Love comes in many shapes
The story of Hugo so far.
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When our beloved dog Calvin passed away, we knew it wasn’t a matter of if we’d get another dog, but when. “In the new year,” we declared. “After a few more trips, a little more freedom,” we said. “When we’re both absolutely, 100% ready,” we promised. “There’s no rush,” we swore.
Then, a few days before Christmas, things changed.
It wasn’t exactly random. A friend alerted me to a litter of puppies at a nearby shelter, and my heart began to pound. Puppies go quickly, I told Nathan. These were lab mixes—rare out in the country!—and I couldn’t stop looking at the brindle one. We’ll just visit them, I assured him, no pressure to actually bring one home. But it would be good to start meeting some dogs, to see how it feels. That way, when the right one comes along, we’ll know.
Finally, begrudgingly, Nathan agreed. After a long day of work, we drove nearly an hour south to meet the puppies and see how our hearts would respond.
When we arrived, however, the puppies weren’t there. “A respiratory illness,” the woman at the front desk told us. “Just a precaution. They’ll be back in early January.”
I felt bad about dragging Nathan across the county for nothing, so I tried to make the best of the situation. “Let’s just see who else is here,” I said. “We might as well look.”
And thus we began a depressing walk through rows of caged dogs—some eager, some wary, some barking, some crying—all of them desperate for a home. My heart broke as we drifted by, but I didn’t feel compelled to meet any of them. None of them felt like our dog.
And then, at the end of a row, we came upon a little brown dog, huddled in the far corner of his cage. According to the sign on his door, he was five months old, a Doberman/Hound mix, shy but sweet. I bent to make eye contact and he slowly wagged his tail, then slinked forward and presented me with his back side. As I scratched him gently, he leaned against me through the bars of the cage and my heart caught in my throat. Uh oh.
After spending some time with the little brown dog in a small room with concrete walls, we walked him around the perimeter of the shelter, took him to an outdoor pen and played with him, watched him exuberantly chase a ball, rubbed his floppy ears and sleek coat. He seemed nice—sweet and smart, curious about us but a little standoffish—understandable, considering we’d just met. Multiple times during our visit, I became so overwhelmed I burst into tears.
“Are you crying because you already love him?” Nathan asked, slightly concerned.
“No,” I said. “I’m crying because I could love him. Because he’s not Calvin. Because one day he’ll get old and die, and we’re going to be so sad all over again.” Nothing like a lil’ existential crisis at the animal shelter!
We didn’t bring the dog home after that first visit, and we didn’t bring him home the next day, after our second. This wasn’t part of the plan—we were supposed to wait until February, we had two upcoming trips, our hearts were still hurting from Calvin. We weren’t ready.
But the little brown dog had a different timeline. Adopting an animal is an exercise in compromise, and so that’s what we did. On the third day, we took him home and named him Hugo. He’s now been part of our family for exactly one month, and we love him so much.
Love, however, doesn’t mean it’s been an easy transition. Hugo is still a puppy, and like every puppy, he’s a nightmare. He’s untrained and unsocialized, has severe separation anxiety, is wary of strangers and terrified of other dogs. He broke out of his crate multiple times (even after we zip tied the corners!), chewed a hole in our bedroom door, ate three pairs of shoes, crunched on the remote, and chased the chickens. Every time I dare leave the house, I brace myself for what I’ll find upon my return. It feels a bit like a hostage situation, except I’m the hostage. (We start working with a trainer next week, and I’ve been counting down the minutes.)
It’s not all bad, of course. Hugo is also sweet and playful. He loves to climb into our laps and cuddle, even though he’s a solid 45 pounds. He’s very smart and learns quickly—when he can focus. He loves to play fetch in the backyard. He sleeps on his back with all four of his long legs in the air, or curled up in his bed like a lightly toasted croissant. He loves when we scratch the underside of his neck, and he has the most expressive ears I’ve ever encountered. He’s no longer standoffish, and his curiosity has transformed into something deeper—we’re his pack now, and he is ours.
When Calvin died, he left a cavernous hole in our hearts. Hugo’s shape is different, and he won’t fill it perfectly—there will always be pockets he can’t reach, spots that will forever belong to the one who came before him. But Hugo will stretch us in different ways. As he burrows into our life, his nose tucked into his feet, his ears flopped over just right, a new space will open up, just for him. He’ll claim his own spot, and together we’ll find our way home.
🌻 Relatable Recs
Americans Need to Party More, The Atlantic. I love this article so much, and I love the solution the author offers—everyone should commit to throwing two parties a year. (I already do this via my birthday in August and New Year’s Day, with a few smaller soirées sprinkled in.) Hosting a party is more than just snacks and drinks. It’s about creating a space where people can connect, which is vital for community building and friendships. So please, have a party and invite me. Be the hero we need! 🎈
Minimum and Maximum Creative Time, . As someone who tends to go a bit overboards when it comes to my goals and dreams, this method toward establishing a daily art practice resonated. 5 minutes CAN make a difference! ⏰
Twin Peaks and the Art of Happy Accidents, . Someone reshared this after David Lynch’s death this week, and I appreciated it so much. Twin Peaks was foundational in my understanding of storytelling—it’s probably the piece of art I think about the most, and understand the least. 🍒
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👋 About Me: I’m Chrissy Hennessey, an enthusiastic snacker and native New Yorker living in coastal North Carolina, where I stayed after earning my MFA. My writing has appeared in a decent number of journals, I’ve received fellowships to some fancy residencies, and I’ve written three novels, all currently unpublished. This newsletter is a passion project I started in 2019 as a way to connect with readers and writers, share my creative journey, and build a community. Thank you for being here!
Love this story! I can relate to grieving and adopting new furry family members! ❤️🐾
He's a real cutie.