The animals that have saved me
Meet my puppy Sir Hutchense Tyg Mártir Ruiz
I grew up with animals. There was Whitey, an appropriately named white puppy of unknown breed who died shortly after we got him. I remember him laid out motionless on a blanket in our kitchen. I poked him, eyes brimming with tears, “Wake up, Whitey, wake up.”
There was Brownie who mom refused to let live in our tiny apartment. He was a bigger dog & when it was cold out, I worried about him. Was he warm enough? Did he feel alone out there in the cold? One morning, I heard him howling a long, mournful howl; one I hadn’t heard before that came from somewhere deep. I went back to bed. When I woke up, my second mom Millie told me he’d passed away. She’d already buried him in the backyard. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Then there was Fluffy, a long haired chihuahua who we had for years. Fluffy had my whole heart, and was scared of everything and everyone, including his shadow. But he wasn’t scared of me. We didn’t have much money & none of us knew how to really care for dogs, so he mostly ate hot dogs. I always tried to sneak him some of my dinner when ma wasn’t looking—a piece of chicken, a scoop of rice, a chunk of chuleta, never fruit or vegetables because he hated those. When I left Bushwick to go to boarding school at 13, I left him too. Ma said he wasn’t the same, but he perked up when I visited. He started barking and jumping around as soon as I entered the building.
The summer before my senior year, I enrolled in a business program for high school students at UPenn’s Wharton Business School. Ma was away in PR, & my sister was left in the apartment. When I got back, Fluffy was gone. My sister said she was mopping the house & put him in the hallway while she finished. She claimed when she came out to get him, he was gone. First she said he ran away. But Fluffy was terrified of being outside—the noise, the people, the cars, everything frightened him. When I walked him, I’d let him go on the corner & he’d race back to our building. So I didn’t believe my sister when she said he ran away.
Then she claimed someone probably stole him. I didn’t believe that either. I loved Fluffy so much, but I knew he wasn’t the kind of dog anyone would steal. He just didn’t have that appeal.
As time has passed, I’m more convinced that my sister hurt him, maybe even killed him in one of her rages. She hated that dog and didn’t hide it. And I’m just no longer naive enough to believe she couldn’t do such a thing.
When I was in an abusive relationship in my teens and early 20s, my then boyfriend had a beautiful pit bull he named Gangsta, that went crazy because they kept him in a kennel 24/7. I remember the bloody bruises he had on his paws from scratching at the kennel.
That same boyfriend brought me a pit bull puppy I named Nena. I couldn’t keep her in my dorm, so we eventually gave her away.
I was petless until I rescued a turtle from a former friend. I had Aqua for 16 years until just a few weeks ago…
Over the years Aqua moved with me from various apartments to a house, from various tanks to being allowed to roam loose, coming out only to eat. That’s how I learned how smart turtles are—she knew exactly where to go to be fed, and when I didn’t move fast enough, she’d sidle over to me, like, “You gonna feed me or not, woman?”
During the summers I fed Aqua on the deck in a tub of water. This summer I allowed her to roam a bit, to walk to the edges and look around. She never jumped off. She got close a few times but stopped when she felt only air beneath her outstretched foot or heard me yell her name—”Aqua, get away from there!” I found her once on the 2nd step of the stairs that lead down to the land & forest.
One day in early September, I decided to leave her loose on the deck while I went to run some errands. This was something I’d never done. I’d left her lazing in the tub of water under the summer sun. I thought by now she knew not to jump off. I thought she knew about self-preservation. I was wrong.
When I came back, Aqua was gone, and now I have a running story line of how this turtle leapt to her freedom…
I imagine her going to the edge, surveying the land. She wasn’t just absentmindedly sniffing the air, as I once believed; she was looking for a soft landing spot, a place where the thick vegetation would cushion her fall. She was waiting for a moment like this, when I trusted her enough to leave her alone and loose, to make her escape. I just wanted her to enjoy the warmth while it lasted. Meanwhile she was ready to live in the woods, to make her way in the forest, on her own…
I searched everywhere, around and under the deck and the surrounding land. Every day for the first few weeks, I went out onto the deck, descended the stairs and called out to her. She’s never returned. Her freedom is too precious.
We adopted Napoleon a few months after my brother died. I really got him for my then nine year old daughter, who was watching her mother unravel. She’d wanted a dog for so long and I thought this was the perfect time. We needed something to remind us of love and hope.
Napoleon quickly became my hiking buddy and helped me survive the darkest time of my life. Some of my favorite memories are of me and him in the woods. I whistle to him and he comes running, like, “Here I am, mama!”
I swear he knew when I was being suffocated by my grief. He’d snuggle up close, nestle his face on my arm, and he’d stare at me longingly.
I was gutted when he died suddenly three years ago.
When I got home from the animal hospital, I was sobbing by our deck door when Aqua climbed on my foot & stood there for a while. He knew I was suffering and wanted to comfort me. No one can tell me otherwise. (Of course I can’t find the picture I took as evidence.)
When Aqua hoped off the deck, I was without a pet for the first time in 16 years. The quiet of the house was eerie and sad.
A few weeks ago, the neighbor told us that someone had tried to steal a trailer from her front yard, but was scared off by her dog, a huge German Shepherd named Maverick whose bark is loud and deep, and echoes with force through the forest that surrounds us.
My wife Katia said: “We need to get a dog.”
It’s something we’ve talked about often since moving to the woods. I feel safe here, but I’m often alone and we live in the forest (I can barely see our neighbors). A dog does undoubtedly adds a certain level of protection.
I’m also a long time hiker who ventures sola into the deep woods, and my wife worries. She’s bought me mace, a switch blade, and brass knuckles to carry with me, and has often said: “I need to get you a dog to protect you.” I laugh it off, but there have been a few times that I’ve been alone in the woods and have been startled by a man’s presence.
Listen, I won’t debate this with anyone or defend my stance. I will just say: I too would pick a bear any day!
In mid-September, Katia came home with a flyer from the market that read “Brindle Pitbull Puppies for sale!” She looked at me expectantly, “Wanna get one?”
My whole body clenched. It’s been three years since we lost Napoleon and I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to get another dog. I just didn’t want to love something that hard to then lose it. I’ve had so much loss over these few years…
But then we had a FaceTime call with the seller, and I saw this dog with sad eyes and worry lines on his forehead. When I whistled, he walked towards the screen and sniffed. I felt my heart open. I was done for.
On September 27th, we drove three hours to pick him up. On the ride back home, as I held him in my lap, my wife and I were talking about naming him while an 80s rock channel played in the background. INXS’s Never Tear Us Apart came on. I looked at the GPS screen and the lead singer’s face stared back at me. I thought of my brother who loved the rock and New Wave of that era, especially Depecho Mode and Inxs.
I’ve been channeling my brother a lot as I write this book with a newfound energy—a mix of love, rage, coraje and grief. I wondered: Did Carlos bring me this dog too, like he brought me Napoleon, to help me cope with all these emotions that are being conjured in the writing?
I remembered the song’s video, the violin players on the lakeshore, the close ups of the electric guitar, the saxophone player in the graveyard. And I saw my beloved brother, his face as he sang the song, eyes closed, his body swaying.
I asked my wife: “What’s the lead singer’s name?”
“Michael Hutchence.”
“Hutchence aka Hutch!” I said excitedly.
Katia had already picked his middle name: Tyg.
“Sir Hutchence Tyg Mártir Ruiz.”
Katia laughed. “Why he gotta be a sir?”
Hutch is a Brindle Pitbull, a breed that was originally bred in England, so the Sir feels apropos, plus I love the honorific.
“Sir Hutch if you nasty,” I said, and we both cracked up.
Hutch had taken over our lives. He’s super affectionate and has loads of personality. This time of year is always hard for me (sings: hello seasonal depression, my old friend), and Hutch is getting me outdoors and excited about having a hiking buddy again.
Like Napoleon, he can sense when I’m sad. The other day I was working on a particularly hard chapter when I closed the computer hastily. I needed to catch my breath and unclench my jaw. The tears came quick, and, as if on cue, so did Hutch. He climbed onto my lap, put his face between my breasts, close to my heart, and stared up at me, causing my oxytocin to surge and cortisol to lower. The stillness descended on me like a welcome fog.
Make no mistake, having a puppy is WORK! This morning Hutch threw up in my car twice and pooped in the middle of the farmer’s market. I was so embarrassed and mad. Then, on our way home, he looked at me like this…
All the rage melted away, despite the lingering smell of his vomit.
Having a puppy (or any pet, for that matter) wasn’t in my plans, but here we are…and today, I feel better for it, and so does my heart.
Thanks, bro!
This makes me so happy. So glad you've brought this lovely, adorable pup home! ❤️
I love this so much.