PRINTOf pug and Pam
May 7, 2009 | 12:00 a.m. CST
When the wriggling, panting, practically smiling pug puppy arrived at my house in early December 1997, I was the happiest 9-year-old in the entire world. My aunt Pam brought him all the way from Jonesboro, Ark., to fulfill my dream of having a puppy. I had no idea that soon she would be little more than a dream to me, and he would be my only attachment to her. Less than a year after that Christmas, Pam died from ovarian cancer.
I had always wanted a pug puppy. Pam shared my enthusiasm for pugs. She had two of her own already. There was just something about a pug’s personality that was enchanting. Borg wasn’t named after anyone in particular. Borg — I’m not even sure that’s a word, but 12 years later, it still suits him.
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We had a dog. His name was Ray, and he was an old poodle who was happy sitting on the couch all day. A puppy was a pleasant change; well, for me anyway, not so much for old Ray.
Borg constantly needed attention. He demanded it. When I had to get up in the middle of the night to take him to do his “business,” I secretly wanted to leave him outside, to go back to my life as a carefree 9-year-old. I felt like a mom. I decided I was never having children.
Borg was still very much a puppy when Pam died, and despite my family’s constant state of despair, he wanted to play. Borg and I became inseparable. I was still a child. I wanted to play and dismiss everything that had happened as a bad dream.
We would hole up in my room for hours, playing catch, sharing cookies, napping, anything to avoid the somberness downstairs. But I couldn’t always keep the waves of sadness out, and sometimes they would crash in unexpectedly. I sat and cried uncontrollably on my floor. Borg could tell I was upset, whimpering along and frantically licking the tears that dripped from my face. Sometimes he was still as I held him. Looking into his brown eyes felt like looking into hers, which was comforting but disturbing.
As time passed and I grew older, my house started to feel happy again. We adopted three new pugs. Each one was adorable and personable, but Borg was still my favorite. He was the dependable friend who was always ready to sop up my tears with his fur. I hardly noticed as his mouth began to gray and his nap-to-play ratio became increasingly unbalanced.
At college, I missed Borg. When I called my mom, I would ask, “So what’s Borg doing?” as if he were my little brother. I cried when my mom told me he was losing his hearing. I didn’t believe her. I knew he was old, but he seemed invincible. He had to be.
When I came home for Christmas this year, Borg didn’t hear me open the front door. I went to the entrance of the laundry room where he sleeps and clapped my hands. Nothing. He didn’t wake up until I stood in front of him, then he looked at me with a blank stare. Gradually recognizing my smell, he started to get up, limping a little but then transforming into the same wriggling, smiling puppy, happy to see me.
I know one day Borg will die. That day will be like living through Pam’s death all over again. But knowing doesn’t mean I’m prepared. I knew Pam was going to die. But I wasn’t prepared for the day I had to stand over her casket, only three months after her diagnosis, and look at her sunken eyes.
Each time I go home, I try to spend as much time with Borg as possible. I never told my aunt goodbye as she lay in the hospital bed, her inevitable fate looming. I regret not spending more time with her, which is why I’m determined to spend all the time I can with Borg. I don’t want to go through the loss of my aunt again, and I can’t imagine losing my best friend.
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