As we were walking to the pet store to meet up with a dog rescued from Downtown LA, my husband said "Well the first dog you see, you're going to fall in love with."
I had already seen three other dogs. I'm not such an easy mark. This dog was the fourth, and since my husband was off that weekend, we went together. For me a dog is not a quick choice. Adding a family member is big decision and a dog has to have certain qualities, intelligence for one. For my husband, who didn’t know dogs, the quality he was looking for was “brown” — mainly because we had brown and burgundy carpets and he figured the hair would show less.
We walked into the pet store and there he was — a big oversized head on a little puppy body. Piercing golden eyes, floppy ears which were folded down against his head. And most importantly — brown. He looked pensive sitting by his handler on a leash. Lonely. The store was busy that Saturday, but everyone ignored this little pit bull puppy who sat very, very still. I could see he looked afraid.
I walked up to him, knelt down and said “Hello Diesel!” That was the invitation he needed. He jumped into my arms and started kissing my face and wagging his long tail. Squirming, kissing, puppy joy. Thom was surprised. He had never had a relationship with a dog before. He knelt down beside me and Diesel immediately jumped into his arms and started kissing his face too.
"Oh, he's yours" the lady said as she tossed us the end of his leash. We didn't know at the time that Diesel was afraid of most people. He was not doing well in his other adoption events. I guess spending the first six months of your life on the streets of downtown LA sets your mind to believe that people are dangerous. But Diesel didn’t see us that way.
And Thom? He had fallen in love with the very first dog he saw. But who could blame him.
Thom and I were married in that small window of opportunity in California when it was legal for two men to marry — prior to Prop 8 passing. We had just bought a house near Thom's mother. A sweet little Spanish revival with a fenced-in yard and great walking streets, and a little round breakfast room on the front corner. It was an exciting time. After the required review and paperwork from the rescue, Diesel joined our family.
Some of you may recognize my avatar as the grumpy pit bull. That photo was actually taken as he sat between my husband an me. I was rubbing his thick, muscular neck — Diesel was blissed out.
I took Diesel to puppy classes. He excelled. Six months later, I enrolled him in an AKC Canine Good Citizen class. He got that certificate too. We discovered he had a fear of briefcases and large handbags. But he was a brilliant, eager student. In dog training, you learn to say “good boy” a lot. It goes along with the reward treat and eventually replaces the treat as reinforcement and affection. Approval the dog can understand and attach meaning to.
I have had a lot of dogs throughout my life. All kinds of breeds and mixes. Every kind of personality. Every kind of need. I’ve loved them all. But this dog, Diesel, he was unique. He was more like a little man trapped in a dog’s body. Always looking for affection. Sometimes when I hugged him, I would call him my best little man. He was forever grateful we gave him a home. Respectful of our boundaries and joyfully obedient. I have never known a dog so smart,so full of love and so connected and interested in humans.
The three of us were lucky our lives converged at that beautiful moment in time in Los Angeles. It was a life I had always dreamed of.
But time passes.
Three years later, when my husband was diagnosed with cancer, Diesel wouldn't leave his side. By that time, we had gotten a second dog. We had never allowed dogs on the bed, but Diesel sat all day long on the floor with his chin on the edge of the bed, looking at Thom—close enough that Thom could pet him, but never in the way. He sat there for weeks on end.
Nine months later, My husband signed up for home hospice care. Shortly after that decision, even though hospice care had not really started, he became comatose. It could have been a coincidence. It could have been that Thom was just really ready to leave. Hospice had shipped in all the equipment, but everything happened so fast that they didn't have staff available that day. I was alone when I had to move Thom to the hospital bed. As I lifted Thom's frail, limp body out of our bed and lowered him onto the hospital bed, Diesel jumped up on the edge of our bed and howled. I had never heard Diesel howl before. It was the sound of a dog’s heart breaking.
Even though Diesel couldn’t be next to Thom, that dog stayed on our bed, watching over Thom those last three days.
When Thom started to pass, I held him in my arms kissing him gently on the forehead, telling him I loved him, telling him it was alright to leave. Diesel quietly watched.
A month later, I dreamed of Thom. I dreamed of him often after he passed, but this particular dream stuck with me. Thom was driving a big white classic convertible in front of our home, wearing a perfect white suit, white shirt, white tie. His hair had grown back, his beard full, his beautiful dark skin glowed against the white clothing. He was pulling out of the driveway as I stood beside the car.
“I have to leave”, he told me. “But when will you be back?" I asked. Thom smiled sadly and shook his head, “I can't come back.” He patted my hand lovingly and then slowly drove down the street, down the hill. He waved goodbye as I ran after him, tears streaming down my face—but he was gone.
I woke up, crying, the pillow wet. Someone was gently touching my shoulder to wake me. I thought for a moment it was Thom. That somehow the previous year hadn't happened and it was all part of the dream. But that thought left as quickly as it came. I turned to see who it was.
There was Diesel, quietly sitting next to me with one paw on my shoulder.
Diesel was intuitive that way. Sensitive. A caretaker.
It took us both a long time to adjust to losing Thom. For six months after that, every time we passed a tall black man on the street, Diesel would pull over to get a good look at him. But it was never Thom.
I have literally thousands of stories about Diesel. He was a big, meaningful chapter in my life. The two of us have been through a lot together. He licked my face when I was on the floor crying in self-pity. He pushed me out of the house to walk and keep going. He chased away bad guys. Together, we got both of his hind legs fixed surgically, giving him 9 more years of mobility. And every day he gave me the sweetest most loyal love.
When I was lucky enough to find love again in my life, Diesel fell in love with him too — adopting him with a particular man-crush that Diesel had with only a few people.
Diesel was a very good judge of character.
My new partner and I feel truly blessed to have such a creature in our lives, relating to us, communicating with us. We have spoken often over these past eight years about how different Diesel is from other dogs. How in tune he is with humans and with us in particular.
Diesel was quick with kisses—gentle sensitive kisses. He had an almost human vocabulary. If he was outside barking at something, I would just open the door and gently say "Diesel, that's enough." And jingle jingle jingle, you would hear him come around the corner and trot right into the house. “Good boy, Diesel.”
Never a need to raise my voice. Never anything but loyalty and love.
If he stepped on a thorn, he would limp over to us, knowing that we would know what to do.
This past Sunday, the four of us went for a long walk in the park. Later, I chased him around the bedroom while he tried to keep a toy away from me. He showed no signs of illness or distress. He had been to the vet a few months earlier.
But Monday evening, something had changed. Diesel stayed in bed all afternoon. He didn't want to go outside. He didn't want to eat his dinner that evening. I thought he might have a cold or some stomach issues. I brought him water to drink, but he wouldn't have it. I brought him a little piece of baked chicken from our dinner. He turned his head away. When he finally got up to walk, he couldn't. He bumped into the wall and then the door and fell down. A stroke? Poison? Whatever this was, it was happening hard and fast. I picked him up, carried him to my care, and we took him to the only 24 hour vet in the valley. 45 minutes away. As I lifted Diesel out of the car and placed him on the gurney, I could see he was worse still. We only waited a short time for the diagnosis. She told us that Diesel had an undiagnosed tumor in his spleen which had just burst. He was bleeding internally and was going into shock. Aggressive surgery might save him, but it would only prolong his life a few months. And it would be brutal.
Diesel the unwanted rescue dog — that incredible little being who loved with his entire heart — passed away Monday night at 8:30 pm with me and my partner holding him and stroking him. I whispered into his ears as I rubbed him, “Diesel, you are the best dog in my whole life. The best little man. Good boy. Good boy.”
It is hard to believe that I will never feel that big head in my hands again, that I will never get to massage that thick neck or rub his sweet hairless belly or feel his head resting on my shoulder. It is hard to believe I won’t round the corner and see him watching me intently with this piercing eyes. Or see that big smile light up his face when I come home.
I walk by the place where his bed was and I’m shocked he’s not there.
It is hard to believe he is gone. Maybe that’s not the right word. Maybe it’s more accurate to say It is hard to feel he is gone. Because it feels like he is still around. I know he is gone — but that comforting feeling he is just right there — that feeling I’ve had for twelve years, that feeling isn’t so quick to leave.
Walking one dog this evening seemed strange. My partner and I have talked about it — processing. We’ve held each other and cried. Diesel had the very best life. Neither one of us will ever know a dog’s love like that again. Once in a lifetime if you’re lucky.
We’ve been very lucky.
Grief. I learned a long time ago that grief is the tax you pay at the end of a relationship to truly experience love. All relationships end in some way. And if you’ve loved, you will grieve. I have loved and felt that love returned, every moment, every day, for 12 years. And so the grief will be a heavy price to pay — but so worth it. I have no regrets.
You were the very best boy, Diesel. The best little man.