He wasn’t anything special. He didn’t have bright eyes or beautiful hair, or incredibly soft skin. He didn’t play an instrument or sing; he wasn’t particularly intelligent.

He was on the short and stout side, while I was the complete opposite. I was talkative, someone who would run around in circles like a madwoman until my limbs ached, while he was the type who would sit still and be quiet.

We were opposites, and as a young girl, I despised things that were different. The air didn’t catch in my lungs when I saw him, my eyes didn’t dilate, the world didn’t end, and time didn’t stop—but I smiled.

I smiled, widely and sincerely, but he didn’t. He just stared at me like I had something strange smeared all over my face that he couldn’t understand, but I wasn’t the slightest bit offended. After a few days of gentle coaxing, I finally had him out of his shell and playing games with me in our backyard or in the park, sometimes in the dining hall or the living room.

I’d make a forest out of the leg chairs, a fort out of the sofa cushions, or an endless field out of my garden. Everything became an adventure to us. I always tried to speak to him, but his crippling shyness could only lead him to gaze at me silently. I knew he was listening, though, and somehow, from that moment on, I knew that he would keep listening to me as long as I had something to say.

And I always had something to say. I grew up to his silent gaze and his sweet smile, to his playfulness and his sweetness, to his hugs and his kisses. He grew up to my tears, my stories and my laughter. I never wasted a minute with him. Whenever I was having a difficult time coping in school, or with my other friends, he was there to comfort me, to help me look at the bright side, the silver lining.

We hardly ever fought, but the few times that we did never left a scar on our friendship. I still believe that he is the only reason that there exists a version of me that is unbelievably happy and optimistic.

I hate having to speak in the past tense. I hate having to look back on my first best friend, my first love, a love that was so unconditional that to this moment, even with him gone, I still love him.

Preoccupied

We grew apart. I got too busy to visit him. He got too preoccupied to see me. I always told myself that he wasn’t going anywhere, that I would always be able to run back to him whenever I pleased.

Eventually, our time together thinned into feathers that flew away into nonexistence; we were practically strangers. There were times he couldn’t even recognize me straight away.

Chuckie died when I was around 13 years old. He was the first dog I had ever gotten, and my first friend. I was fresh out of the shower, clad in a fluffy robe, when I walked into the dining area with my mom standing near the table.

When she told me, I froze for a moment and stared at her like I couldn’t believe it, like it couldn’t have been true because Chuckie was invincible; he was invincible from the very beginning.

He was invincible when I was five and I wouldn’t stop dragging him around the house until I was scolded for it. He was invincible when I was seven and I cried so hard and hugged him too tight because I just couldn’t get the whole socializing thing right in school.

He was invincible when we raced around the garden and I would always win, and he never took it against me. He just wasn’t the type to die, to lose, to disappear.

I hugged my mom tightly and I cried, and I didn’t know what to say. In school, I told my friends, but none of them said anything, because I still hadn’t gotten the whole socializing thing, right?

I went home and had to remember that he wasn’t there anymore, he wasn’t around for me to talk to, to tell stories to, to cry to. I’d lost him.

What hurt the most about it was that I let myself grow distant from him for a good few years before he died; even if I saw him the day before he passed, it just wasn’t enough. I had wasted so much time, time I could’ve spent with him.

But I’ll never forget how well he listened, and how patient he was with me, that even when I drove him completely crazy, he never bit my hand off. He barked at strangers, and even my parents, but never at me. We grew up together, so we knew each other so well.

I loved him the most, and he loved me the most. He was a midget, a miniature dachshund with chocolate brown fur and dark brown eyes. He was nothing special, he didn’t know any tricks or had any talents that set him apart from any other dog, but he was my dog, and my best friend.

Time didn’t stop, my breath didn’t catch, and the world didn’t end when I first saw him, but my heart fell apart the moment I lost him.