A landscaping truck.
That is all it took for my energetic, chaotic puppy to become a struggling, aged dog.
Two years ago, when my dad took my dog Mocha for a walk, she lunged at the road and got hit by a landscaping truck. It was horrible. It was right in front of my house, meaning I had a permanently sketched picture of my bloody, aching dog being carried by my dad. Mocha didn’t know any better. She loves cars, from car rides to just watching them drive past. She was excited and wanted to play with them; she just got too close.
That day, I cried harder than I have ever before. She is my best friend, and I thought I was losing her. Her eyes when she was carried back were sad and distant, and she just looked at me like she was saying she was sorry, she was sorry for wanting to play. My parents took her to the vet, but I didn’t go with her. I still hate myself for it, that I wasn’t able to hold her and reassure her that she was okay and we weren’t mad.
Her eyes when she was carried back were sad and distant, and she just looked at me like she was saying she was sorry, she was sorry for wanting to play
She must have had an angel around her because she didn’t break any bones, only tore muscles. She was constrained to the living room for months, and so were we. I didn’t mind, though. We sat and binge-watched a variety of shows with her peacefully lying on our laps, safe in recovery. She never completely returned to her old self after. She became aged, limping up the stairs, sleeping extra, and calming around people outside of our family. I love her just the same, but it pains me daily to know that she can’t live the perfect life.
We always spoil her: we give her food when we have extra, take her on car rides, and always get her pup cups from Starbucks. She lives an extravagant life. She just has trouble. She has devastating allergies and has been on medication her whole life, although I doubt she minds since she gets peanut butter with it. Recently, she tore her ACL after chasing the woodchuck that resides in our backyard. It was an event that happens regularly; she sees that animal through the window, we let her out, and she sprints around the yard in a frivolous chase. This time, she walked back to the house slowly, without her usual giddy grin, and limping without the use of her rear right leg. The rest of that night, she didn’t move from her bed in the living room. I was gone when it happened, but when I arrived, she had the same sorrowful look in her eyes from the accident, the look that she was sorry for what she did even though she did nothing at all. The vet almost removed her leg, and I refused even though they never asked my opinion. She had already lost so many opportunities, I couldn’t bear her losing a limb and not being able to run circles to her heart’s desire. Instead, they performed a difficult surgery, but it went well, and all that was left was a long recovery.
I ached for her and slept in the living room for the two months of shaky recovery because I needed to. Not only for her, to give her the comfort of another soul, but for myself, so that nothing else would happen to her, and I knew I wouldn’t lose her like I so closely have in the past.
Everything was great. She recovered nearly perfectly from the surgery, except I lift her back half up whenever she chooses to hop into one of our beds. She still limps after a long day, but the surgery was only four months ago, so it is expected. Everything was great.
Then it felt like things came crashing down.
I came home from my grandma’s house recently, after a wonderful night, ready to see my beautiful puppy. When I walked into my parent’s room, where she stays when we leave, there was puke in multiple places. Mocha was lying between the wall and the bed, and when I walked over, the sorrowful look was returned. I was extremely worried because this was very abnormal for her. She didn’t want to move, and I practically lifted her out of the room. Once she got downstairs she began shaking uncontrollably and threw up once again. We laid her down and she refused to move while continuing to shake. Her big, eyes stared at me and I cried. I cried the same way I did at the accident. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I felt like it was horrible. I lay on the floor with her, draping my arm around her, thinking the worst; what if she leaves? What if I will never see her happy face again? What if I never lay at night with her resting along my chest? What if I never see her face in the little window of our front door awaiting our arrival? I couldn’t bear it.
Her eyes killed me the most. Mocha has the biggest, chocolate brown eyes, and they stared at me, hopelessly. I didn’t ache for her but with her. I love her too much, and she has gone through so much that I couldn’t deal with losing her over this. A part of me knew she was fine, that she could get through whatever mystery problem she was going through, but there was also a part of me that was terrified. I returned to the living room and slept on the ground so that I would know if something happened and so she didn’t need or move anywhere.
The next morning, she was fine. Waggy-tailed and smiley. All it was was an infection, but there was that instinct for me to panic.
Mocha is my best friend. I cry to her, tell her about my day, drag her on top of me to cuddle, and always give her a french fry when I have them. She means the world to me. I always tell my family she will live forever, and that she will never die until the day I do. I know that’s not true, and although she hopefully has a long life ahead of her, when she does leave one day for doggie heaven, she will still be with me. For now, she has pushed through all of the troubles shot her way and is the best dog I could ever ask for.
