A life lived to the fullest, but now, a deep emptiness
My house is more of a stranger than a home in the wake of her absence.
I hate it here. The silence is sickening. Missing is the rush of her joy when I open the door, the wet nose, pushy kisses, and a language she believed to be my own.
I wrestle with the stillness. The bed is spacious and the blankets are abundant, yet it’s cold and empty. I’ve never been so comfortable in the most uncomforting of ways, so sleep doesn’t come easy. Not without her.
For 11 years, I shared my life with her: Peppermint Patty Brown, a boxer with a huge personality and heart so big her bigger chest seemed tailor made to house all that love she happily lugged around. She napped as hard as she played, approached begging like an Olympic sport, and followed me closer than my shadow. It’s hard to believe she was supposed to be a rebound dog. Kind of.
“I don’t think you’ll do well coming back to an empty place,” a vet told me when my first boxer, Charli Brown, was diagnosed with cancer 12 years ago. Doctors believed she wouldn’t see the age of 6. My vet could see our attachment, the way we moved in sync, how you couldn’t quite tell who was mothering whom. I was told to get a transition puppy to help ease the pain of the process.
Charli Brown took one look at 8-week-old Peppermint Patty and lived to be 12 years old, caring for us both. I used to say Pep saved Charli’s life. But now I know she saved mine.
It’s been 18 years since I’ve lived a life without a dog by my side. Having spent my entire adulthood in cities with no family, with a job haunted by death threats and deep hatred, these boxers have been my people. It was never my address that made my home. It was them. My Patronus — magical protectors of my space, of my spirit, of my joy.
Peppermint Patty never let me dance with depression too long or hide from the world under the covers for more than a day or two. Not during my divorce, not when my mother died, not during our time at Harvard, and not through three cross-country moves or a pandemic miscarriage did she let me give up. She knew how to hug, how to box, how to play soccer, and how to open doors. She was a whole lotta dog.
During the cruelest and most solitary chapters of lockdown, in a small South End studio, she demanded we play. Long walks got longer. She threw her toys at me and stole my pillows. She jumped in on Zoom meetings and even made an appearance on national TV. She loved on our neighbors and strangers passing by and nurtured every pandemic puppy on the block. At least 20. In the midst of so much upheaval and uncertainty, Pep insisted we still live and do so a little loudly.
But then, just on the back half of 2022, her back legs started to betray her. Her kidneys weren’t kind, either. And every time we thought we found one fix, a new struggle would arise. Still, she kept right on with the wild rumpus of boxers far and wide.
She showed me what it looks like to live and love with your whole chest instead of playing small and quietly. Dogs don’t shrink when it comes to love.
Winter came, as it always does. The holidays rolled on, but she could hardly get up. I was no longer walking her. I was walking for her, bearing nearly all 70 pounds of her beauty in a sling. She quit wanting to potty. Getting her out of the bed took more than an hour. She barely ate her breakfast. She breathed with a cadence that was off-beat and heavy, a muffled, sorrowful sound.
At the vet, barely on the other side of the New Year, with her paws in mine, I thanked her for saving me, for lifting me up. I didn’t grow up knowing a lot of safety, but I have no shame in saying Pep was my safe place. When the world was too heavy and my own spirit was not enough, she reminded me of God’s love and gave me hope to carry on.
She showed me what it looks like to live and love with your whole chest instead of playing small and quietly. Dogs don’t shrink when it comes to love. They love you so big and deep you don’t just feel it, you hear it like a song in your soul. And it’s a melody that moves you for a lifetime.