I Am So Popular: Bye-Bye Love (A Valentine Farewell)

I brought him into my life as I have brought so many others—in a huge rush without much (or any) contemplation of his less savory traits. I still hold that even if I had more closely inspected him the day we met, and in the early days of our time together, I would not have—could not have—recognized some very inherent parts of him that would prove problematic. That he was hardwired in some ways, prone to be both aggressive and high energy in unpredictable bursts.

I spent the past few months in deep denial. A holiday would come, and I might start to think, “This is our last Thanksgiving together,” or Christmas or New Year’s Eve. But I am my own worst enemy times like these, able to push aside even the heaviest thoughts, like some super-hero parent lifting a train off of a child in peril.

But here comes Valentine’s Day. Not a holiday I buy into—or, maybe more accurately one I wish I didn’t buy into. But because I know that by this time next year, he will be out of my life for good, beyond talking to, beyond trying to reason with, the holiday takes on weight. Knowing he will vanish from my life breaks my heart—a heart broken so many times before—into a million little bits.

I adopted Satch aka Diablo aka Old Man River Gillespie in March, 1997. My son picked him out at Town Lake Animal Center. At the time, he was a little thing, five pounds, red and round and chubby, no signs of his Pit Bull heritage visible. We only saw the heeler in him and, as I was in the throes of a particularly nasty divorce, I especially liked the ring of that—heeler/healer.

I got him, in part, because I’d promised Henry a puppy for a long time. Finally, we were in an apartment that allowed dogs and, at six, Henry was of the age when it is said to be acceptable to have both a little child and a little puppy under one roof. I have a series of photos of them from that time—sitting on the back step, Satch is a total blur of motion and Henry looks right at the camera. These are the most bittersweet pictures in my vast collection. In them, my son’s little face belies what my foolish actions the year before had done to us both.

I had hastily married a lunatic I met on the Internet. It was a whim, one I figured I could undo just as easily, a quick divorce if it didn’t work out. I did not know—how could I—that I was dealing with an addict and a liar. That he-- who outweighed me by a good 160 pounds— would bully me and restrain me and threaten me and then refuse to sign the divorce papers, bound to take his revenge by staying legally linked until I had spent every last penny and then some to eradicate him.

I still blame myself fully for that marriage. In a life full of incredibly stupid mistakes, that will go down in my personal history as the worst of them all, literally endangering my life and, much worse, my son’s. There is no excuse for my behavior.

And yet, I try to make one. I had never in my life encountered this type of person before. Naively then, I did not believe someone like that could exist, at least not in my life. I was a good person and so, I reasoned, those around me would be good, too. But the protective order and the restraining order I eventually took did no good. To this day, a dozen years later, he still tracks me.

Back then, when the stalking began, I was so rattled I developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and became so frightened that agoraphobia kicked in. I slept poorly and with the phone by my side, ready to call 911 when, I imagined, my enraged estranged husband would come crashing through the door. Satch, then, wasn’t just a puppy adopted for a little boy. He was a measure of protection I got for us both, a hoped-for barrier between me and the attempt at murder I often envisioned my ex had planned for me.

Sadly, Satch, already high strung by nature, “caught” my anxiety. When I would venture out, and take him with me, if a jogger ran by a little too closely, or came up silently behind us, I would jump and scream. Satch learned to snap at these people. Training helped us both some, but neither of us ever really got over it and both of us remain on edge far more than I would like.

He had some incidents, too, where teeth made contact with flesh. Once, he was reported and the city wanted to take him away for two weeks. I knew the separation would literally kill him, and convinced the authorities to let me quarantine him at home. Before that incident, I had been vigilant about keeping him apart from others. Afterwards, I grew more vigilant still, choosing our times and locations for walks carefully, giving wide berth to others.

While he still went nuts whenever the door knocked, and fell into a total frenzy when the trash truck pulled up on Fridays, I could rely on him to remain gentle and dedicated with me and with Henry. His loyalty and over-protectiveness remained. Until last year.

Now he is incorrigible. He has snapped at me more than once. His eyes are clouded over with cataracts. The arthritis he began exhibiting years ago is prominent. Walking is hard. And though playing fetch is something he would do until he dropped dead from exhaustion, I hesitate to throw ball or Frisbee, because the damage, the limping, it is exacerbated instantly.

I have always been, to an extent, a fool—a black and white thinker who, despite history’s lessons, believes that all answers will be instantly apparent. And so I thought it would be with Satch. That when it came time to end things, I would just know, and it would be regrettable, but I would do the right thing and put him down. Instead, we live in this limbo land where I cannot yet bring myself to do what I must. Sometimes, I just look at him and burst out crying. “Don’t leave me,” I want to say to him. How many times I have said that to others in my life? How many times I have looked back to realize I should have let go long before I did?

Sometimes, in the afternoon, I hoop and listen to Fresh Air, to workout mind and body. Satch lies at my feet, hoop swirling over his head, looking at me with adoration. Once, recently, we listened to Terry Gross interview a compassionate veterinarian who explained the process of euthanasia. Tears streamed down my face but Satch remained serene, oblivious.

I am going to miss him so much. There are so many good memories, among them this: For as long as I can remember now, nearly every day he sits, all eagerness, looking up at me adoringly as I recount for him this tale:

“Remember when you were a baby? And you weighed five pounds? And I took you to the movies in a bag? And then you pooped in the car?”

At this, Satch wags his tail vigorously. “That’s your favorite story,” I say. Then he wags some more. Sometimes I tell him twice.

Happy Valentine’s Day, love. I am going to miss you every day for the rest of my life.

Spike Gillespie might love dogs more than people. She blogs at www.spikeg.com. And she is Head Mistress for the Dick Monologues. Next show March 11th. Email spike@spikeg.com to reserve seats