My daughter’s beloved dog, whose name was Bubba (like Forrest Gump’s friend, the one obsessed with shrimp), has died. I am heartbroken by it, and I think I understand the reason for so much heartbreak. She always suffers for dogs that die, but I discovered with Bubba that special dogs exist, and she was special. Special, of course, does not necessarily mean more intelligent (even if…). Rather, they are dogs that have a character, a personality, a profile that makes them unmistakable, particular (even the dachshund Oliver was a bit like that). Bubba could make it clear, as if she were speaking human language, what he liked best and what annoyed her.
As if it were necessary to dance until exhaustion to find the exact spot, that and no other, to pee.
How to steal food while evading the watchful surveillance of humans.
Like putting a paw on your thigh as a sign of sympathy and complicity.
How to avoid stepping on dry leaves in autumn because it seemed like an intolerable degradation.
Like becoming an immovable statue if he didn’t feel like walking too much.
How to yelp with joy when he approached a place she loved.
Like lying on his back with his paws in the air if he wanted cuddles.
Like staring straight at the ceiling for hours at a gecko who didn’t understand the reason for such tenacious interest.
I don’t have a very long experience with dogs, only a little over thirty years, but I understand that there are dogs that exude a particular charm, a singular posture, an attitude, a loud and awkward yawn are enough to capture you. There are dogs that speak our language fluently. That’s why I have to thank Bubba for opening up a world to me and for accompanying my daughter with such strength along the troubled paths of life. This is why his death causes me such acute torment that I didn’t believe was possible for a dog.
Hi Bubba.
