A Lifetime of Dog Years with Tommy

As always in December, Tommy’s been on my mind. I thought about him as we trimmed the tree with the pictures and dog tags of the seven dogs who've walked by our sides these last 24 years. I thought about him as we ate a tuna casserole one Sunday in December because tuna was his very favorite food, so much so that when we visit his grave we bring a can of tuna instead of flowers.

I thought about Tommy when I saw another split-face Border Collie galloping exuberantly down the street, panting human in tow. Tommy brought so much to my life and taught me so much. In a season of love, joy, peace, reflection, and gratitude, I owe him thanks.

We always said Tommy was a person. Not that there is anything whatsoever wrong with being a dog; they are a blessing no matter their abilities or temperament. I’ve never met a dog I didn’t love — even the one or two who lunged at me with murder in their eyes. They had their reasons.

There was something deeply empathetic about Tommy’s bond with me, especially in the early months after I brought him home. Though he gave other humans and dogs his love and loyalty, I was always Tommy’s best friend in this life. I was his partner in crime and his buddy, as he was mine.

Dogs were absolutely not allowed at the Tunnel — so the first chance I got, I went looking for a dog

I was living solo in a small apartment in Century City in May 1997. It was a weird little shotgun unit with a lovely view of a gas station, but it was two blocks from work, a delight after my last apartment in Hollywood with its wildly unpredictable commutes to the Westside. We affectionately called it the Tunnel. I lived there, alone, atoning for years of roommates, rules, and regimentation. I loved having the freedom to eat cereal for dinner or skip dinner altogether, to wear or not wear whatever I wanted, and a refrigerator with just my food in it.

Still, something was missing. I wanted to come home to a big grin, unconditional love, someone with whom to share life’s joys and sorrows. In other words, a dog. Dogs were absolutely not allowed at the Tunnel — so the first chance I got, I went looking for a dog.

I did the rounds of shelters in LA in my little Ford Tempo, coming up short in West LA and Crenshaw before I found a year-old Border Collie in Santa Monica. Even then, Tommy had the signature hard hypnotic gaze of his breed, and he would not let me leave without him.

With the help of the building manager, who was simpatico, I was able to keep him under wraps for about three months before I accidentally outed him to the building owner. She was not impressed by his beauty or brains and told me that either he or I had to go.

So Tommy and I loaded up the car and moved to a cute little second floor guest house off La Cienega that I still think of as the Treehouse.

During those early years, no matter what was going on in my life, Tommy found ways to let me know that the material world is a playground but not a destination. I learned from him to never take anything seriously, to be prepared to see any object muddied up, chewed, clawed, or destroyed, and to happily let it go because it didn’t matter. TP was dragged all over the house, socks were pulled from my feet and chewed into Swiss cheese, and we had one-of-a-kind teeth-etched table legs all over the house.

Tommy was there when the planes hit the Twin Towers on 9/11. He was there when my dad died a few weeks later, and he was waiting for me when I flew back from the funeral on a plane grounded by terrorism just the previous week. Tommy was there when I was laid off from my job. When I started a business of my own. He was there when I became a US Citizen and when I voted in an American election for the first time. He witnessed my milestones and stood sentry day and night, seeing me through the new century’s first decade. He was my Rock of Gibraltar, my black-and-white guardian angel.

He was an only dog and then he was a big brother, first to Polly the black and blue merle Border Collie/Heeler and then to Beggs the Beagle. He was there when I was happily single, and he was there when I was even more happily engaged and then for the first five years of happy marriage.

He guarded my hotel rooms on woman-and-dog buddy trips to Santa Barbara, Palm Springs, and San Diego. Beaches were his favorite; I chased him through sand and salty waves from Santa Barbara to the Leo Cabrillo State Beach in Malibu to the dog beaches of San Diego.

Tommy was there, both home and away, anchoring our Christmas card photos and sharing our milestones.

In a red bowtie, he stood up at our wedding.

He worked security on countless family road trips and patrolled the grounds at home. Intruders were unwelcome; guests were greeted enthusiastically. He always knew exactly which was which.

In the car, he’d take the first, last, and every other watch. Even after he was old, deaf, and down to fewer teeth than I could count on both hands, he still stood watch — because it was his job. He made it back to Lake Tahoe for our 5th anniversary trip, and that year he stared down an actual bear and made sure we all lived to tell the tale.

In sickness and in health, in lean times and in prosperity, Tommy was there. He stuck around until the we all knew it was time for him to leave us.

Tommy was always by my side. At the end, I was honored to be by his.

Before he left us, I asked him to remember us and come back if he could. I’m hoping he took a well-deserved decade off, and we’ll see some version of Tommy again soon.