his butt while he warms the bed. There have been many days, especially in summer, where I’ve wanted nothing more than to take him to the beach and drive back home with a sandy car filled with the smell of a wet dog snoring in the back seat.

But this is how life goes. This is the underbelly of adulthood that we don’t dare dream about as children. This is the reality of learning to trust yourself. This is the consequence of our ability to make decisions about our lives and to decide what might be best for those we care about. Loss, and more specifically loss of connection is a tough one. It stings. It lingers. But the only promise in our relationships with each other, with pets, with things in every form, is that they will come to an end. Sometimes these things leave us, and sometimes we are the things that leave. So despite the sadness that I have felt in the years since I last felt his body wriggle in my arms, I understand that I made a decision, and it’s one I still stand by, knowing that it was best for him and best for myself.

Our connections to our pets are sacred. There are piles of evidence that suggest we, as humans, have had pets for tens of thousands of years. And I think anyone who has one can believe this without needing any convincing. We lean on our pets even when we can’t lean on ourselves. Our pets not only teach us how to love, but just as much about how to receive it. The connections we make with them transcend our inter-species language barrier and they give us a place in this world that is consistent, safe, and bountiful. And going from having this relationship with Atlas to the way things are now has obviously had its challenges. Once things in my life had settled a bit, I reached out about the possibility of seeing him, or having him stay with me, but this request was declined, and understandably so. Time has passed. My previous partner and I have built separate lives. We don’t communicate, and I don’t think there’s any reason we need to. I trusted her ability to do what was best for him (and herself) then, and I trust her still.

There’s a song, “Comfort”, by Australian singer-songwriter Julia Jacklin, whose music I adore (who is also fantastic live), that speaks to my sentiment about how things are now. I can’t know that Atlas misses me in the way that I miss him. I can’t know if he remembers me at all. I can’t know if he thinks about sitting at my feet while I chopped veggies in the kitchen, waiting on scraps of kale and carrots. I can’t know if he finds my hair around the house like I do. But if I want anything, it’s to protect his peace, and in turn I want to do the same for her and for myself. If we aim to maintain respect for the people we have loved, then we ought to trust that they will continue loving the parts of us that we’ve left with them. So with that in mind, I have an easier time accepting that things are the way they should be, and I’ve made peace with that.

“He's gonna thrive, he'll be just fine
Hurt for a while, cured with time
Don't know how he's doing, but that's what you get
You can't be the one to hold him when you were the one who left”

Reader, I want to be clear that in no way am I trying to convince you that anything should be different than the way it is. I don’t believe, as some people do, that I should “go get my dog back”, because he wasn’t mine to begin with. He belongs to himself and his life as he knows it. He wasn’t taken from me and I don’t blame anyone that he and I aren’t together. I did not, and will not ever, view my past partner’s willingness to keep him as malicious, because it’s absolutely the opposite. She’s a phenomenal person and someone I still hold a great amount of love, admiration, and respect for, while understanding that the relationship we had wasn’t the one that was meant to last. I wish her happiness. I wish her a successful career, a peaceful life, good health, and all of the other things I’d wish on anyone I’ve had the pleasure of knowing so intimately. Yes, it hurts to be apart from him, but I know that in deciding to leave that relationship I hurt them both as well. The pain goes around, and it’s only fair that we take our turns. And most fair of all, we should keep our word to one another.

I recently had a family friend visit me, and she brought along her new 7-month old puppy. He was a bundle of boundless energy and I couldn’t tell you the last time I touched something so soft. Having a dog in my house was a treat that I haven’t experienced in some time. Recently, this same family went through the loss of their oldest dog, and having known that dog for 14 years it felt foreign to see my friend with this joyous, naive, eager-to-please puppy. In the past two years a topic of debate amongst myself, my friends and my family, is the idea of me getting a new pet. I’ve approached this topic a few times, gingerly, with shy intent. Inquiring about getting a cat or two, as they would fit my 12-hour shift schedule much better than a pup. But it’s something I still haven’t been able to digest yet. The idea of bringing a new pet into my life while knowing (or rather assuming) Atlas is still alive, feels wrong to me. It’s something I’m always revisiting, but having a dog napping under my dining room table was a sharp reminder of this possibility, and maybe more so of my heart’s desire for companionship.

I’ve talked to many people about similar situations in their own lives. Dogs or cats that they had to say goodbye to because their relationship ended and custody went the other way. It’s been an adjustment for us all, and there’s clearly the potential for a support group for this kind of necessary grieving. But for now, as I’m writing this to you, a dear friend was reunited with her dog that she hasn’t seen after her own relationship ended a couple years ago. And just this morning, she brought her over to my house for our usual weekly coffee on the patio. Together we marveled at her as she wandered around my yard, sniffing the August breeze, later peacefully settling down at our feet. Between conversations I reached my hand down to scratch her gentle, giant head. I couldn’t help but smile, knowing the yearning that my friend had for this moment. Wanting to be reconnected with someone that meant so much to her. I’m happy for them both. I’m happy that they have this time together that they’re clearly making the most of.

The whole beautiful time, in the back of my head, I was also unapologetically missing my own dog. He’s 11 now, and admittedly, my minds slips into a state of unease every now and then when I realize that I might not see him before he’s gone. That I might find out about his passing from a friend or a family member. But on a day like today, I spent the afternoon wondering what he’d be doing if he had the yard to himself. If he’d be focused on the lizards or the birds, or if he’d be curled up in one of the chairs on the patio. Or maybe he’d be lying next to me, primed to jump wildly away from me when my feet touch him (he has a ridiculous case of Podophobia). But like I try to with anything else in life, I choose to believe that we’re all where we’re supposed to be. So wherever he is, I know he’s got a favorite sunny spot on the floor in the house. I know he’s got a favorite toy and a favorite place to take a nap.

Most importantly, I know he’s loved, and thanks to him, I know what a gift that is.

With love,

Zach