My dog doesn’t know that I am growing up.
She doesn’t understand what college is. She doesn’t know why I’m spending many nights away from home, or why the days we used to spend together have become fewer and farther between. She just knows that her profit of table scraps has dramatically decreased since I shipped out in late August. Dogs don’t understand schedules, semesters, or the strange transition from being a teenager with the whole world right in front of them to a young adult with the whole world on top of their shoulders. From the viewpoint of her beady brown eyes, I’m just packing a couple of suitcases and falling off the face of the earth for long periods of time at once. Ouch.
We got our Daisy (or in less formal situations, Daisy Duke) when I was in seventh grade. At that same time, COVID-19 was trekking its warpath and forcing the world to social distance. As most individuals did during this time period, my family began to experience that horrendous “bleh” phase — we weren’t seeing family and friends as often, virtual school was different and prevented us from seeing our friends, and any sense of normalcy had been wiped clean by all the restrictions. It seemed like we were waiting for the world to start back up again, but we didn’t know what or who would be able to do it. For our family, it was a tiny beige maltipoo puppy with the squeakiest bark you’ve ever heard.
Daisy was our anchor in the hard times. She had this never-ending supply of magical puppy cheerfulness, contrasting entirely with all that was going on around us at that time. Her happiness was contagious; it was nearly impossible to be in the same room with her and be in a bad mood. She’d do the normal puppy things: roll around on the ground, force us to play fetch with her (but never actually give the toy or ball back), and of course, nonverbally demand constant attention, scratches, and tummy rubs.
Somewhere along the way, Daisy became more than just the family dog. She became my dog. She was there through the awkward middle school years, the continuous chaos of high school, and all of the little moments in between. She was a proud (and noisy) spectator at many of my softball tournaments, a plus-one on multiple family road trips, and more importantly, through every stage of my life, she was the first face that greeted me at the door anytime I arrived to my home. On the best days or on the longest and most disastrous days, as soon as I pulled into my driveway, she pressed her little face up against the front window, just happy to see me.
I never really thought about how much of my everyday life revolved around Daisy until I had to imagine that life without her in it. It was brought to my attention sometime in the late days of July when a TikTok came across my For You page. A young woman my age was sobbing her eyes out, preparing to say goodbye to her pup as she left for college.
I remember watching that video and suddenly realizing that, in a matter of weeks, I would be doing the same thing. I can vividly remember my chest tightening. Except Daisy wouldn’t understand why I was packing my bags, why my bedroom now held a stiffening emptiness, or why the person who came home to her every evening would suddenly disappear. To her, I would just be gone. You can’t just explain to an animal that I’m doing this to chase my dreams, obtain a degree, and mark off a laundry list of goals and accomplishments.
As humans, we convince ourselves that happiness is this thing that we need to work toward. We chase degrees, careers, accomplishments, and the next big milestone, believing that each one will bring us closer to the lives that we want. We leave home, step outside of our comfort zones, and sacrifice the familiar for the possibility of something greater. Growing up means discovering who we are and figuring out what makes us happy.
But dogs don’t feel that pressure to work towards happiness. She doesn’t need a diploma hanging on the wall, a job title, the highest batting average on a team, or a list of accomplishments to feel like her life means something. Her happiness is rooted in the simplest of things: a familiar voice calling her name, a car pulling into the driveway, the smell of eggs and bacon (she knows she gets her own serving), a hand reaching down to scratch her belly, or the high-pitched squeak of her favorite pink elephant toy.
That’s what makes leaving her so difficult. I’m leaving home to chase the things that I hope will make me happy and, at the end of the day, fulfill me. Simultaneously, the little dog I’m leaving behind has already found her happiness in the very place I’m learning to live without.
One day, I’ll graduate. I’ll start a career, find new places to call home, and keep checking off goals that once seemed so far away. Daisy still won’t understand any of those milestones, and she doesn’t have to. She’ll just be Daisy Duke, waiting for me to burst through the garage door, reminding me that happiness isn’t always something you have to chase. Sometimes, happiness is something that’s right in front of you, wagging its tail and jumping up to greet you.