This is the story of a dog.
His name was Zack. I was five when we got him. We had just gotten out of a showing of Pocahontas at the movie theater in the mall. I was feeling really into nature and stuff, I guess. We found a little Yorkie. If you sat cross-legged, he would curl up in the gap between your legs. It was cute. We bought him.
He slept at the foot of my bed. He woke me up at 8 a.m. every day for a walk. Very consistent bowel movements. Most people said that he was one of the nicest dogs that they'd ever met. He probably was. He could jump high. Like really high. The fence around our backyard is four feet high. Zack weighed 16 pounds. I saw him jump that fence twice.
Once I was walking him, and two huskies attacked him. Each of them was probably six times bigger than him. I got mad. One of the huskies would never walk correctly after that. I didn't care. I had to rush Zack to the vet. He ended up okay, but he had to wear one of those cones for months. He looked like a dork.
Thanksgiving of freshman year was the first time I went home since beginning my Dartmouth career. I was psyched. Landed. Drove home. Ate deep dish. Zack wasn't looking great. He was getting old. He was emaciated. His eyes were dull.
At 1 a.m., my mom came into the living room. She said that she didn't think Zack would be with us much longer. I went upstairs to find him. He was lying on the ground, shuddering. I told my dad that we were going to the vet. Got the car ready. Held Zack. Tore down side streets. Clocks ticked.
The vet saw him. Took some measurements. Recommended glucose. By the time he had the shot ready, Zack was dead.
When I got home for spring break that year, my parents told me that our other dog, Odin, had died a week before that. They told me that they didn't tell me sooner because they were worried I would be too depressed to do well on my finals. I told them that they should go fuck themselves and stop killing my dogs. He had been hit by a car. He died in my little brother's arms.
I carry Zack and Odin's collars in my backpack. Always. I don't have many pictures of them. I feel like having their collars close keeps them closer. They help me remember. I also feel like that's sentimental bullshit.
I have trouble remembering what they looked like. Sometimes I wonder whether or not I would recognize them if I saw them. I'll think about Googling "Yorkshire Terrier" and seeing if I can pick out any differences between the pictures that I find and my memories of Zack. Then I usually get scared and my heart starts racing. Kinda like when you think about how big the universe is or what dying is like, but dumber.
I would love to be able to articulate how much I miss them. I don't know why. It's not like they care. They're dead.
I can't remember what my grandmother's voice sounded like. I can't remember the first time I took Zack on a walk. I can't remember what Odin looked like when he was a puppy. I can't remember anything about my great-grandfather. I can't remember why I fell in love with that '12. I can't remember how that one '11 spoke. I can't remember what that other '11 thought. I can't remember why I care so much about a third '11. I wish that I could. Knowing felt good.
I'm glad that there are pet stores. They make it easier to replace dogs. I'm glad that there are grad schools, jobs and cities, too. They make it easier to replace people.
