An Ode to Pepper
The day he brought her home, I knew I would have her someday. Little did I know the circumstances.
My dad brought home a silver lab in August 2019. Earlier that year, I had lost my beloved golden retriever, Tank, due to a sudden intestinal rupture the day after my 31st birthday. Ha — writing that out is like writing a Mad Lib.
My dad had always talked about getting a dog. "It's lonely out here", he'd say. So he moved from Minneapolis — where he was a police officer for 45 years — to Norwood Young, America, about 45 minutes west of Minneapolis. It was the exact opposite of the city. No hussle, especially no bustle, no noise — nothing. It was very serene.
"Then move back to the city, or at least somewhere closer to us," we'd say after he complained about his new city being too quiet. He'd shake his head and shuffle off.
Fast forward to August of 2019, I walk up to his townhome and sitting squat against my dad's leg is a little baked potato of a dog, huffing and puffing in the summer shade. I melted.
After a few rounds of her proving to me how sharp her teeth were and a few rounds of me biting back, I asked what he would name her. "I'm thinking Rascal." My eyes rolled out of my head and into the grass. Having planted the seed of buying a silver lab a few months earlier, I already had a name in the chamber.
"How about Pepper? You're salty, and she looks like a peppercorn," I said. "Yeah, that could work." That is a classic dad response. He was sold.
I'll spare you the hilarious details of an older man trying to wrangle a puppy. Those stories are for another time. But fast forward to September 2021, my brother and I get a group text message from dad saying, "Listen up, I've got a doctor's appointment in a few days, and I want you two to come with me." My heart sank. My stomach dropped. Insert whatever other emotional response imagery you'd like. Not only did my mind start to race regarding what was going on with my dad, but I started to think about Pepper.
The day before the doctor's appointment, we met at my dad's place to see if he could bring us up to speed on what was happening. He told us how he had been feeling, the weight he was losing (without trying! he exclaimed proudly), and maybe what to expect tomorrow.
I’ll never forget he had a bunch of old pictures laid out on his dining room table. A dining room table that would be sold eight months later.
Some were old pictures that I had never seen before. Pictures that you’d put on a photo board at a funeral. It felt very dramatic, but I’m sure it was one of the only things he had control over at that moment.
We sat down on his furniture, which would be sold in eight months. As we sat down, I told him, "Whenever you need me to, I'm taking Pepper." He looked at me and said, "That was the one thing I was most worried about. That means a lot to me. Thank you."
Fast-forward to January 17, 2022, we couldn't reach my dad. He wasn't answering his phone. He wasn't texting. No one knew what was going on.
This was three months into his stage four cancer diagnosis.
My uncle texted my brother and me to tell us he was driving to my dad's. I promptly left, showing up a few minutes after my uncle arrived.
When I got there, I saw my uncle talking to my dad in my dad's bedroom. Looking dazed and speaking very softly, Dad sat on the edge of his bed as my uncle surveyed a new hole in my dad's bedroom wall.
It was about the size of a skull, and with Dad as out of it as he was, all signs pointed to a fall. It eventually came out that Dad got wrapped up in Pepper (who was 2.5 years old) and fell into the wall, knee first, not the head. So either he fell, or she did. We have yet to get *that* answer.
Before we figured out it wasn't headfirst, we brought him to the hospital and had him spend the night in case he had a concussion. He didn't have a concussion, nor could they find any other neurological damage, so he was discharged in the morning. Looking back, having him spend the night there had maybe given us a few more days with him in the long run. Who knows.
As of this writing, it's been Pepper and me for 366 days. In that time, Pepper has made countless new friends from daycare and walks throughout Minneapolis, from road trips to Oklahoma and Texas. She's only killed one bird I've seen but has had her eye on thousands of others.
She loves to play fetch and eat things she isn't supposed to. Chew bones don't stand a chance when she's around. She's my four-legged body pillow and alarm clock. She needs to be touching or looking at me at all times.
I've been flying by the seat of my pants doing this whole dog dad thing over again. Some days are easier than others. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
She's my dad's dog, and aside from family is one of the closest things to him that I have left. Having her with me on this adventure makes me think my Dad is somehow along for the ride.
