3JUN23
Dear Bonnie,
It’s a Saturday morning. You’re with my sister, Becca. Maybe you’re tucked into your (anti) anxiety bed, or burrowing your way into a blanket cave. Perhaps you’re snoring, flipped upside down and twisted.
Perhaps standing vigil.
Yesterday, your nerves got the better of you. Yesterday, in a fit of unabated, unreleased tension, you abandoned all reason and pounced, vanquishing your mortal enemy—the Roomba.
Yesterday, you also refused to eat. Becca thought it was the cheese.
I’ll bet it’s because you were upset.
Little One, you’re as much of a rascal as me, and just as stubborn.
Your heart is bigger than your common sense, and you can’t bear to be parted. Even when I drag you across the country; even when we face near-drownings, near-freezings, rainstorms, thunderstorms, and hail—
you still find the alternative worse.
In that, yanno… you’re a bit of a goober.
But let me tell you a story.
It was October of 2019.
You weren’t yet born.
I was recently returned to the United States and found myself in a bit of a pickle. Several months prior, I had found (much to my dismay), that I couldn’t recognize my reflection in the mirror. The height was the same, and the name on the uniform read my own… but that was about all that was familiar.
What a quandary!
So I had started to make choices, new choices. Small ones, you understand, but then bigger ones,until I found myself thousands of miles and twice around the world removed, sitting alone in the middle of an unfurnished Portland apartment. I was very broken, very small and scared and tired. I knew I could get another human to fix me, if I wanted—there were so many easy, fast solutions, quick things to throw myself into. Portland was, indeed, a slightly overwhelming place, but one rife with such opportunity.
Or I could find a fluffball and learn to heal myself.
Now, Little Bon, this is not where you enter the story.
Initially, I wanted a border collie, one of my friend’s beautiful black-and-whites. With their careful breeding, endless energy, and sweet dispositions, an Oregon-based Lillu or Gillie would have been a wonder.
I walked around the downtown’s blocks, imagination idling. I could already picture a collie beside me, investigating the world, greeting each stranger, using their keen intelligence to scent out danger and herd me towards safety.
Surely, I thought, this was the right idea!
But then… then I passed a collie in a park. The small one, by the fountain, the one with the big mounds (that you scampered up so readily, as conquering and proud as Columbus). The owner greeted me affably, grateful to listen to his dog’s praise. In passing, he also mentioned that he walked his dog 10 miles a day.
Well, shucks… that threw quite the wrench into my plans. TEN miles??? A DAY???
I was single. I worked. I lived in an apartment.
A collie, I realized, was not the solution.
So I cast my thoughts wide… what to do, what to do.
And then I recalled my childhood dog, Chula Amber (yes, Chula Bonita, your namesake). A bit daffy towards the end (like Cowboy, but sweeter), this was a dog upon whom I had cried all my childhood, who never failed to calm me down. When I was 9, I’d picked her from the litter all by myself, stepping away and choosing the one that followed. Though childlike in simplicity, my reasoning had proved sound. After 16 years of endless love, Chula’s loyalty surpassed all bodily frailty to grasp onto life throughout my 22mo deployment—she who waited, patiently, until she had seen me again before passing into the Great Beyond.
Aha! Yes! Yes, a creature that actually likes me. Now THAT’S my kind of dog.
So, pulling out my handy dandy magic Google machine, I searched a simple phrase: “Portland, OR cockapoos.” The first was some place down by Hood River, but the second… wait, the second…???
Why did Puff’n’Stuff cockapoos sound so familiar? Wait, was that… was that Blacksburg, Virginia???
You guessed it, Bon.
This is where you come in.
Well, almost.
I don’t know what fated Act of God happened that day (and to my West Coast-based algorithms), but I found myself in a time loop, perusing the same website as 20yrs prior. The breeder, a vet by the name of Dr. Kelly Burdette, had continued her practice all these years, carefully comparing notes and bloodlines all this time. She still specialized in “Face Lickers, Lap Warmers, and Professional Snugglers,” and I was still very much interested.
We started a correspondence, comparing puppies, comparing litters, comparing dates. I wanted a puppy, but I also had a life to live, and last hurrahs to arrange—when else would I get the chance to go dog sledding in the Yukon???
Still, we exchanged our letters, until it was decided that I visit the veterinary practice when I flew home for Christmas. Jana (you remember her, the Evil Twin) would accompany me, joining along for the journey.
Some 3,000+ miles flown and drown (fine, driven) later, we arrived, to not one, not two, but BASKETFULS of puppies! Merino, black, brown—all tiny paws, tiny heartbeats, tiny yawns. Another litter had been born just two weeks before, and the small handfuls of glossy, sleek puppy fur were crawling over each other on the clean, thick towel.
How was I to choose??? Much like its distant, more athletic cousin, the black-and-white one did catch my eye, but I just didn’t know…
And then you came.
Little One, did I choose you? Or did you choose me?
Is it fate is it magic is it God god gods…
Because you worked it. Right from the beginning, right from the start. Only two weeks old, you nonetheless perked up to see me, preening with enthusiasm, licking my nose. I wanted to protest to Jana, wanted to continue with my waffling, but—we knew. When I went to put you back, to discuss details and logic and silly human things, you already had your opinions—“no. No, this is where I am. I’m not leaving, I’m not going anywhere. This is where I belong.”
And so it was you nestled into my lap, content, safe, and secure, as I arranged your flight home.
(And what a flight it was!!! Cargomates with a pig, your crate twice the size, and the flight delayed, twice, in the rain!)
Which brings us to February 10th.
Little One, I told you I was hurting. I told you I was tired, and broken, and confused. I had been trying to right my path, to return home, but it had just been so hard, and the road seemed so loooong. When would the pain end? When would I find relief, succor?
And then you arrived.
… there aren’t really any words to encompass the full experience, but, from the start, I knew I was a goner. (And yes, there’s video to prove it.) Like an anxious father in the waiting room, I had bounced in the cargo department, all tension and anxiety and joy. I had frantically rushed through customs forms, permission forms, waivers, until, finally, your crate was relinquished to my care. Jana (on hand for the Yukon hurrah) was also there, indulging my enthusiasm as I rushed through the rain to the trunk of the Mazda, nestling your crate in comfort until we opened its door.
“Precious” cargo that you were, you stepped right out. Ready to face the world, ready to face Portland.
“Oh, she’s going to be trouble…”
And then you licked my face. Once, twice. Three times.
Trouble, indeed.
It’s been one helluva adventure since then, little one. Not 24hrs after your arrival, we introduced you to your first trail, and your little fuzzbutt thumped along Forest Park until your fatigue outstripped your energy, and I carried you home. At six months, I introduced you to your first mountain; at eight, your first trail run.
It was raining (again), and cold, but I could not have been prouder.
You’ve made thousands of friends along the way; your love for people, and dogs, and food, has led me into far more human interactions than I would have willingly initiated. Your antics have brought smiles to many, and your authentic vulnerability (“don’t hurt me, I’m cute!”) has broken down barriers that I would only have reinforced.
We read the newspaper together (okay, you ate it). We visited the store together. We played together.
We even ate (y)our ice cream together.
And somehow, in the midst of all this activity, you were working a sneaky magic even on me… your reliability, your trust, your love. They were healing wounds too deep to even name.
I knew this, I did. I knew the change occurring as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to years… I knew as the sparkle started to return to my eye, as my laugh didn’t seem so forced. I knew as my distrust lessened, and the fear began to dissipate, even a little…
But somehow the strength of that bond wasn’t fully impressed on me until we reached the Giant Steps.
It’s a bouldering area of the Interstate Palisades Park, between New York and New Jersey. On the Hudson. Signs lined the path a half mile prior: “NOT SUITABLE FOR PETS OR SMALL CHILDREN.” “LEAVE TWO HOURS.” “HIKING BOOTS STRONGLY ENCOURAGED.” (Typically, I was in sandals.)
Still, though, as I told you, we would continue… slowly, cautiously, but only as long as we felt comfortable. I saw the signs, but I reasoned you weren’t just any pet… you were the Bon! Das Bon! Trail Dog Extraordinaire! As long as we proceeded with safety as our first, last, and every intervening priority, I figured we would be fine.
… well.
Well.
You know the story. The mental recourse and option to turn around is all well and good… until you reach the point of the trail where you can’t.
And you were such a champ! Body a little fluffier from your extended stay in suburbia, you had nonetheless agilely jumped to, from, and around the boulders. You had navigated across the broken path with ease, quickly sensing the right way forward.
Until there wasn’t.
The sun, the then-unaccustomed strain, the uncertainty… you stopped.
You stopped, and looked at me. Your turn.
Your turn to carry me.
Your turn to keep me safe.
And I did. Just like on Elk Mountain two years before, when all nature had conspired against us, you were so trusting, so calm. Whether in my arms or around my neck like a lamb, you trusted and held still—surely, you felt. Surely this would be fine. I was holding you safe in my arms, and it would all work out.
And it did.
It was not the same Mountain.
It was not the same trail.
And, after two years, I was not the same human.
But you, Little One… you were the same Bon.
You believed in me before I believed in myself; trusted before I could do so, loved unconditionally where I found flaws. I was beating myself up over this misstep, that, this second guess, another… but your faith never wavered.
I’ll only fall further into cliche if I continue, but, Chula Bonita, have no doubt—
I might have started to make different choices before you,
but you were the one who led me into health.
Today, I might be separated from you.
Today, I might not tuck you in, or blow on your face (which you hate), or call you Tubby (which you would promptly ignore and demand the treat anyways).
Today, I might not hear your opinions (on birds, playtime, or life).
But you are always—ALWAYS—my dog.
And you are always close to my heart.
Love,
Brett
ie, the Human
The Amazing Adventures of Brett & Bonnie 