Bartimaeus (Patreon)

Content Warning: death of a pet

I know I usually don't do this, but I need to write it down.

Before immigrating to America, I grew up with a dog always nearby. After my mom and I moved, throughout my teenage years I begged my stepfather to consider getting a dog. I wrote him REPORTS on why a dog is a good thing. I literally printed out dog breed profiles from the AKC website trying to convince him - and he continuously said no. (We were not well off - we did not have a yard of our own - and he refused on grounds that if something were to happen, we couldn't cover the vet.) 

Then, when I was 15 and had long given up on my conquest, it was abruptly decided that we were driving 3 hours away to another state to meet a friend of his. When we arrived - an empty parking lot in the middle of nowhere - a lady got out of a nearby car, marched over, and handed me a puppy.

Bartimaeus (yes, I took the name from Jonathan Stroud's Bartimaeus trilogy and no, he never did grow into that name, though some comparisons could be drawn) was a Boston Terrier. It was not a breed I was familiar with, nor one of the ones I had petitioned for my stepfather to get... but anyone who owns a dog knows that's not how it works. When you look at your furry best friend, you don't see breeds. You see love, and goofy moments, and a thousand memories that drown you in so much joy you are convinced for a brief moment that nothing can change it.

I have no delusions about the brevity of life. But when something ends, it always leaves you wanting. 

I wish I had spent more time with him. For the last 6 years, while living in Japan, I only had the chance to see him once on my trip back to the states. He was in excellent shape for an 11 year old dog - spry and seemingly unchanging, with hardly even the hint of greying hair typical of dogs his age. I was convinced that I would still have more time to see him again. 

Bartimaeus had an excellent and full life. He was a strange dog - and the best dogs always are. 

He loved vegetables of all types - but especially celery, which for some reason drove him into a state of ravenous hunger. 

Without much training at all, he had excellent recall. I could take him out on long hikes in the forest and let him off leash, allowing him to disappear into the waist-tall grass and knowing - unerringly - that as soon as I whistled he would come bouncing back to me in seconds.  

He loved baths. Loved them too much, perhaps. One winter holiday, when I had to bring my cat with me to house-sit for my parents, he became so frightened of her hissing that he escaped into the bathroom and climbed into the bathtub with me while I was showering - just to escape her wrath. Do you know how strange it is to take a shower with a dog shivering nervously between your legs but refusing to get out because there's an angry cat just outside the curtain?

He passed peacefully. I know his life was good. He had celery and baths aplenty, and the amount of angry cats in his life was minimal. 

I'll miss him though. And I hope he remembered me enough to miss me too. Just a little bit. 

Rest in peace, stinky sweet potato.