Taffy

I always wanted to adopt a dog.

I had a job. I lived in a dog-friendly apartment. I was close to a dog park.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with animals. I had many fishes (some got flushed away), a turtle that my mom returned (bit my brother), a chicken that “traveled back” to the countryside, and baby chicks that were too often sold (and bought by me) in front of my elementary school.

Most animals that came to my parents’ apartment had a sad demise, except our dog. He was the always-hangry third child of my parents. He lived for a long time. We loved him very much.

No furry loves for Jeff though. His mom had three boys as well as cynophobia. None of these attracted any animals although his family lived in a house with a yard (I grew up in an apartment). He missed out a lot – because my furry sibling listened to me better than a human one, at least back then.

It was thirteen years ago, and I was ready. I decided to go to an animal shelter and bring an I-never-even-had-a-fish-boy along.

We went into a big room with chairs for the meet and greet. A couple of minutes later, the door opened. A white, fuzzy, yet grungy-looking dog barged into the room, followed by a volunteer barely holding on to the leash. She said the dog’s name was Taffy.

Taffy sat in front of us and rolled over for a belly rub. We were instantly in love.

**

My definition of happiness is elusive.

It does not include ‘hell no’s – the distinct smell at the shelter, dogs barking their hearts out sending distress signals, and the idea that some other dogs might never find home – those are definitely not included.

It is a mix of complex feelings. Taffy, later Mallory, wasn’t an easy dog at all. She chewed up the door whenever we left the house (separation anxiety, the vet at UC Davis said), I had to tape up the door with plastic tapes. She had to be sent to a doggy daycare 5 days a week. She had a grass allergy that made her paws itchy after every walk. Happiness with her was not just the joyful moments tightly threaded together.

It was a process. The process of establishing our relationships with every part of our lives together. The goods and the bads. Keeping our routines when shitstorms hit. She didn’t care how sick or how depressed I was — she needed to walk twice a day. Sometimes a lot more. I didn’t know this back then, but those bound us together.

Mallory passed away a year ago in July.

She was not gentle, not busy, and not easy to walk.

We loved her unconditionally.

And we were happy together.