In memoriam

Rusty García Oliver 1994-2008

About half an hour ago, Rusty left us, leaving behind his loving parents, and grandparents, his sister, Geni, and his (largely oblivious) cat cousins, Magellan and Darwin.

I want to remember Rusty the way he was in this 2005 photo. The goofy-looking, yellow dog, who adored his walks, and who loved chasing my husband's motorcycle up and down the hill of my in-laws' finca in West Virginia. That's where my husband will lay him to rest later this evening, so that his spirit, no longer fettered by illness (physical and mental), will roam at will.

I want to remember Rusty by the fun he had anytime he got in the car. He liked to go anywhere (well, except perhaps to the vet), and it didn't matter if I just pulled the car out of the garage and out into the driveway, he'd be game for the ride. He especially liked the long trips to West Virginia because he somehow sensed that he was going to his favorite place, and the look of joy on his face, his large grin of contentment, was contagious.

I want to remember the much-younger Rusty, the supposed Labrador Retriever mix, who may have had webbed paws, but who absolutely abhorred water, and never once enjoyed a bath. But he did love to retrieve his ball, and up to his last days played with a ball, even if it meant retrieving it only once before he had to sit back down to gnaw happily on it.

I want to remember the much-younger Rusty who loved to run in circles at very high speeds just because it felt good to do so. We'd take him to the beach in Puerto Rico so he could run off leash, and we also took him to a park near our house, and he just loved to chase imaginary cats as fast as he could.

I want to remember the much-younger Rusty who took possession of our house the minute he stepped into it, an abused, mange-covered, scrawny dog, who would later learn to do his "civil disobedience," as my husband called it. When my husband wanted him to sleep outside, under the covered patio, Rusty would just lie down and go limp so he had to be dragged outside by his collar. He sure wasn't going to cooperate with the eviction, since he believed he should be inside with us.

I want to remember the Rusty who loved his "Bojangles," an ugly, dismembered, stuffed toy that came with him when we rescued him, and which he carried around in his mouth everywhere until it was mysteriously lost.

I want to remember the Rusty who used to walk behind the teeny tiny Magellan, newly arrived at our house at only three weeks old in 1999, and the way he would look up at us now and then, wondering what on earth we'd brought with us. I was always surprised at how quickly Rusty understood that Magellan, and later, Darwin, were part of the family, and were not to be chased or hurt.

I want to remember the Rusty whose eyes always seemed wise and sad and like there was a sapient soul trapped inside, one that wanted so much to speak and tell its stories.

I want to remember the Rusty who ran alongside me and my husband, back when he could run long distances. He wasn't a good dog to run with, though, because, true to his always willful character, he would veer off unpredictably to smell and pee on something.

I want to remember the Rusty who lived to eat chicken in any shape or form (including live, if the story of why he was tied up by his abusive owner is to be believed), until he developed a protein allergy that prevented him from eating it. But at least he got his expensive duck treats, which he relished like a true gourmand.

I want to remember Rusty as the "Ruster Buster," the Cocho Cocho, the Pocho Pocho, my Choco Lindo, my Papasote, my constant companion and friend of the past 13 years. So much of my life during that time has revolved around this dog that I'm going to feel disoriented and lost for a while, now that he's no longer with me. I can't even comprehend tomorrow morning without having to feed and walk him.

But you know what I've discovered about death? That it will not triumph as long as those who move on live within our memory. That's why my abuelita doesn't feel gone to me. And that's why Rusty will live in me as long as I do.

When Rusty dreamed, he often barked in his sleep and twitched his legs, and I liked to think that he was running with wolves, and chasing everything that moved on four legs: deer, squirrels, rabbits, and his very favorite, cats.

I want to think that Rusty is now free to race the wolves for real. Run, Rusty, run!

Resquietat in pace. Descansa en paz.