Just before noon, I saw a text from my
mom. “It’s important,” she had said. The phone call that followed was one of my
lowest moments in months. Our beloved, Cotton, had passed away at the veterinary
hospital this morning. Twelve years, seven months. That’s how long he was with
us for; most of that time with either us or one of our closest family friends. I
started working on this tribute to our beloved Cotton about two hours after
that phone call, and I’ve been in tears the whole time; today will undoubtedly
be one of the hardest days in recent memory.
As second grade was approaching, I thought
I was responsible enough for a pet, so I wanted to adopt a shelter pet. My
parents made a deal with me: turn eight and assume primary responsibility (in
all things except the financial realm; i.e, assume responsibility for feeding,
watering, bathing, medicating, etc.) for the pet’s care, and I could get a pet.
About six months prior to the date my parents and I had agreed, the aforementioned
family friend moved to a new apartment, where only one dog was allowed in each
unit. One dog stayed with her, we know almost nothing about the whereabouts of
the second dog, and the third was Cotton. She faced two choices: either give
him up to a shelter, where someone she wouldn’t know would hopefully take him,
or give him to me a few months before I was technically allowed to have a pet by
the terms of the initial agreement. Having weighed the possibilities and seen
that I was probably responsible enough already, my parents allowed me to bring
him home in late August of 2008. Here’s a picture we took on that day. He’d gotten
out of the car immediately prior to this, and, of course, because I was only 7,
I guess I didn’t realize that “young dog + open door - restraints = dog running
away.” Luckily, my parents were all the wiser, and they were ready to catch him
before he’d gone too far; over the next 11 years, he’d get to know that front
lawn very well. We took a few pictures on our driveway before bringing him
inside his new home for the first time. Here’s one of them, taken as soon as I
realized my mistake (note that the leash isn’t clipped, so the only thing
holding him back were my arms): 
By this point, he was already house-trained
(thanks to our friend), but like any adolescent-age-equivalent dogs (or
adolescent humans, for that matter), was quite the rebel. Our friend had adopted
from a shelter in the North Georgia mountains when he was only a few weeks old:
what I’ve been told is that Animal Control found him with another dog—a
possible sibling— in the middle of the woods somewhere near the shelter, but
that they weren’t up for adoption together. One-year-old golden/chow mixes can
be pretty… what’s the word?... rebellious, shall we say. Those of you who are equestrians
will know what I mean when I say he was really “green”—full of energy and a
desire to do stuff, but not always the best at directing such energy in a
constructive manner. So, we took our 45-pound bundle of energy and joy to Dog
School. There, he successfully learned “sit,” “no,” “wait,” and “watch.” Before
this, I remember spending weekends in the mountains with our friend (before the
move, while all three dogs were together) and seeing all of them literally
attempting to climb trees after squirrels or whatnot, as if they were cats.
That’s one thing the training never got rid of: the idea that he was either nimble
enough to climb a tree or should preen himself, in either case because I think he
believed he was a cat. While in training, he met a Long-Haired Chihuahua named
Simon, who also lived in our neighborhood and who loved to take walks around
the same time we did, so the two of them bonded really quickly and became great
friends.
We found a veterinarian for him, and that
vet gave him a new type of food and a pill to take once a month. On top of
that, he suggested that we change his main feed brand. Cotton wouldn’t eat, at
least not very much, and not without much coaxing. Enter the secret weapon:
grated Parmesan. I’m not sure how we found out about this preference, but it
almost certainly wasn’t by a deliberate choice to give him cheese. Let’s be
honest, I was probably distracted, and instead of getting his food (from an
addition off the kitchen), I probably went to the kitchen and grabbed some
cheese, then inexplicably gave it to him. Anyway, the cheese saved us, and he
would eat both kinds of food. Then, he decided to go on strike, and refused to
eat his “normal” food, opting just for a special formula of larger kibble meant
to clean his teeth. He always loved t/d while we fed it to him, but we needed
to get him a little more balance in his diet, since at one point he would only
eat t/d, that special tooth-cleaning formula. Enter cheese once again. A second time, putting a little grated cheese
over his kibble made all the difference. He got much better about this as he
aged. A little cheese was always welcome when we switched feed brands—even when
we were just switching flavors, and for most of his life, cheese must have
meant: “either the humans think I did something good, or we’re having some sort
of party.”
Going back as far as I can remember, he
had this favorite pose, the “English Aristocrat Awaiting Afternoon Tea,” as we
called it, in which he’d essentially copy the pose of the Sphinx at Giza,
except he’d cross his front legs at the wrist and look up lovingly at the
nearest human. Most dogs would probably be afraid of humans taking off shoes or
slippers near them—not Cotton. No, he saw those things as prime belly-rubbing
implements, and would in fact seek out one of his humans when we were putting
on or taking off our shoes so that we’d indulge him in a belly rub. He was OK
with shoes, but what he really wanted were slide-on sandals. Waking up and
seeing him likely before I saw either of my parents most mornings was always a highlight
of my day, and getting some quality time with him while I made my breakfast
each morning was great. He loved nothing more than time with us, and I know the
feeling was mutual.
I’m a mess right now, but something Konrad
Lorenz wrote really rings true. “The fidelity of a
dog is a precious gift demanding no less binding moral responsibilities than
the friendship of a human being. The bond with a dog is as lasting as the ties
of the earth can ever be.” (Many Heartlanders out there will recognize this quote, and for those of you out there, I really feel as devastated as Jack did in episode 904.) Almost every year, in late spring, I’d leave
Marietta behind, and, for two months or more, wouldn’t see Cotton, or play with
him, or feed him, or do any of the things I loved doing with and for him
because when I left Marietta, it was to travel south 10 hours by plane to Brazil
to visit my relatives. When I would return in time for back-to-school shopping,
it would always be like I hadn’t left at all, or I was only gone for a few
hours. You know that feeling when you’re so close to another person, that even
when you don’t see them for ages, it feels like you saw each other only
yesterday? Whenever I went on vacation and left him in the care of either another
family member or a kennel, then returned from that outing some time later, by
his expressions, it always felt as if no time had passed. The bond that exists
between a dog and an owner: one of total self-giving on the part of the owner,
such that the owner will do anything for the dog; and of total surrender and
unconditional trust on the part of the dog, such that the dog will never stop
loving and trusting the owner, and in fact trying to grow that love and trust
at any moment, is incredibly special, and I loved every day of those twelve special
years we knew each other.
It truly
was a great honor and privilege to love and care for Cotton all these years,
and I’m a better person now because of my experiences with him. He really was
the pet of a lifetime, and even though I’m devastated that he’s gone, I’m
thankful beyond words for the good times we shared and the memories we made
during these twelve years and seven months. Cotton, you brought joy to our lives every day, and you will be deeply missed.
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