If you’ve known me for longer than fifteen minutes, I’ve probably shown you a picture of Coco. If you’ve known me for longer than a month, I’ve probably made you sit next to me while I video- call Coco. You’ve also probably heard me talk about what she last did, what she eats, and been subjected to a detailed explanation of why she is, in fact, the cutest dog to ever have existed. If we’re friends, you’ve probably heard me say, “Wait, have I told you this story about Coco?” before proceeding to tell you something I’ve told you at least thrice before.
I apologize for exactly none of this. Coco is a year and a half old, a sweet Shih Tzu, a tiny baby with an enormous capability to love. She’s quite possibly the best thing to have ever happened to me. Some people have a person they never stop talking about. I have my baby. And honestly, I got the better deal.
Coco never needed to do anything extraordinary to become the centre of my universe. She simply existed, and somehow, that was enough. She’s mastered the art of looking at me with her enormous, deeply offended eyes when I refuse to give her my food. She perfected all the little movements, the excited tail wags, the disgusted expressions, and the particular kind of adorableness that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with her. She commits minor household crimes, looks at me afterwards, and somehow convinces me that I’m the one at fault. I would defend her in court if I had to. I’d probably be a terrible lawyer though, because I’d spend the entire hearing just showing the jury pictures of her and explaining that she’s just a baby.
The difficult thing about loving a dog is that they become part of every version of your life, even the ones they aren’t physically present for. When I’m at college, Coco’s the little piece of home that always follows me around in my head. I miss the way she barks at me, the way I can keep simply petting her, and the comfort of having her nearby without needing to explain anything to her. Most of all, I miss burying my face in her adorably soft fur and holding her while she licks me. There’s a very particular kind of sadness that arrives when you remember that your dog is at home, probably going about her day without the slightest understanding of why you have abandoned her. I think of how she probably feels betrayed every time I come back and stay for a bit, only to leave again.
The heart has room for both the people who make your life wonderful and the small, furry baby who makes coming home feel like a celebration. I shower her with affection, tell her how much I missed her, and speak to her in a voice that would be deeply embarrassing if another human being used it.
I invent new nicknames. I narrate my day to her. I ask her questions, and then answer them on her behalf. I tell her that I love her at least twenty times a minute, as though she might forget. Sometimes I wonder whether she understands anything I say. Then she tilts her head, blinks her eyes, bares her teeth, and growls at me, and I immediately decide that she understands every word and is simply choosing not to respond because she’s an enigma, a woman of mystery.
The truth is, puppies can teach us something about love that no one can understand otherwise. Their affection isn’t conditional on how productive you’ve been, how well you’ve done in class, how you look, or whether you have figured out what you’re doing with your life. They don’t need you to be impressive. To them, your arrival is enough of an occasion. There’s something almost absurdly comforting about being loved so deeply by someone who has no expectations of you beyond you being there, and loving them back. In a world where so much of growing up involves proving yourself, explaining yourself, and trying to become someone worth being proud of, they can remind you that you can simply come home and be loved as you are. Some of the greatest loves arrive without grand introductions or complicated explanations. They very often arrive on four tiny paws, with a wagging tail, absolutely no respect for personal space, and an adorable face.
Of course, I would be lying if I said she was an angel. Coco has her own ideas about how the world should function, and I’m apparently expected to accommodate them. She can be dramatic, stubborn, demanding, and entirely convinced that the world revolves around her. She’s probably never considered that she’s not the main character. Neither have I, if we’re being honest, so perhaps that is why we understand each other so well.
I often think about how quickly she has grown. A year and a half sounds like such a short time, but yet I cannot imagine my life without her in it. I know that one day, I’ll look back at the photographs and videos on my phone, and wonder how something so tiny could have occupied all of my heart. I’ll remember the ordinary afternoons, the reunions at the airport, the ridiculous nicknames, and all the moments that seem too insignificant to remember until they become the things I missed most.
So, yes, I’ll keep talking about my baby. Because there’s no fancy way to explain it. She’s my baby. She’s my home. She’s my Coco.