I had to say
goodbye to my best friend today. Words cannot express how heavy my heart feels,
but I know this is for the best. He is not in pain anymore, and he is up in
doggie heaven chasing rabbits and eating lots and lots of grass.
Sparky went
by many names around our house. Spark. Sparkles. Spooky. Pookie. Dog. I had
many names for him as well. Lil’ Bean. Lil’ Nugget. Baby. Old Man. Cow (he ate
a lot of grass). Kitty (he licked his paws like a cat grooming itself). Turd
(he ate his own poop…). Lil’ Potato. Sweet Boy. Peanut. I always called him my
best friend. Because he was. But it didn’t start out that way.
We got Sparky
when he was really little, probably a few months old. I was about seven years
old. He was a little firecracker, hence where the name Sparky came from. Being
the anxious child that I was, I hated him. He had too much energy for my
liking, so I avoided him at all costs. We kept him penned up in the kitchen,
and if I wanted to play in the backyard, he had to be chained up to the fence. I
was absolutely terrified of that little dog. While this fear gradually
decreased over time, it wasn’t until maybe middle school that I started to feel
comfortable around him.
As I entered
into my angsty teenage years, I found comfort in going on walks to quiet my sad
or nervous thoughts; so naturally, I would take Sparky with me. All the way
through high school, we went on a walk nearly every day after school. Sometimes
we would just go the park and sit on the merry-go-round (he was not too fond of
this, but he put up with it as long as we didn’t spin too much). Sometimes one
of my friends would join us. I worked on training him to not bark so wildly at
other dogs, and he taught me that sometimes a good walk can do wonders for the
mind.
He was a great
listener. Even though it often seemed like he barely tolerated my constant
physical affection, I always felt better after cuddling with him on the kitchen
floor for a while. If I was ever home alone, I would let him out of the kitchen
and bring him into my room to hang out for a bit, feeling rebellious. I spent more time with that dog than any human. He was
there through every boy who broke my heart, every family death, every time I
felt insecure or unsure of what to do in a situation. We became inseparable.
I know
people will say, “He’s just a dog. It’s not like you’re losing a family member.”
But I strongly disagree. Sparky was as much a part of my family as anyone. He
was with us for almost seventeen years. Seventeen years of long walks, tearing
up Dad’s yard by eating grass, countless caught rabbits, struggling to take
baths, barely tolerating hugs and kisses from me, and so much love. I bought him treats on his birthday and kissed his little head every night before I went to sleep. I could sit
here for hours, telling you all kinds of stories about him.
Even though
I knew it was coming for a while now, saying goodbye to Sparky is one of the hardest
things I’ve ever had to do. I will miss my pupper more than anything. Nothing can
replace the bond we shared. He taught me how to love someone with your whole
heart and soul, and I will always be grateful for that. He taught me that I can overcome even my biggest fears. Thank you for
everything, Sparky.
