I'm on my second chihuahua

I first saw Bambi in the Petfinder app in April 2020. But by the time I messaged the shelter, she’d already been adopted. I didn’t feel a connection to any other dog, so I surrendered to my early pandemic loneliness and gave up.

A few months later, on a whim, I reopened Petfinder, and there was Bambi. That Friday, I masked up and took the subway into Manhattan, and brought her home.

She liked my apartment right away. To her relief, there were no other dogs, which had been her Achilles heel at the last place. She rubbed her back on my West Elm rug and climbed up on my couch like a cat. That night, she slept with me in my bed, like we were attached at the hip.

Bambi was 10 years old. According to a DNA test, she was mostly chihuahua with some mini-poodle and a few other small breeds mixed in. She had floppy ears, a deer face, a persistent furrowed brow, and was missing a patch of fur at the end of her tail.

If I so much as touched her leash, she would dance joyfully in a circle. She had a special talent for wriggling her whole body under a blanket, so much you’d not know there was a dog in the apartment. After dinner, she would go to the bedroom and vigorously hump the side of her dog bed.

Every time I left the apartment, as soon as the door shut, the barking would start.

With New York shut down for the pandemic, we explored Brooklyn on foot. We would wake up early to walk up the hill to Prospect Park for off-leash hours before 9 a.m. I thought having a dog would help me make friends, but Bambi was oblivious to other dogs.

We would go to the Fort Greene farmer’s market on Saturdays. We’d go to the Dumbo waterfront, and I took her photo in front of the Brooklyn Bridge on Washington Street. Most mornings, we’d walk a brownstone-lined street to Blue Bottle in Cobble Hill. She once spotted Ethan Hawke waiting at the crosswalk and barked at him. He laughed, pointed at us and hollered, “That dog doesn’t like me!”

One winter day, the sidewalks carpeted in snow, Bambi met a baby pig in Prospect Park, someone else’s impulsive pandemic pet. They sniffed each other.

When I was sad, I would tell Bambi, I put my nose in your fur and it makes everything better.

I’ll never forget Bambi perched on my couch, glaring at me, while I was on a Zoom call pitching my startup to investors. I couldn’t deny she had a point. I, also, would rather be in the park.

Bambi helped me write my first novel. It was her job to remind me when it was time to step away from the computer.

When I struggled to get my novel published, Bambi and I moved home to Orange County to live with my parents. California was home for her, too—before landing in Soho, she’d come from a shelter in LA.

Her separation anxiety was worse with other people in the house. If I left her, she’d bark for hours straight, so I had to take her everywhere.

We’d go to Blue Bottle on Lido, Bear Coast and walk the San Clemente oceanfront trail, or get coffee from Jedidiah and walk Heisler Park.

Bambi helped me write another novel.

When I finally had the guts to cash out my 401k, I leased a tiny apartment by the beach.

Six weeks later, Bambi passed.

I would have gotten roommates, if I didn’t have a dog with separation anxiety. I chose the apartment, just blocks from our favorite park, for Bambi.

In hindsight, it looks like she chose it for me.

Bambi and I were together for four years, nearly to the day. In that time, everything in my life changed, from being employed with savings to self-employed with none, from New York to California.

I walked the beach alone.

Nine months later, I opened Petfinder.

I’d originally wanted to name my dog Buttercup, but Bambi came with the name Bambi, and with her big brown doe eyes, it was just too perfect.

But this time, I found Buttercup. According to the DNA test, she’s mostly chihuahua and mini-poodle, but with some Labrador Retriever thrown in. She’s white and tan with a marking on her forehead that looks straight out of Harry Potter.

On Buttercup’s first day home, I cried hysterically next to her on the bed, whimpering, I want Bambi back.

Buttercup doesn’t flinch when I pick up her leash. But, she does something Bambi never did—she plays fetch.

The first time I left Buttercup alone in my apartment, I braced myself for the barking, but it never came. This is no traumatized senior dog. Buttercup is only three.

When Buttercup trots ahead of me, wearing Bambi’s old harness, with the same floppy ears, sometimes it feels like she’s the same dog. But she’s not. If Bambi thought she was a guard dog, Buttercup thinks she’s the Wal-Mart greeter. She stops at every bench on the boardwalk, licking hands like a presidential candidate.

Buttercup forces me to talk to strangers, and embarrasses me with her outpouring of affection.

When we drive together, Buttercup sits in the passenger seat. Bambi was always forced into her crash-tested, seat belt-strapped carrier.

It’s like I upgraded to a less anxious dog, but I’ve also healed some anxiety myself.

When Bambi left, it felt like both of us had graduated from something.

Whatever lesson Buttercup is here to bring, I won’t know until she’s gone, and I hope that’s not for a very long time.