interlude: R.I.P., Tessa

Tessa M.
? − October 23, 2008

At my office we’re lucky to have a thriving dogs-in-the-workplace policy, and my department was home to one very special resident: a Cocker spaniel mix named Tessa. I was raised with dogs—I was in my early twenties before cats strutted into my life—and although I love my cats with every cell of my body and would walk through fire for them, there’s something about a dog’s love that just can’t be replicated. I miss it. Tessa graciously filled that void with a heady mix of gentleness and gusto.

On Thursday, October 23, Tessa passed away unexpectedly. She hadn’t been feeling well on Wednesday and was far more subdued than usual. As I rubbed her ears and wished her well, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d ever see her. Work just isn’t the same without her; suddenly there’s a Tessa-shaped hole in our department.

She was the best part of each workday; I was excited to arrive at the office just to see her. Sometimes I’d find her waiting at my department’s front doggy gate; other times I’d be settled in my cubicle before I’d hear the familiar jangling of her tags as she raced into my cube to greet me (and check out my garbage can for scraps, of course!). I would take breaks multiple times during the day just to rub her silky ears and scratch her back. I loved seeing her periodically saunter by my cubicle with her sassy little walk, always on the hunt for a vigorous petting, a treat, or a discarded morsel of food.

I adored that girl. When her parents went on a weeklong vacation over the summer, Tessa stayed at a doggy daycare boarding facility that had webcams, and I found myself checking the webcams at least twice a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of that little black and tan dervish. She was a spitfire, to be sure; she figured out how to open desk drawers with her teeth, to get to the treats buried within, and she managed to unlock the doggy gate on more than one occasion, streaking off into the bowels of the office with unbridled joy. She stole food from all of us at one point or another, but oh did we love her. We just couldn’t be angry with her, no matter what her doggy transgressions may have been.

What’s remarkable, given her energy and mischievous spark, is that Tessa wasn’t even a puppy—she was believed to be 10 years old. She was adopted this past January from a rescue group, Oldies But Goodies, specializing in the placement of older and elderly Cocker spaniels. She was only with us for 10 months, but during that time she made one hell of an impression. I liken it to the northern lights: a chance encounter, a wondrous blaze of luminous beauty that’s here and gone, never to be replicated in quite the same way again.

Her parents, Angela and Zack, deserve accolades for adopting an older dog. So many people are bewitched by the fuzzy bundle of undeniable adorableness that is a puppy—the idea of adopting an older dog, much less an elderly dog, never even crosses their minds. Hell, until Tessa came along, it never crossed my mind. Others are reluctant to undertake such an adoption because of increased veterinary care expenses and a heightened fear of impending loss. There’s this idea of “Oh, I don’t want to adopt a dog only to have him die on me a few months later!” What they fail to recognize is life’s lack of guarantees. Through accident or unexpected illness, a puppy can die just as easily as an older dog. Sadly, nothing is ever certain.

There’s an AIDS memorial inscription in my quotations collection: To love something you know will die is holy. Whenever we willfully choose to assume the responsibility of loving someone, we do so with the knowledge that we could lose that person or animal. It’s not something most people choose to dwell on, although those of us with morose inclinations often keep this knowledge alive in our periphery. The truth is that a thread of mortality constantly runs through the fabric of life, and whether we ignore it or not, it’s still there. But it blends in so seamlessly, it’s almost imperceptible—except in situations where death, illness, or serious accidents cause it to flare into everyone’s line of sight.

Those who choose to bring an older animal into their hearts are at once beautiful and brave because they openly acknowledge this mortality and refuse to let it intimidate them. I’m not religious in the least, but I love that aforementioned inscription’s use of the word holy to describe the act of loving someone even in the face of impending loss.

In taking a chance on her, Tessa’s parents gave her what were undoubtedly the best 10 months of her life. The happenings of her first decade remain a mystery, but given the fact that she was a stray and two bullets were found inside of her, we can only assume those years were far from ideal. But then, in the home stretch, she found a loving family with all its accompanying pleasures: toys, treats, kisses, walks, adoration, safety. The next time I adopt an animal, you can be sure I’ll follow Angela and Zack's lead and choose one who is older—one who needs a second chance like the one given to Tessa.

Angela created a lovely memorial slideshow for Tessa; you can view it here.

Rest in peace, Tessa!



song heard most recently before posting:
The Drop—Peter Gabriel