It started like any other ‘day off’ in Portland, with a hankering for black coffee and smash-browns. We went to our go-to brunch place called ‘Juniors’ in the Southeast and waited in the rain with the other starving, tattooed, Kurt Vonnegut-enthusiasts who don’t wear rain coats. James twirled me, I fake-boxed him, and we moon-walked up and down the sidewalks-- little games only played when minds are hypocaloric and fuzzy.
Juniors is the quintessential Portland Cafe: very limited seating, ambient-velvet-underground-esque tunes scratching just a titch too loud under old tomato juice cans filled with succulents, and a cornucopia of vegan brunch options. The walls are gilded damask, specials written in chalk, papier-mache’d busts of slap-happy unicorns and cobras with Pharoah crowns observe the eclectic patrons dine, while a cardboard Sasquatch cutout woos passersby.
Sliding into diner-style booths, we ordered cowboy coffees and scrambles, taking to our standard brunch formation--him with a crossword and me oogling the new animals at the Oregon Humane Society.
Many weeks had passed in which I had been cruising this website in a somewhat manic fashion. At times I found myself checking out the cats up for adoption even though I am severely allergic.
I have a habit of attaching myself to ideas, obsessing over their possibility, and then hastily making them reality. I think of every angle, google every con, and envision all the pros, but in the end I am oftentime blinded by compulsion to get my fix of newness, whatever the cost. While this could be considered a virtue—perseverance, determination, et cetera—my tick breeds with it unencumbered ‘all or nothing’ adventures from which I glean lessons or patch-up qualms.
Then I saw him. ‘Curly’ the 9 month old spaniel mut with a freckled face and wagging tongue.
“Baby, look at this one!”
“Aw, what a cutie.” His reaction tempered by my routine excitement when scrolling puppies. “He looks like a Brittany with that coloring.”
I swooned, staring at the picture again and again, as if some new information would magically appear if I refreshed enough times. I began picking at my cuticles and guzzling coffee--ruminating the possibilities.
“Should we go see him?” James posed without pause, picking up on my elated ado.
“Oh my god….Can we?”
“Let’s go check out puppies!”
I was tempted to scarf down my sourdough toast as fast as humanly possible, but then something within me demanded; ‘be calm, if its meant to be its meant to be.’
Now, we had been through this before, brunching at Juniors and opting to daytrip to the Humane Society “just to look.” We had met with a few puppies and even put a hold on one--a gorgeous brindle italian greyhound who peed immediately upon seeing me.
And it was meant to be. This time, I left the Oregon Humane Society with a 16lb Heinz57 mut from a shelter in Northern California with a ginger face and fluffy white mane whom I named Koba.
Back in December, while I was boarding the plane to Denver I got a voicemail from my Dad explaining, “Keira is in the doggy ER with stomach torsion,” and “we are hoping she’ll make it until you arrive.” My heart fell right through my chest with the thought of losing our family dog--a feisty Japanese Akita with a penchant for sniffing crotches and bolting out the back door.
During my stay at home, my sister and I nursed Keira back to health. We fed her a wet diet of brown rice and chicken breast; shoved pills down her throat three times a day; carried her outside to pee; documented her hydration schedule; and lifted her on our hallowed “off-limits” parents bed in their absence for extra comfort.
Of course, Keira is notoriously naughty. She won’t come when called unless she hears meat drop in her food bowl and/or if you speak to her in spanish. She is very aggressive towards other dogs, having sent many to the hospital. She will alert you if a bear is on the deck or a racoon is in the garage with that thundering howl. She will ALWAYS jet if given the chance. But she does come back; she waits by the sliding glass door after riotous jaunts through our neighborhood, terrorizing dogs or begging to be let in at Grandma’s. She sleeps most of the day and is always over-joyed when you get home. Above all, she’s there, a constant presence in the house--licking the furniture and laying at the foot of our parents bed.
Keira was my greatest companion growing up. We would often take long walks behind our house while I digested that bounding teenage angst. We have an unspeakable bond, telepathic if you will. Being a child reticent to divulge personal information, I would share my struggles with Keira, lay my head down on her sprawling abdomen and nuzzle or cry or simply listen to her heartbeat. The pure unwavering presence animals provide their human counterparts cannot be duplicated.
This morning, I awoke to a wet nose snaking beneath my covers, tiny paws grazing my face, and puppy teeth exploring my palms. Koba’s 9am wakeup call. We snuggle in bed for a moment. With a few belly rubs and ‘down-dogs’, he really wakes up--boisterously demanding all who lay horizontal to rise and greet the day by pouncing on faces and limbs or gnawing on covers. I wrap myself in a blanket and walk him outside to make him ‘hurry-up.’
We take a moment to breathe in the morning. To simply notice the cherry tree pushing out blossoms, steam rising off the grass, wispy clouds clearing for a tangerine dawn or a light rain kissing your cheeks, matting your eyelashes.
This puppy forces me to be present to these sacred, quotidian moments that mark our existence. I have spent so many days outside of myself--planning for the future, stressing about the past, always in a hurry to move forward--the progressive American autopilot. But when I wake up to this creature whose elation could never be squandered, it is difficult not to catch his enthusiasm.
After finishing, Koba prances over the dewy grass and sits at attention in front of me--ready to run or eat or annoy Bear (my roomie’s Dachshund). I leash him up and we set out in the Portland streets. Walking for walking’s sake was never an activity I would partake in before I had Koba. In my mind, it had no point--the exercise wasn’t strenuous enough, I had no destination--there were so many other ‘productive’ things I could fill my time with.
I never noticed the gnarled root base of the maple tree on my corner--how it’s warts and grooves and scratches elucidate a Tolkien-esque story of synergy no amount of transcendental meditation could decipher. Or the many moods of a Pacific Northwest winter: fog so thick you can’t see 10 feet in front of you or the calming pitter-patter of relentless drizzle on rooftops and chain-link fences.
Dogs are irrevocable ‘beings-in-the-world’ (to borrow from Heidegger). A reminder of why we are on this planet--to live joyously, and with love. This little pooch fucking LOVES me, unconditionally. And I feel that every day.
He is also a huge responsibility. And that role requires me to arrange my days such that both of our needs get fulfilled. And they aren’t so different--eat, play, shit, sleep. Life gets pretty simple on dog island, minus the whole ‘i still have a full-time job’ reality. But on my off-time, it is full-force puppy-heaven. And its pretty fantastic--hikes, dog-park, tug-of-war, and tricks for days. Koba has reinforced my values in life--that relationships are worth it; working less hours is worth it; experiences are worth it; home is worth it. Also, I always have an excuse to stay in now (an introverts dream).
To have a living being express unremitting ardor throughout the seasons of your temperament and to bear witness to all of your truths with unconditional bug-eyed loyalty--this relationship cannot be reciprocated in the human experience and I feel so grateful to have found this little boy. 
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