Home at Last

dog gone

From the kitty lounging in a sunlit chair to the puppy snoring by the fire, pets animate our homes—and leave a giant emptiness when they depart.

By Christine Mather
Photograph by Thais Mather

This article first appeared in Winter 2008 Su Casa

I am into the first four weeks of a 20-year grief cycle. I lost my dog last month. Perhaps you think your pet is special, and perhaps it is, but let me tell you about Dietz. Here was a dog who was a solid “10” on the joie de vivre meter. He jauntily exited the vet’s office even after his young buckliness was surgically removed—a hastily arranged action taken because he humped anything that moved, as well as a number of things that didn’t. He maintained a lifetime love of trips to the vet; perhaps this was because he was never sick a day of his 17 years. He was absolutely fearless, all the more remarkable because his legs didn’t fully carry his torso off the ground, which made facing off with another dog rather hilarious. Dietz was a longhaired dachshund purchased for the princely sum of $50 at an Albuquerque humane society during a moment of extreme maternal madness brought on by relentless whining—by my children, that is, not the dog.

When I went to bring Dietz home after the obligatory waiting period, he immediately wedged himself between my lap and the steering wheel—we were both thinner back then—making it clear to me that I was the center of his doggy universe. While he was deeply in love with my husband and wildly fond of the girls, my role was to be the one he never let out of his sight for long. Everyone recognized his alpha qualities, his pure charisma, his humorous demeanor, his self-deprecating charm, and his debonair good looks. It was as if Cary Grant had been reincarnated into a wiener dog. Even the vet asked that if we ever decided we didn’t want Dietz, to let him know. Now that’s a dog!

Even though recounting the exploits of one’s child or pet ranks right up there with the long, truncated recounting of a dream as fodder for total boredom, a pet’s importance to us remains so primary that it is difficult to just let it go unsaid. And, although my family knew Dietz was something special and that he would be missed when he was gone, we were hardly prepared for the change that overcame our home. Little did we realize how completely a 15-pound dachshund could fill a house.

Prior to his demise, all getting up from sleep and going to sleep, all events involving food, all of the comings and goings of friends and family, the opening and closing of most doors, the entry of any animal onto the property (regardless of species) were presided over by the small red dog. It is this absence and quiet that has made me realize how much living things, the flora and fauna of our lives, become completely integrated into the sense of what a home is all about. With our small red dog gone, it is as if some essential part of the organic flow of the household disappeared, catching us all by surprise, despite his long exit. And it’s no wonder this gallant little being left behind such a void—Dietz was everywhere. He was part of the furniture and would have taken that over, as well, if he hadn’t been so vertically challenged. With the loss of Dietz, I began to have serious concerns about various trees around the property and began to wonder what life might be like without certain rosebushes.

We do have other dogs around, such as Francis, a small apricot poodle who was, in fact, Dietzy’s pet. As Dietzy’s pet, Fran served the function of being a sort of Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes, a Boswell to Dr. Johnson, or, better yet, a Jeeves to Bertie Wooster, always dogging the other dog. He became that rare companion who is absolutely indispensable to the more luminous being. Like a faithful butler, he helped protect his alpha male pal from his one fatal flaw. My Dietz suffered from a galloping case of separation anxiety, so much so that I had to take him to my mother’s home if we were gone even for an hour. That is, until Fran came along. Fran, with something of a depressive’s personality, can barely get up these days, so the absence of Dietz is all the more profound.

The kitty draped over the back of the chair and the puppy at the hearth serve as classic icons of home. Always there, they await us with a wildly enthusiastic greeting upon each return, regardless of how short the time period or the journey. They welcome us as if we had been away far too long. Without their not-so-subtle presence, it is as if some little moon that had been orbiting us forever has suddenly spun off into a limitless space. What now will bring in the tide?

I do admit to not missing a certain doggy smell or the tufts of reddish-black hair that found a way into every corner of the house, nor do I feel the absence of the sudden-death experience of tripping over a dog whose color and profile blended perfectly with the brick floor. But, as I said, I am in the first phase of a long parting. Unlike us, a pet leaves behind little material detritus, perhaps only a tiny collar or a lumpy bed or a couple of lasting reminders on the rug or corner of a couch—things that leave us with all the more reason to wonder at all the ephemeral qualities that make a house a home.

No doubt the next time I curse the summer skunks, bemoan the mouse droppings that signal spring, chase the B-52 bomber–like fly out the door, or get up for the millionth time to let the dog out (or in), I probably will not remember that they are all part of the experience of dwelling in my unique little corner of the world—a part of my life and my home. I will only see them for the transient nuisances they are, just like the spiders, the leaves, the crab apples, the snow on the sidewalk, or that blasted squirrel. But Dietzy I will never forget.

Christine Mather is a museum curator, as well as an author of Santa Fe Style, Santa Fe Houses, Native America, and True West, volumes that explore design and lifestyle.