Jesse

This is a story about true love, and for a while, I avoided telling it because the ending was too sad for me to bear. That sadness makes me fearful; I cannot help but dread another loss well before it comes onto the horizon. It is like tonguing a loose tooth that wasn’t loose until you started pushing at it. But I have indulged my selective amnesia for too long: Jesse expected more of me and showed me how to demand more of myself. And the truth is that his death, which came so much sooner than I was prepared for, isn’t even close to the end of this story.

I wasn’t looking for a dog when I saw Jesse for the first time, in a small, gated area in front of my neighborhood Petco. In fact, I knew that the apartment I had just moved into disallowed dogs. I had also just started graduate school, and was feeling, if not overwhelmed by the coursework, at least a little stressed and saddened by the sudden chasm that had opened up between me and pretty much everyone I knew. All the same, my immediate thought on seeing him was, “That’s my dog.”

Have you ever looked at pictures depicting old love interests or high-school crushes? It’s hard to deny that most of us have a “type,” an aesthetic archetype that we find particularly appealing, a sort of Platonic ideal that we carry around with us like an image of a missing person we can never stop looking for. He was built like a lean golden retriever and had a beautiful face, with luxurious lashes behind a long, elegant Collie snout, and a luxuriant golden-red coat soft enough to feel like home. He had yet to develop the plume of a tail that would have made even peacocks envious, and was crowned with short cowlicks between his ears, so that it was hard to look at him without thinking of a baby duck head. If you’ve ever watched Disney’s 1972 animated version of Robin Hood, then you will know precisely what I mean when I say that he made me think of a brave, loyal little fox.

Before Jesse, I regarded the prospect of love at first sight with skepticism and amusement. In my mid-twenties, I had never experienced it and generally doubted the validity of any emotions arriving during a first interaction. Surely, those were mere artifice, nothing deeper than lust or attraction. I was equally certain, however, that this explanation failed to account for my sudden sense of belonging, for a depth of feeling that I barely knew how to understand. Jesse belonged to me with an immediacy I couldn’t escape. In those early weeks, I spent quite a bit of time cursing the building manager who refused to even consider a tiny exception to the hateful no-dog policy.

He sternly reiterated bringing Jesse home would represent a serious lease violation. I could get a cat, but dogs were not allowed. This wasn’t helpful – I hadn’t fallen in love with a cat. I started to lose hope that I would ever be able to bring my sweet puppy home and I tried to surrender to the reality that would soon make Jesse someone’s else’s companion. As September dragged me into October, Jesse’s abiding absence filled my chest with a thick longing that confused me and made tears a constant threat.

I found comfort in the admittedly absurd routine I had developed to spend as much time with Jesse as possible. The rescue organization that transported Jesse from a shelter outside of Austin to the Petco made that trip with him four times a week. Although I wasn’t sure how to get around my lease agreement, I begged the guy who drove the van not to adopt him out before I could come up with a solution. He was sympathetic but unwilling to tell potential adopters that Jesse was off the market. He did, however, leave the door open enough for me to find my way in. “If you want to sit with him on the days when he’s here, I can’t stop you from doing that.” This was my narrow entryway, the tiny gap into which I squeezed my growing attachment to this worthy object of my affection.

For about two months, until the weather threatened to make outdoor dog adoption unreasonable, I staked my shaky claim by showing up every day Jesse did. Four days every week, I sat on the pavement next to Jesse’s fenced-in area and silently discouraged all comers. After that first week, the guy who brought the dogs left Jesse behind at the shelter only once. I’m not saying I sobbed at his feet or anything when it happened, but the single tear that escaped from beneath my lashes seemed a sufficient deterrent.

I never missed a day I could spend sitting beside him and I helped out with the other dogs when there were no rivals for Jesse’s affection. Jesse’s driver seemed to submit to my dedication and, on a few occasions, he quietly acknowledged my tentative ownership, while rolling his eyes in my direction. But I could not pretend that we weren’t at something of an impasse. Jesse still lived at the shelter for most of the week and I still wasn’t allowed to bring him home. Like most long-distance relationships, the situation was becoming untenable.

My sister visited and readily agreed that Jesse was adorable but exhibited alarm at my tears, “Does this happen every time you have to leave him here?” When she pointed out that this wasn’t a sustainable situation, I knew she was right but couldn’t accept what that might mean.

On a Wednesday in late October, I trudged hopelessly into the apartment manager’s office to find out how much trouble I would find myself in if I brought Jesse home where he belonged. I was very surprised to find that the stern and unyielding dog-hater had been replaced by a young woman, who smiled widely at me and held out her hand.

“What can I do for you? I’m the new manager. I’m Lindsay.” I burst into tears, and I realize that this is a lot of crying for one anecdote, but love at first sight doesn’t happen every day. I admit that I was, perhaps, indulging in some melodrama. I knew how special Jesse was and I couldn’t move beyond the panic I felt that I wouldn’t find a way for us to be together. She gave me a box of tissues and urged me to tell her what was wrong.

I blew my nose and calmed myself with deep breaths. “So, Lindsay. I know the rules. Believe me, I know them. But I’m wondering, if I pay the cat deposit, and I bring back a mammal, what do you think might be the penalty in terms of my lease?”

She let out a throaty laugh that resonated in my chest. “Is that all? You’re trying to bring a dog home? I dragged an Akita with me through all four years at college. You ever seen one of those? About 120 pounds of dog sleeping next to me in the narrowest bed on earth. So, if you feel like you need a dog, I suspect you probably do. You go get that dog. But tell me all about him first.” And I gushed readily, the way you might do over your college boyfriend when you know your hometown friends are going to meet him soon and will need to approve. In fact, Jesse leaned hard into Lindsay’s tremendous contribution to this joyous development.

When I brought him home, I took him into the office to meet Lindsay before taking him up to my apartment. Even as a puppy, Jesse had an unusual ability to jump on someone without imposing any of his weight. He would stand up almost without support, and rest a paw for balance on the arm people instinctively put out to pet him. As soon as she put her face near his, he smiled hugely at her and kissed her face. He never failed to greet her with that much enthusiasm, as though he knew she had been in favor of his new living situation.

But that wasn’t the moment I cherished most that first day. I grew up in New York, and it’s not uncommon for New Yorkers to wait on a driver’s license. Most New Yorkers don’t have cars because parking fees run about as much as the car itself, so I had only passed my road test a few months before moving to Austin. I had also never driven a car with a dog in it before. I had ridden with dogs but never been responsible for their safety and comfort and I was a little bit out of my depth – at driving and having a dog as a passenger. I didn’t think to secure him and I assumed he would sit and steady himself.

Within about 20 seconds, I had to brake abruptly for a stop sign. Jesse went flying and ended up in the footwell beneath the dashboard. I was horrified and immediately started apologizing and petting him frantically. He looked at me, tilted his head, and I swear to you, he rolled his eyes. I recognize that this may sound like a projection, but I would testify in a court of law that his good-natured disapproval of my poor driving was palpable. He climbed gingerly back onto the seat and leaned back. Then he opened his mouth in the wide grin that I would come to treasure.

Nothing living entered our house without confronting Jesse’s indomitable warmth and preternatural empathy. When we adopted Fletch, a month-old Bloodhound puppy too young to be away from his mother and littermates, it was Jesse who took up my husband’s duties in the morning and kept the puppy calm. As Fletch grew into a magnificent puppy –about the size of a small pony – with no discernible survival instinct or inclination to defend himself against dog-park Lotharios, Jesse made it his business to back off anyone reckless enough to take a run at his little brother.

That was an interesting development, because I had never seen Jesse even bare his teeth at another dog, but the first time he saw Fletch try to wriggle away from a too-persistent suitor, the barely-older and much-smaller Jesse asserted himself in a way that left little room for doubt. He had a way of barking from deep within his chest that communicated intolerance for such liberties. Jesse paid close attention to his giant baby brother and at the first hint of stress, he would insert himself between Fletch and everyone else. No sacrifice was too great for Jesse if it meant that Fletch came through it unscathed.

I confess, I sometimes doubted that Jesse was fully a dog, particularly when I confronted some of his more inexplicable habits. You doubt me? That’s fair. But wait until you’ve seen your dog step out onto a curb, and gingerly look both ways before crossing. He certainly didn’t learn this from me (as I have been an unapologetic jaywalker since my childhood in New York). I have often lamented the way some people can make you doubt their humanity after you’ve known them for years; but I never doubted Jesse’s for an instant.

Even guests who declared themselves “anti-dog” found it impossible to avoid speaking to Jesse like a person. Because he listened, and there was no way to deny his attentive calm was soothing in a way that people never expected. My stepson, Alec, came to live with us for several months, and he arrived in a state of what can best be described as discontent. He was determined to resist getting comfortable or feeling any sense of belonging in the house. He was not impressed or interested in the dogs, and I couldn’t blame him.

Jesse brought Alec around in a few days.

I offered Alec some books that he only glared at, making his annoyance and mistrust clear. I didn’t think it would help to explain what he could do on the internet and how best to approach everything. But the next morning, when I walked into the living room, I found him reading one of the books. Jesse’s head was on his knee, and he was stroking the top of his head absently, as though they had been sitting together reading for years. Jesse could bring calm and solace with him anywhere, and he was a great gift that I was privileged to share with anyone who recognized how special he was.

Once Jesse was gone, I howled my grief into the new void, at once intoxicated and paralyzed by the unfairness of it all. But I could see that such indulgence would be an intolerable betrayal.

Jesse would have been furious with me if I had let his death compromise all our hard work and bring my steady growth to a screeching halt. I was so proud of him, and I always felt so fortunate to call him mine. For his part, I hope that Jesse felt the same and that I have honored his unwavering belief in me and my fundamental goodness. When he died, I worried that the best part of me went with him.

I’d be lying if I claimed that I’m over losing him, that I have come close to moving past it. But the love story is ongoing; it has persisted in spite of my cowardice. And about 16 months ago, I finally fell in love again. I brought Bo home at least partly because he was very much my type; with that spectacular handsomeness that only Disney characters typically boast, his physical resemblance to Jesse is uncanny. But the similarities end there. In fact, Bo reminds me way more of Fletch, in his boisterousness and boundless affection for everything, his inexplicable anxiety about being alone, and especially in his appetite for everything edible – and many things meaningfully not so.

Bo doesn’t share Jesse’s thoughtful quietude, his ability to be still and listen to the fears and hopes of the living world around him. Actually, in the spirit of full transparency, I can’t even persuade Bo to stop barking frantically at strangers on the street, so very few people get to enjoy his genuine sweetness. More to the point, this epilogue must remain woefully incomplete, because I have yet to slay many of the dragons cited above: I still find myself sitting in the dark a lot of nights, tearful and paralyzed by nightmares in which I now lose my Bo, the hero of my new love affair, to some awful accident I have failed to anticipate.

But we are all works in progress.

Jesse, I know, would forgive my transgressions and counsel patience and faith in myself. Jesse would rest his head on my knee and help me to be still, and together we would wait on the happy ending we promised each other so long ago as the world rages on around us.