Remembering Rocky

My aunt Roxanne died on Sunday, August 30th. She was the fourth of seven brothers and sisters, a first-generation Chinese American who seemed to forge her own path. Some of her siblings made larger lives for themselves but Roxanne and her husband Jimmy chose to build something quieter. 

I didn’t see Roxanne all that much, mostly at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I wouldn’t claim we were close, but I never felt like we were strangers. Though our family doesn’t do everything right, there’s a strong sense of familiarity and comfort among us despite the miles and time that keep us apart. Even at larger family gatherings, I remember chatting with her at the kitchen table. She’d ask me about school and, as I got older, work. I always felt like she really wanted to know about my life — not just the empty “how-are-you’s” that tend to fill conversations, but the details, too. She had a distinct voice I can hear in my head now, soft and almost sing-songy with a great New York accent. 

Rocky and Jimmy never had kids, but they always had animals. I remember them bringing their dog Max, and later Jackson, over to my grandparents’ house like a member of the family. This was in the ‘90s when dogs were not yet elevated to the “family member” status they rightfully have today. My specific memories are fuzzy here, but I like to think this normalized a flexible idea of what “family” could mean . We talked about the dog just like other aunts talked about my cousins, and there was space for it. When I finally got a dog of my own (Spencer, of course), I knew I could share that extra photo or tell one more story and that she’d want to see and hear it. 

Aside from being my first dog parent role models, Rocky and Jimmy were also kind of cool. Jimmy had long hair, not the craziest thing for some families but a little wild in mine. He played guitar and had an XBox. My parents didn’t really have “fun” hobbies, so this stood out to me. When Jimmy found out I played guitar, he lent me his Ovation Acoustic Electric for a semester and even offered to buy me a new guitar (my mom said I could not accept the latter offer). 

Like kids tend to do with their aunts and uncles, I always thought of Rocky and Jimmy as a pair and it seemed they were more whole together than not. So when Jimmy unexpectedly died from cancer too young a decade ago, the family knew it would be extra hard for Roxanne. I get the sense they were right. I’m not sure whether I showed up less to family gatherings or if she did (probably both), but I saw her less often in recent years and her light was a little dimmer when I did. 

I last saw Rocky in person at my grandfather’s funeral two years ago, and we had our last conversation with family over FaceTime during the pandemic. Her memory was failing, but I never fully witnessed it; she seemed like the same person to me, although I know that wasn’t at all the case for family members who helped care for her towards the end. All in all, I didn’t know my aunt that well, but I’m grateful for those memories. They weren’t hard to recall, which makes me wonder how much she and Jimmy may have impacted me or planted the seed to break free of norms: my shaved head, tattoos, three dogs. I so deeply wish our family could gather to swap stories so I could learn more about her and celebrate her life, but there’s a pandemic going on. I’ll attend my first (and hopefully last) virtual funeral this Friday, and I hope we can remember her well. 

Remembering Spencer

I first laid eyes on Spencer on August 22, 2013. I had just moved to St. Louis jobless and friendless, and I was ready for a dog after years of pining for one in DC. I think I waited less than a week before emailing one of the area’s many rescues to see if I could meet a dog in person. I set off for a PetSmart across the river in Illinois to see if Louie, a corgi mix, would be the one for me. Louie turned out to be nuts. Energy for days. I’d read somewhere that you should seek out a dog with energy level below your ideal since it would only increase once he was comfortable and at home. With that in mind, and potentially overshooting the mark, I set my sights on a shy hound hiding at the back of his crate.

From his Petfinder listing: “Spencer is not sure why he is at the shelter. He seems shy and will hide to get away from everyone. He is so darn cute, he just needs time to know that he is safe now.”

The woman told me he was a bit scared and wouldn’t leave the crate on his own, so she grabbed him by his two front paws and dragged him out. He stood there fearful and timid, barely acknowledging I was there. I coaxed him around on the leash, but he didn’t quite know how that worked. And somehow I came to the conclusion that he was my perfect dog. Spencer.

Two days later, we completed the adoption and took him home. I don’t remember that many details from that time (although I apparently wrote this post five days in), but I can tell I was excited based on looking through old emails.

8/26/13 to a friend:

Spencer is doing well. I took him to his first vet appointment solo and he's healthy, if not happy (yet). He has what Alex describes as learned helplessness.

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8/26/13 to my parents:

He's about a year old and he weighs 26.5 pounds, just small enough that I can carry him pretty easily. He displays absolutely zero aggression. We can touch his paws and clip his nails and pick him up, and he pretty much sits there. He doesn't really walk well on the leash. He often just lies down, ha. And then he is a little stressed still, so he doesn't eat and go to the bathroom that often but we're working on it.

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9/3/13 to a friend

He's running and playing, though he doesn't know how to play WITH us. He sort of winces whenever we throw anything, so it's slow going on that front. My knees and thighs are getting daily workouts, since I have to squat all the time to make him less scared. He's also walking on the leash really well, except when he just sits down. Then we have to carry him if we can't coax him to keep going. As Alex jokes, Spencer's personal motto is "Fuck this shit. I'm sitting down."

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Spencer and me, October 13, 2013

From August 2013 to April 2014, Spencer was the center of my world. I struggled to find a job in a new city, and my then-partner spent her days at the lab. Together we explored St. Louis, walked the neighborhoods, and took pictures. I can’t imagine how lonely and lost I would’ve been without him. The world told me it didn’t know what I could offer, but Spencer was happy just to have me at his side. 

When I started working in April, things got a little rocky. Spencer was used to having me at home, and he wasn’t happy being left alone. We received some angry emails from our property manager and the ACLU, whose mission I support but whose intolerance for upstairs neighbors gave me more than a few gray hairs. I started taking Spencer to daycare and then ultimately to work, where he found his second home.

Spencer adored everything about going to the office. He loved the car ride to and from downtown. The backseat was his domain and he’d stare out the window, occasionally barking if a pedestrian came too close. He loved our catered breakfasts and Friday lunches, and would work the room for scraps of bacon and eggs. He got bolder over time, vocalizing his impatience or giving a stiff snout bump to the leg if he believed someone was holding out.

Spencer’s media appearance in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch

Somehow he formed relationships with 50+ employees. And you better believe that he let the 51st person who walked through the door know he was not welcome. It was one of his worst qualities and I tended to dread new employees’ first days for that reason, but I think it made the love he had for “his people” all the more special. He remembered who gave him pets and head scratches, who gave him food, and who would play, and he visited those people frequently. My colleague Jim was among his favorites thanks to a weekly supply of turkey purchased just for him from one of the finest butchers in the region. For this reason, Spencer always seemed to know Jim’s whereabouts and would scour the office if he disappeared for too long. Around the same time each day, he would shake Jim out as if to say, “Where’s my turkey?” 

When he wasn’t visiting office friends, he napped or chewed on a bone in his crate next to my desk. I could always reach out and pet him or sit on the floor for some love. Work wasn’t always easy and the hours were long, so I can’t put into words what this meant to me. He was my unofficial therapy dog, and I always felt his absence on days when I didn’t bring him in.  

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Spencer with his pack (Minnie and Edgar) on July 9, 2020

For his entire life, Spencer was my constant shadow, not only at work but also at home and the many places in between. I knew him so completely and I felt he knew me, too. It got to the point that I was almost never alone in my car, and I still found myself talking out loud to him in the rare cases that I was. I always talked to him in the backseat, mostly about nothing and always in a dog voice. I loved how his ears and paws smelled. I could tell if he had to vomit (a somewhat common occurrence due to a sensitive stomach); this “joker smile” would appear on his face, and then I’d have roughly 10 seconds to move him away from carpet. One time I impressed the vet by spotting two loose teeth. 

Dozing under the covers on January 27, 2020

He was no genius, but I’d like to think he was fairly smart. He knew a lot of tricks (sit, down, roll over, spin, stay, come, up, and in— the precursor to “heel",” which we never quite got down) that we honed through years of weekend training. It would all fall apart if he saw another dog or person at the fence, in which case he’d bark his head off. Another one of his flaws and a source of frustration over the years, but borne out of his urge to protect us. Towards the unexpected end when we had to give him daily medication, he knew every trick we had to conceal his pills. He’d eat the boiled chicken but spit the pill on the floor. Pill Pocket? Forget about it. He was my very smart boy. 

I could go on and on and on and on. How his favorite dog bed was whichever one that wasn’t his. How much he loved soft blankets. How he loved sleeping under the covers or in a ray of sunlight. How he didn’t mind wearing clothes, especially if it was sweater or jacket that kept his very naked body warm. I loved him so much. 

Spencer died today, July 14th, from hemangiosarcoma at just under 8 years old. This August would’ve marked seven years together. We fed him turkey and ham as a last snack and gave him as many kisses as we could. He smelled like the hospital, and I wished I’d savored his scent before I first took him in a few days ago. I didn’t expect we wouldn’t be taking him home again. His gums were so pale from anemia, and he looked tired. I wish his last few days weren’t spent in a hospital, but I feel comfort in the fact that he spent more time with his people than most dogs ever do, first at work and then at home during this pandemic. In a series of health issues that began in May, we thought we’d had it figured out and felt relief when we thought we did. Things just didn’t go our way. My heart breaks over and over as I look around and am reminded of all the things he loved and how much I loved him. I wish we had more time together.

I learned so much from Spencer. How to love unconditionally and care for another living thing. Now I must learn how to grieve and move on. I will always love my Spencer, my hound, my very first dog. Rest now, my sweet boy.