I didn't want a chihuahua in my life.
I was told you were supposed to be a yappy little purse dog that bit ankles and shredded slippers. I was told you would be 5 lbs of teeth and shaking and pure hatred...
But surprisingly, you weren't. You just kinda sat there at first. And stared at me. And I couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Some days I thought you were trying to figure me out. Other days I just thought you were silently plotting my death.
I still didn't like you.
You have dopey little Yoda ears, and Cheech and Chong eyes that make you look like you're high all the time, and you can't even jump onto the couch without assistance. You're essentially a cat without any of the perks of having a cat.
I married into you, and I made sure to tell everyone you were my wife's dog, because surely a man such as I would never be seen in public with this shivering 5 lb paperweight. And a chihuahua named Jonathan, at that! Could your mother have picked a more ridiculous name?
But still, we had to get along. We had to work things out for the sake of the marriage. And since you can't speak English and I can't speak chihuahua, we've had to coexist in complete silence, speaking only through our actions. And through that, I've actually come to learn a few things about you.
You've taught me that you like dancing. Like, when a really good song starts playing and I start dancing around like an idiot, your tail starts wagging and you start dancing along with me... well, as much so as an anorexic rat-dog can.
(And I guess anyone who doesn't judge me for dancing in my underwear in the living room can't entirely be terrible...)
You've taught me how to relax. You've taught me to take things slow. You've shown me that sometimes a few extra Zs are more important than rushing and stressing and getting yourself into a worry over something that can be dealt with later.
And as someone who suffers with depression, you've taught me how to fight off the sadness and the loneliness that sometimes creeps into the corners of my mind, and this too you've done without saying a word. You don't have to. But if you did, I bet you'd only have to say three words. And no, they're not the ever-cheesy "I love you."
...But I still don't like you.
After all, you're just a shaky little twerp that runs to my lap, trembling in fear when a strong gust of wind blasts through the window, and I'm the asshole that tells you it's just your real dad coming to take you away... even if I'm hugging you back as I say it.
I've joked more times than I care to remember about how easy it'd be to punt you like a football, or flush you down the toilet, or drop you out the window and let a strong breeze just carry you away. But I've never really meant it. I never really wanted you gone.
I came downstairs to check on you this morning, and you were laying on your favorite bed, refusing to move even as I told you it was time for a walk. Your eyes wouldn't open. I thought you were just being lazy.
But you were gone.
You came into my life, you shared your personality with me, you helped me through hard times, and then you left, all without saying a single word. And even if we never had a method in which to verbally communicate what we meant to one another, I can only hope that you felt it through my actions. That you felt safe. Cared for. Happy. And I hope and pray that up until your last breath you knew with every fiber of your being that I didn't like you.
I loved you.
And I'm gonna miss you like fucking crazy.
Regular posting will resume next week. Please excuse my absence around the blogosphere this week. I just need a little time for myself. Not to be alone. Just to be by myself.