The Most Dangerous Breed

I can be a rambunctious and silly fellow. I do like smiles, as intense as I've seemed to be the last year. It's a mix of welcoming the sense of maturity while missing the creative spark of innocence.

The theme of my life has been a mission for presence. I often get trapped in my own introverted world and forget to check in with people.

Bolt was the first dog that was mine, named after the lightning shaped pattern branded onto his back. He lived at my dad's house, so I saw him every other weekend. Our summers were skirmishes over who got the most wiggle room on an ugly, green leather couch that stuck to your skin in a way that made you look like a Skrull.

Michael Vick's convictions for dog fighting made Pit Bulls the poster children of animal aggression. My mom was always hesitant of him, thinking he always had a mean scowl on his face.

There was a dark point in my life where I put key-sized lacerations on my forearms with a kitchen knife after another phone call from my second girlfriend. She was the girl my best friend had warned me about. After those calls, Bolt would be there to comfort me; he often licked my wounds as though his slobber had healing powers. But yes, he's the world's most dangerous breed of dog.

I remember one day, my long-sleeve shirt rode up a little too much, and I tried to pass off my self-inflicted cuts as Bolt's over-enthusiastic scratch marks when he jumped to show me affection. This put him on probation in my mom's eyes, but she really wanted us to get rid of him.

I wish I could say I stopped cutting because I developed a stronger sense of self-love. But, I stopped because I was afraid Bolt would suffer the consequences.

Time always moves faster than we anticipate and as the years went by, I saw him less. There was a brief stint where for various personal reasons, I didn't see my dad for a year. After high school, I moved to California, and our intimate summers became nostalgia.

It's strange how the people and things that used to be our entire world fall out of our lives before we even realize it. We never know what moment is the last we'll ever spend with someone. It's a heartbreaking reminder of how important it all is.

I came back from California in a spiral; I was directionless and financially in the negative. My shoulders slumped in the spirit of a failure. I felt washed-up by the age of nineteen.

When I saw Bolt again for the first time--he seemed just as brittle as I was. The years hadn't been kind to his face, which had been stoned into a scowl: now the poster child for a 'resting bitch face'. His bones were brittled from arthritis, tail unable to be as flambuoyant as it used to. The lightning bolt patch of fur was no longer visible--overcome by the many bald spots that exposed cracked skin and dried blood. His gait was slow and methodical--muscles too weak to jump onto out old couch by himself.

I saw his worse for wear shape as emblematic of my own predicament which turned him into a mirror I was too afraid to look at. Everything in my life felt like it turned to shit and it took months to finally have the courage to see him again--a year to spend quality time with him.

I looked closer and saw how much his living condition has dwindled. He was in a small back room most of the day, the floor sticky with his own piss. Dead cockroaches had their own colony in the corner. I felt like a grasshopper in the tall grass outside.

I broke down, disgusted in myself for doing nothing for him--my best friend that made me feel valuable in a time felt worthless. I vowed to come back the next day and begin the process of turning his life around. He was old, I knew his time was short, so I wanted to make what little I had left with him meaningful.

The next day, I got to work. I banished the cockroach carcasses to the trash can and threw out dried shit that looked like it could've been there for months. The sawdust by the back door was swept into my dustpan and I finished with a light mop that gave color back to the floors. He'd gotten fat, so I took him on a long walk he seemed to enjoy, although his unattended nails would spiral under his paws.

My next order of business would be to buy a new dog bed, mow that back yard, and take him for a much needed pedicure.

I couldn't make it to him that second day. Fort Worth was a two hour commitment for me, so it was easy for other things to "come up".

The third day, my dad called me. He woke up that morning and found Bolt unresponsive. He died in his sleep.

As I drove to the house, I couldn't bottle my anger. I'd failed him. He was there for me in my darkest moments and I'd abandoned him for so many of his own. I started to turn his life around, but would never be able to see it through, and that's what hurt the most. I was too late.

I wanted to unleash all that anger when I got there, but as I walked in, I saw my dad cry for the first time in my life. His heart had broken, and just like that, my pain disappeared. This was a man, while he made some mistakes, genuinely loved Bolt--saw him as another one of his kids--but life got in the way.

My brother and sister were in their rooms, too sad to deal with him directly, as I unlatched the door into Bolt's back room.

He lied on my mopped floor, his tongue dipped out of his mouth, like some of the silly faces I'd make as a kid. I sat next to him, and placed his head in my lap. His patchy fur felt more like concrete on a cloudy day. He waited to see me one last time before he left us, and I couldn't stop feeling guilty about how many opportunities I'd missed to go see him.

Long drives make easy excuses to not see somone and often it's not until they're gone you realize how much those long drives would've been worth it. The length feels meaningless as you beg the universe for those hours back to be with the people you loved most. I experienced that again when my grandmother, who lived in Commerce, Texas passed away after a battle with lung cancer.

I realized this was the last moment I would ever see him as I hugged him tightly. Even though he was gone, I could still take care of the remnants . It's easy to take the route of my siblings and dad, hiding from that pain, refusing to look at it too long. But some of my greatest lessons have come through presence with pain. I'm grateful I had the initiative to make his life better because it allowed me to see him days before he died. I didn't get to finish my mission, but he died with a clean floor and knew I loved him. I'm proud I took the time to be present with him in death; it allowed me to honor and respect him one last time.

His death is what made me choose to live a life of higher presence. He made me learn how important it is to act on your impulses of love. Take the initiative to keep the people you want around instead of going the amateur route: waiting for them to come to you or trying to only let them see the best parts.

I take all the love I should've given him and allow it to flow through me into others around me. I make sure to take the extra time with my dog, Ella, to play fetch and go on long walks. When she's gone, those are the little moments I'll cherish.

I remember him when I tell me friends I love them and when I have the privilege to spend precious, valuable time with those I care about most.