Goodnight Chumbawamba

For a very long time, Chumba was part of every moment of my day. Laying in the yard as we  have our drinks in the mornings, climbing next to me on the couch while I watch tv, riding in the backseat for all our errands. It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized how much of my life had been built around her presence.

Our little house feels gigantic now without her laying in the middle of the floor. It’s quieter now in a way that no matter how I tried, I wasn’t prepared for. I still expect to hear nails clacking on the floor as she looks for a comfy spot to settle in. I have to stop myself from asking her to move so I can put my feet down, because she was always sleeping at our feet in front of the couch. I still find myself whistling for her when I take our other dog outside. The silence is when I notice her absence the most.

Chumba was never just a dog. She was a best friend. Kind and comforting, asking for nothing more than a belly rub and a bowl of food. No matter what kind of day I was having, she greeted me the same way every time. Excitement and a kind of love that can’t be expressed in words. It didn’t matter if I was gone for five minutes or a whole day. She was always excited to see me come through that front door. 

The first time I met her, she was about three weeks old. Her dad was a white Poodle named Louie we had since I was about 10 or 11. Her mom was Kahlua, a black and brown Lab my parents got from my uncle in Houston before my grandma passed away. Their puppies were a black fluffy whirlwind of destruction. Her brothers and sisters were all full of energy. Darting around and snapping at me with their little puppy teeth. Chumba didn’t run. She didn’t bite. She stayed relaxed and sat next to me. It was like she wanted me to pick her up. Like she wanted out of this chaotic situation with those pups. So I grabbed her, relaxed and impossibly fluffy, she licked my hand. I fell in love with her immediately, without knowing how that moment would stay with me all these years. My roommate at the time joked about naming her Chumbawamba after the band from the 90’s. I dismissed it as ridiculous, but as I stood there with that fluff ball in my hands it seemed to fit her like a glove. So I decided that was gonna be her name. It’s just as silly as she was her whole life. 

The first time I took her outside after bringing her home to my apartment, I ran into a friend. We began chatting and I stopped paying attention for a moment. When I looked around and didn’t see her, we both freaked out. I still remember him asking “hey dude, where’d your dog go?” I was scared and thought she had wandered off into the complex. I started calling for her, checking everywhere a curious pup might find interesting. When I found her, she was on my balcony the whole time. Standing there with her head poking through the bars, just watching us talk. As if she was over the Texas summer heat, I went upstairs and she casually walked back inside to lay down like nothing had happened.

That was who she always was. Calm. Sure of herself. Content with just being there. Over the years, it showed in a hundred small ways. The way she would sit across the room and stare at me, completely focused, as if nothing else mattered. The way she settled next to me in every room, making any space feel like home just by being there. How she nestled herself next to me even in the smallest of spaces, because all she wanted was to be close to me.

Even though we had dogs my whole life growing up, I had never groomed a long-haired dog before her. When it came time for her first haircut, I realized I didn’t even own clippers. So I sat on the floor with a pair of scissors and did my best. It took four hours. She was patient the entire time, laying still while I figured it out as I went.  Not worried that I took breaks to stretch out my muscles. That moment felt like so many others with her. Imperfect, but somehow exactly right. For a long time, it was just the two of us. We lived together through various apartments and different versions of my life. I’d have roommates come and go, people passing through for a visit, but no matter who else was there, it always came back to me and Chumba. 

When Chumba was five, I left Texas for college. I didn’t have a way to bring her with me to Arizona. I was living out of my van for 10 months, and as much as it hurt, I knew it wasn’t the right life for her. So she stayed with my parents. Coming home for Christmas that year was hard and comforting at the same time. She stayed glued to my side the entire visit, as if she wanted to make up for lost time. When I finally came back for good, I got back to their house around 3am. She wouldn’t let me have an inch of space on the couch to sleep. She pressed herself against me and stayed there, like she needed to be sure I wasn’t leaving again.

What I thought would be temporary turned into three years. A fight with my parents forced us to move out, and everything took longer than we planned. Longer to find work in my new career. Longer to get our own place. Longer to finally bring Chumba and all the animals home where they belonged. The wait was heavy, but when we were reunited, it felt like things finally clicked back into place. Like we were whole again.

When I met Stephanie, Chumba’s world got bigger too. She loved Stephanie immediately, just as much as she loved me. She loved her so much when they first met, Chumba refused to move from her side on the couch so I could sit down too. She had decided her place, and she wasn’t giving it up.

Stephanie came with her own dog named Tyche. The two of them bonded quickly and Tyche helped Chumba find her voice. She had always been a quiet dog, really only barking at the door when people came over. After they met, she started barking more to let us know when she wanted food, when she needed to go outside, when she wanted a treat. All things she had never really done before. Meal time especially brought it out of her. She would bark and spin around while we got everything ready, full of excitement and confidence.

Chumba was also fiercely protective of Tyche. In public she always kept one eye on her, stepping in if another dog got too rough or tried to bully her. It seemed almost instinctual, like she decided that Tyche was her responsibility to keep safe. As if she knew this tiny anxious little creature needed her safety. Watching that bond grow made it clear that Chumba wasn’t just my dog anymore. We had become a family.

Her most favorite thing in the world was riding in the car. Where we were going didn’t matter. All that mattered was the ride itself. She would leap up and shove her head into her harness, then cry from the backseat every time we forgot to roll the window down when the car slowed down. She knew that she was gonna get a walk in some park. Possibly some fries or a little ice cream. Maybe we’d go to that taco place that gave her bacon every time we came. Regardless, she was with us and she couldn’t ask for anything more. One of the hardest parts of watching her get older was that joy colliding with reality. Having to lift her in and out of the car for those rides she loved so much was a quiet reminder that time was moving forward. Even when I wasn’t ready for it to.

The night she died I cried the entire night, and honestly, for days after that it was all I did. The grief didn’t come in waves, like it does now. It just stayed with me. Filling every quiet moment. I still catch myself looking for her outside. Remembering the sound of her scratching herself at the foot of my bed before settling in for the night. I sit in her bed and say good night to her, the same way I always did, as if she were still here. I place her bowl down with the other animals when it’s time for dinner, not wanting to leave her out of her favorite time of day. All the habits that have been there for thirteen years that are just too hard to let go of.

Chumba gave me 13 years of love, comfort, and companionship. Those moments were peaceful and extraordinary. The emptiness I feel couldn’t exist without all those moments of joy she brought with every paw placed on my lap. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to shake the feeling of loneliness I have when I start thinking about her.

Goodnight, Chumba. Thank you for choosing me all those years ago. You were, and always will be, my sweet puppy girl.