Stevie

Stevie is dead. I found her on the floor of my last rental, lifeless, after helping my neighbors with a task. I wasn't gone for more than ten minutes, but it was enough time for her to succumb to whatever silent illness was plaguing her.

She was a special dog, in more ways than one. I got her from Craigslist when she was likely too young to be separated from her mother. They told me she was eight weeks old, but I have a hard time believing that due to her size at the time. She was advertised as a cocker spaniel, free, because she had special needs. Nystagmus. Her eyes shook violently, back and forth, indicating neurological issues.

The apartment I got her from was dark and dreary, in a rough part of Worcester, Massachusetts. It was the best day of my 20-year life. I grew up with dogs, and I was ready for one of my own. Stevie was covered in her own urine and feces, and she had never seen the light of day. Her cage smelled like a miniature barn, but they gave it away with her.

The first time she stepped on grass, she was run over, violently, by my partner's rottweiler, pitbull mix. It was an accident, of course, he was excited to see her. But the wail she made sounded like a fire truck. I couldn't believe it escaped that tiny body of hers. She didn't go to the bathroom outside that night, if I'm honest, going outside during her short life was a rarity. The girl was stubborn; hard to train.

I took her to the vet as soon as possible, and obviously, she was perfect. The kind doctor told me the nystagmus would go away on its own, and it did. She got her shots, and we were on the way. I hid her for a month from my parents. I was still living at home, and they didn't want me to get another dog. We had three at the time, but Stevie, she was mine.

How did I hide her for a month, you may be wondering? Well, I worked as a pizza delivery driver, and I would simply take her with me. I had a crate in the back of my car, and she went along for the ride. She was never alone for more than a few minutes at a time. She had food and water, and I would stop to let her out every hour. When I wasn't working, I carried her around in a backpack, because like I said, she was small.

When I finally told my parents, it was hard for them to be mad. She looked like a little, blonde, teddy bear. It was hard to believe she was real, but she was, very much so. I kept her, and she went everywhere with me. I had, and still have, horribly crippling anxiety. It manifests itself in debilitating panic attacks that lead me to believe I am actively dying. Stevie was always there to remind me that I was alive. When my vision began to tunnel, and my lungs felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, she got me through it. I could stroke her golden locks to my heart's content, and she would happily remind me that I am breathing. That I am okay.

Needless to say, her death was a whirlwind. December 6th, 2020. It was a Sunday. I was home alone with my toddler. My partner had gone to work for a few hours to accumulate over time. I didn't mind being alone, and my toddler was napping, so I had quiet time for myself. It was interrupted by the earth-shattering scream that left my mouth later on.

When I found her, she had defecated herself. Her little tongue was lolling out, purple. I did my best to beat her chest in a rhythm that I hoped would restart her heart, but alas, she was gone. And I was broken. I did not know how I would survive without her. There was nothing there to remind me that I was alive. She would have been four in January, but that day came and went, and she was still gone.

I called my parent's home line, and my poor youngest sibling answered the phone. I remember screaming, "Stevies dead!" into the receiver. I remember their confusion. What did I mean? That couldn't be true. She was still so young. Well, life is cruel, and sometimes we must face disgusting truths. My dad picked me up. I carried her in her favorite blanket the entire car ride, about thirty minutes. Part of me wishes it was longer. Pink Floyd's, 'Wish You Were Here,' played on the classic rock station. I sobbed.

We buried her in my parent's backyard. Now she watches over the strawberries in the summer. She'll watch over them forever. Long after my parents sell the house and move away. Long after their gone. Long after I'm gone. Strawberry fields forever. I like to visit and talk to her when I can. People remind me that she was lucky to have my love, but I was much luckier to have hers.

There's something that must be known about Stevie. She hated physical activity, much like myself. My partner and I, before our child came along, enjoyed going on road trips and hikes. We spent time in Myles Standish Forest and the Appalachian Mountains in Western Massachusetts. We liked to bring our dogs with us. Stevie would have much rather sat in the car. She quite literally faked injuries to cut our walks short. How do I know she was faking? Well, she would limp until I felt compelled to pick her up. However, if we threw a pinecone, she was miraculously healed. She'd chase after it and grab it between her teeth, feeling quite accomplished with herself. That is until she realized she had given herself away, then she would drop it, and limp again.

Still, we brought her places. Because I loved her. Because I wanted her with me as much as possible. The joy she brought to my life during her short time on Earth was insurmountable. She's the reason I know what heaven looks like.

Heaven is a summer day. It's hot out, but not too hot. Humid, but not horribly muggy. Crooked Pond is quiet, and there is no one else around. I dip my feet in the water. It's refreshing. Stevie, who doesn't like to be outside, is apprehensive. She sniffs the surface, and backs away, sitting elegantly in the mud of the shoreline, like she's too good for it. Then I call her name. Her ears flop with interest, and she puts one paw in the water. I don't know if she thinks it is refreshing, but she follows up with the other paw.

"Come on, Stevie," I egg her on. She obeys. For a moment, she is swimming. Her fear of the water is brushed aside, just so she can see me smile. I cry. I am so proud of her. She swims to me as fast as she can, then she turns right around to swim back to shore.

She didn't do it because she enjoyed it. She did it as an expression of her unconditional love for my own, personal joy. Heaven is that moment. I could live there forever, content, and at peace. I will never forget it. And I will never forget Stevie.