Companionship

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” - Anatole France

Many called my father a close friend. He often said that his gift and curse were the ability to be someone with whom others felt a stronger bond than he did for them. But those who knew him most knew without a shadow of a doubt that his best friend and the love of his life was his dog, Jenny.

A different light came over him when he told stories of their adventures together. She was a Black Lab English Setter mix, so when they went for walks, Jenny would run miles ahead to scope out the path as my father walked freely, knowing she would always find her way back to him further down the path.

They hitchhiked the country together, and my father’s favorite story encapsulates the greatest depiction of their relationship. He and Jenny were on the side of the road in the Pacific Northwest. It was torrentially raining as they waited, hoping that someone would pity them and pick them up.

A woman hesitantly pulled her truck over in fear of picking up a strange man but not wanting to leave a stranger and his animal out in the cold. Since the truck only had room for one passenger up front, my father instantly decided to take the uncovered truck cab as Jenny sat up front.

In the story, he always laughed at the look that his dog gave him as if to say, “You dumb human.” But the woman became a lifelong friend of my father’s because, at that moment, she realized that any man sitting in the pouring rain to keep his dog warm was the kind of person you want to keep around.

I never met Jenny. Even six years after my father’s death, I have a statue and photos of her in my living room. It has never made sense to me or my sister to throw away the reminders of something that brought our father so much joy.

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I was in First Grade when my family decided to buy a dog. My father made each of us swear we wouldn’t immediately fall in love when we went to “look” at a potential dog to adopt. As anyone could have predicted, my mother immediately became emotional, and it became clear to my father that we weren’t leaving without taking our new dog home. She was a half-black Lab, half-springer Spaniel Mix that we named Nellie.

Our family at that time was the picture of dysfunction. Nellie’s behavior didn’t take long to reflect the climate inside our house. She was wild and, most days, found herself wrapped around a tree at the end of her line, barking incessantly until one of us would eventually go outside to untie her. All for her to get overly excited again and end up in the same predicament an hour later.

In the months before each of my parents died, they separately shared their regrets from that period of their lives. One of the most significant sources of guilt they both held onto was that we never adequately trained Nellie and that although she had a beautiful life, each felt that she deserved more from us.

Nellie died suddenly when I was in sixth grade. I was in rehearsal for my school play, where I played the part of an elderly immigrant woman.  (Sidenote: I had been overconfident in my audition since my sister attended a performing arts high school and assumed that I didn’t need to learn the words since the acting gene ran in the family. I ended up with a role that had no dialogue. Still, I like to think that the audience was moved by actions on stage, most specifically the one show where I lost my cane and had to act as if I was using an imaginary one.)

My teacher escorted me out of the building without telling me what happened. As I walked to the car and saw the look on my sister’s face, I knew something was wrong and was immediately informed that Nellie had passed away. It was the first time in my life I had ever seen my father cry.

A few months earlier, I had shared with Nellie that I thought I was gay. I laid with her on her dog bed in front of our pellet stove and said out loud for the first time the secret that I had been holding in for a lifetime. She immediately licked my face, and I laid next to her as I shed a few tears, wondering if I would ever have the courage to tell anyone else.

We buried her in our yard and planted a Dogwood Tree above her in the hopes that we would be reminded of her every season when it bloomed. Unfortunately, we buried it in a spot that didn’t get enough sun, and the tree never really grew as we hoped it would.

This further proves that we couldn’t get it right back then.

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After Nellie’s death, I swore I would never get another animal. It wasn’t until I was twenty years old and living with a roommate that I even considered it. My roommate wanted to get a cat, so I accompanied her to the shelter to ensure she didn’t bring anything too strange home. In truth, Jackson (whose name was Waland) was precisely the type of cat I wanted, but he was in a cage with a sign indicating that he had already been adopted.

As luck would have it, he was the only one of his siblings who hadn’t been. When we opened the cage, he immediately leaped into my roommate’s arms as if to say, “I have been waiting for you to find me. Please take me home.”

I didn’t know how to take care of a cat, but he immediately made a mark on our little home. A few months later, my roommate adopted a dog, and our little apartment became a little family. When it was time to move out, I offered Jackson to my roommate because, at that time, I wasn’t ready for the responsibility. If someone had to take on the emotional pain of parting, I would prefer it to be me.

I kissed him on his head, told him to be the good man we raised him to be, and expected our paths to part forever. Months later, after an incident, I received a phone call asking if I could come get him. Jackson heard a young boy cry, thought he was in pain on the other side of the door, and attacked the first thing he saw that came through (which was the dog). My roommate knew he wasn’t violent and that it was out of protection, but with a baby on the way, she couldn’t take the risk.

When we reunited, it was a hot summer day. My car had no air conditioning. I took Jackson out of his carrier, hoping it would calm his screams on the long ride down to my apartment in Connecticut. If anyone looked into my car on I-95 that day, they would have seen a black cat with his paws on the driver’s side window screaming out for release as his panic-stricken, sweat-drenched owner struggled to see through the cat hair covering his face.

Eventually, we both made it home and began our long road together.

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My nervous system was beyond dysregulated at that time. I could barely take care of myself, let alone another living being. There was a stretch when I lived alone when my friends would have to come over once a month and throw out my mold-ridden dishes. My mattress was on the floor. My downstairs neighbors got in loud domestic disputes every evening, but we were told by the landlord not to call the cops.

It was a mess. I was a mess.

I resented the 3 a.m. trips to 7-11 to get cat food. I didn’t want to be responsible for anything other than myself. But looking back, I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without Jackson slowly teaching me how to care for something.

They say that black cats have the ability to ward off unwanted spirits while you sleep. At that time, I was overrun by nightmares, tremors, and other trauma responses. He had his work cut out for him, which is probably why, in the mornings, he snapped back at me when I would inevitably try to bite his head off verbally for cutting under my feet.

We were both incredibly cranky and although it often felt like an arranged marriage, we somehow made it through.

We moved every nine months or so because I couldn’t stay in one place too long. Each time, I felt the stress of having to put him in the car, disrupt his routine, and seemingly cause him pain as he yelped throughout the ride to our new home.

Throughout my twenties, I joked that I couldn’t wait for him to die. I never knew that cats lived so long, and all I wanted was my freedom to drop everything without any responsibility. I worried that someday I would be forty, with a twenty-year-old cat, and still single.

But with each passing day, Jackson became more of an anchor in my life. Our shared love languages of giving people judgmental looks, food, naps, and butt taps even made it feel at times like I had birthed him myself.

Neither of us was overly affectionate, but with each stop on our journey, we softened, and my heart slowly opened.

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There were nights after each of my parents died that I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have him by my side. There were moments when I felt so unstable that I held onto him in the hopes that he somehow could share some of the burden. From the outside looking in, I moved through my grief courageously. Still, in the few moments when it all came flooding in, I will be forever grateful that I wasn’t alone.

After my mom died in March, I knew Jackson and I would also be parting at some point in the near future. He wasn’t showing any signs of decline, but something in me felt like part of our journey together was so that he could help me through the challenges of loss and teach me to stand on my own.

Over the past few months, it felt as though we finally found our way to each other. We cuddled every night before bed, and each morning, when my eyes opened, he bounded up the bed to immediately give me affection. Although it had taken us nearly seventeen years and two cross-country road trips, I felt so lucky that we got to experience the fruits of what our long partnership had changed in both of us.

Which made the events of last week all the more bittersweet.

Before I left for the weekend, I noticed that he was a little off balance, but I didn’t think anything of it other than making a mental note to take him to the vet. By the time Monday evening rolled around, he had fallen out of his litter box four times. He was happy and purring, but I knew we had reached the end of our road.

As I prepared us to go to the ER Vet, I thought back to the time that I had moved us to Boston eight years earlier. I was anxious to put him in the car, and my father said to me, “You’re the human. It’s your job to do the right thing for your animal, even when it’s hard. I know you love him; he will be okay.”

I repeated my father’s words, almost like a mantra, as I told everyone the news and packed him in his carrier one last time.

Even with all the jokes and all the years together, I didn’t feel ready to say goodbye. Somehow, along the way, he had become such an integral part of my life that I didn’t want to know what it would be like without him.

Through all the loss of my life, I have never cried as hard as I did holding him for the last time. I thanked him for choosing me, for being my friend for so many years, and promised always to love him.

As I walked out of the room, my heart shattered into a million pieces, knowing that I would never come home to him again.

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There is a love and companionship that comes with owning an animal that cannot be described. It makes the pain of the loss feel worth it in the end because, on some level, pets change you.

I wouldn’t be the man I am today without the animals I have been lucky enough to love throughout my life, especially Jackson.

In the wake of his passing, I have found a new resolve to step forward with even more courage into the freedom I desperately sought a decade ago.

He stayed by my side when all I knew how to do was abandon myself.

He loved me when I couldn’t find a single aspect of myself that I believed to be lovable.

And he held me in all the nights I could barely hold myself up.

I spent so long being burdened by him, and now I look back filled with only tears of gratitude.

I am so grateful he was mine, and I got to be his.

It was one of the great honors of my life.

With Love,

Clayton