During my freshman year of college, out of the blue, my mom asked if I wanted a dog that her ex-boyfriend no longer wanted.
My initial reaction? I was pissed.
When we first moved into that house 5 years prior, we had to give away all three of our cats as a caveat for moving into a bigger home. My parents thought the 3 cats would get the house too messy by scratching up the furniture and tracking hair everywhere.
As the quiet one in the family, I relied on our furry family members whenever I got lonely and needed to escape. The animals were my escape. Losing them cut out a vital part of who I was and how I communicated my emotions.
Two of our cats (named Hamster and Tiger) were cats I raised as kittens, so I was devastated when I had to say goodbye to my best friends.
After the pain of losing Hamster and Tiger withered, suddenly I realized that my mom was willing to break one of her cardinal house rules (no pets) for this particular doggo.
”What’s his name?”
”Oso. He’s a Pomeranian Spaniel mix.”
”Why are they giving him away?”
”The original owner was going to euthanize him because his leg was limping. So my bf took him in, but now Oso is too high maintenance for him.”
At the time, I was 20 years old and I wasn’t prepared to take care of a puppy given my hectic work and school schedule. I had finally crawled out of a 5-year depression that I was stuck in throughout high school, and I was ready to take on new opportunities, move to a new city, and meet new people. A new puppy would mean added responsibilities that I wasn’t prepared to take on.
”I don’t know if we’ll keep him, but just bring him home so we can see what he’s like.”
The first time I saw Oso, he was timid and shy. Whatever bullshit his owners put him through, you could see the residue of trauma in his body language. He wasn’t particularly friendly or cuddly at first, but he had a playful side of him that showed up when we were alone together.
Soon after we brought him home, Oso got very sick due to the lack of vaccinations he received from his previous owners. Oso had Parvo, a viral infection with a high mortality rate. He went from a curious and chill puppy to a quiet, shivering one. I barely knew him, but I was terrified to lose him. I begged my mom to throw all the money we could to save Oso, and she did.
Oso was vaxxed, chipped, the limp in his leg was going away, and his name was changed to Oso Maningding. He was officially my dog, and I was just so damn happy that he was alive. All I could ever think of whenever I looked into his beautiful brown eyes were the moments he laid in his crate shivering, and how close I was to losing such a cute and sweet puppy.
Oso lived a curious, audacious, and noble life. He was an adventurer who broke out of the backyard three times. He lived for car rides on my lap while he stuck his doggy head out the window. And he appreciated the details of life because he always stopped and smelled every damn rose, every twig, bush, or piece of poop.
When I met Livi in college, Oso was still a puppy, so he immediately became both of our dogs. Caring for and loving Oso became a crucial component of our relationship, and it made us feel like a small family. From California to Texas, and from Texas to Atlanta, Oso traveled around the country with us. And through all of those adventures, he grew from a curious and timid pupper to a brave and courageous big brother.
When Yoko joined our family, Oso became the perfect older sibling who protected her. Oso never barked at Yoko for nibbling on his feet. Nor did he growl at her for playing with his floofy tail. He didn’t mind if she stepped over him while he was sleeping and she was playing with her toys. And he didn’t get mad at her if she stole a piece of food from his bowl.
But the minute another dog tried to intimidate or bark at Yoko? The inner wolf in Oso came out, and he was ready to fight lol.
As the years rolled on, the stress of my career and my schedule started to weigh heavy on me and Oso. Oso had terrible separation anxiety, so whenever I left for work he’d bark for hours until I came home. When we lived in an apartment, we’d constantly receive noise complaints because Oso wouldn’t stop barking when I was gone.
When Oso was around 8 years old, that’s when he started to grow grey hair. People would point out his “old man” hair, and I’d deny that he was getting older. I rejected the idea that our cute and lovable pupper was aging.
When the older doggies that Oso grew up with to started to pass away, I knew deep in the corners of my mind, that Oso would leave us too. And of course he would — dogs have significantly shorter life spans than us. But that still didn’t stop me from seeing him as a part of my life that would live forever.
I wanted so desperately to believe that we could keep his health in such pristine condition that he could live long enough to see mine and Livi’s first baby.
During COVID, Oso had difficulty walking up the stairs. Sometimes he’d slip and fall down, and be discouraged from running back up. I knew it was a sign of his aging, and the vet told us the same, but I just picked him up and walked up the stairs like it was no big deal. In my mind, he wasn’t getting older — he was just going for a fun ride up the stairs.
A year into COVID, I noticed Oso’s physique had changed dramatically and my tendency to think of the situation in a cute or watered down way was no longer working on me. I couldn’t ignore the inevitable. He lost a ton of weight, and I could feel the ribs in his body. The vet confirmed a mass had grown near his liver, and it was possibly cancer.
Still, I tried to hold onto hope. I wanted to believe that any surgery, medicine, or miracle could help him.
We saved him before. Why can’t we do it again? Why can’t we throw a fuck ton of money at the hospital, go into debt if we have to, and try to save him?
Unfortunately, more time cannot be bought, yet it was the only thing that could have helped Oso.
In the blink of a fucking eye, my baby Oso came into my life, changed everything, and quietly left.
Sometimes when I look at the ground I see a shadow, and I’m hoping he’s hiding in there. Or I’ll stare at his bed and see the imprint of where he would sleep, and how he would contort and twist his body, and I’ll just break down.
In the middle of the night I’ll wake up and imagine that I could still hear his hard nails scratching against the corner of the door so he can go to the bathroom at 4am.
Seeing him everywhere but not being able to feel or smell him again hurts. I would give anything to walk with him, play with him, or talk to him again.
Was I good to Oso? Did I take care of him like he wanted? Did he know I loved him with every fiber of my heart?
The shadow-sized hole in my heart deserves to be there because that’s the imprint he left. The weight of my grief and depression weighs nothing compared to the love and happiness he poured into our lives. He was a small doggo with a heart murmur, but he had the biggest heart.
We couldn’t speak the same language, but Oso and I were so much alike. Curious but homesick. Loving but distant. Social yet highly skeptical. I was his protector and he was my best friend.
A part of me feels empty. Like I don’t want to live if I can’t see him in it. But another part of me feels so grateful and lucky to be the one he spent his life with. The joy, playfulness, love, and the companionship he brought into the world enriched not only mine and Livi’s life, but the lives of so many of our family members who all got close to him.
Though I can cry and cry and cry about Oso, I know there are better ways to honor his life.
Any time I feel weak or unable to push forward, I think about little Oso and how willing he was to explore and push boundaries. Whenever I get anxious from work or I obsess about what’s going to happen in the future, I think about how much he stopped to smell the roses so I can remember the value of being present and attentive to the ones I love most.
One day, when my body can longer walk up the stairs, and my time passes, I will finally get to see my little Oso again — probably hanging out with Hamster and Tiger — and we’ll be happy together forever.
Rest in power Oso Maningding. You’ll always be in my heart.