In Memory of a Reason to Live (1988-2002)
Charles A. Hohman

It is times like these when I wish I could bring myself to renounce my atheism, if only for a few short minutes. It is times like these that some shred of spirituality, some belief in an afterlife of some sort, some faith in a higher power would prove quite advantageous. In fact, it is times like these that those people I'd so cynically dismissed as zealots and nutcases appear to be so much richer, so much more enlightened than myself. I am not writing this to make apologies or excuses for any mistakes I may have made, any heartbreak I could have prevented, and any more of that which would be redundant. I am not writing this to gain sympathy or pity, for I've already had an outpouring of that come my way. Nor am I writing this in a guilt-ridden attempt to clear my conscience. I am writing this to clear out my mind, to bleed out all the maudlin shit that's been polluting it since her passing, and try, however fruitlessly, to make some sense out of it. After all, trying to convey a message to her is a moot point now. I do this not for her sake, or that of whoever may read this, but solely for my own. Princess died on October 1, 2002, fourteen years and two months to the day of her birth, a month and a day short of fourteen years since her arrival into the Hohman family. Her death was what someone who lived her life deserves, humane and peaceful. At least that's what I heard. I couldn't be there unfortunately. My obligations to Washington College, my education, my future, prevented me from doing so. I couldn't just drop everything and run home, especially since I don't have a car. And it would not have been very fair to her if I asked that she stick it out for another week-and-a-half so I could come home and say a final goodbye, especially given that the allegedly educated professional who administered the final shot concluded that she was far sicker than anyone had ever imagined. So, in her dying hour, she was surrounded by people who loved her. She wasn't, however, with the one person who loved her most. The pain of not being there to say goodbye is the last in a series of abrasions in the translucent bond that we had solidified in our first thirteen years together. These abrasions did not exactly destroy that bond, but they certainly sullied it, to a point where feel as if her death was indirectly my fault. Now I realize that casting blame for the inevitable upon oneself is a standard part of the grieving process, and yet I often question what would've happened had I not left my nest at home for this shallow abyss known as Washington College. Would staying home -- perhaps taking a year off from the incessant daily grind of schoolwork and social hell that I'd tackled head on since I was five -- have prolonged her life, delayed the inevitable? Or would it have been a pointless attempt to try and manage that over which I have no control? There is no doubt in my mind that Princess felt abandoned, betrayed even, when I left my roost for Washington College back in August of 2001. Sporadic weekend visits and holiday breaks could not mask the fact that the presence she had known so well -- those welcoming arms that had consistently been there, day in, day out -- were absent. I remember hearing tales from a combatant at the home base who would tell me how Princess would perch herself by the door around 2:30 PM or so and wait and wait and wait…for the door to open and my Fozzie Bear-like face to muster the most joyous glow and bask in the sheer ray of sunshine gleaming from her body, a ray that made my humdrum and often painful day seem oh so worthwhile. But nothing. She would lay on my bed but not sleep, perching her head and bulbous brown eyes up towards the door, waiting for me to suddenly walk through so we could immerse ourselves in peaceful slumber together. But nothing. She would lick the phone when I called, as if her saliva or the smell of her monster breath, would summon me to crawl through the receiver and hold her again. But still nothing. Hearing these tales, I got a queasy, empty falling in my stomach, as if the bottom of my thick gut had somehow fallen out and my heart had ripped to shreds. Now, ruminating over responsibility for the death of someone who was, equivocally speaking, ninety-eight years old, seems pretty pointless. And yet I feel that somehow, someway, it was my disappearance that did her in. Sure, she was getting old, her bones brittle, her lungs struggling at times, but she still seemed vivacious and -- for lack of a better term -- alive. Until I went away, that is. After that, it was like she stopped being herself; she stopped trying, she stopped caring. It was evident on the 2001 Christmas break, the following Spring Break, and especially this past summer, in which I painfully watched her deteriorate. If it was so hard for me to watch, I cringe to imagine how difficult it must have been to be in that body, actually feeling the searing hurt and ravaging disease that would eventually lead to its demise. Somehow, leaving someone who did so much to illuminate my life when she was in such a hideous state of mind and body seems ungrateful and heartless. It's the equivalent of walking out on your mother as she gasps for her last breath, as you say, "Have a nice day" and just shrug it off, choosing to pursue your own selfish goals. Princess was there at my side in my hour(s) of need, when I was in my most desperately despondent state, and I couldn't even attempt to return the favor. In my defense, I did leave her in the care of two devoted, trustworthy people who were indeed familiar to her, as they'd inhabited the same lair as she and I. Still, it was not the same as having the one who'd pledged undying love for her, who'd incessantly professed his fondness for her at the risk of atrocious ridicule, the one who'd promised he'd never forget all she'd done for him. At the risk of sounding insensitive, though, I regret nothing. However much torment they have caused me, to say I am sorry for these choices would be a lie. Yes, it's sad and it's tragic that I couldn't be there, but at the same time it's quite beneficial. To have sat at home and watched something I adored so fervently in such a debilitating and nearly lifeless state, to see her go from the Princess I knew into something so unrecognizable and miserable, would have likely been more traumatizing than the uncertain and agonizing guilt I sifted through over not being there. And judging by what I saw over my breaks from college, endless months of watching my beloved Princess fall apart would have made me quite uneasy and disturbed, perhaps incurably and terminally so. Therefore, my failure to be around to witness her demise with my own eyes is, as far as my own mental state is concerned, a mixed blessing. This may seem a cowardly, ruthless and rather self-serving stance to take but alas, it's reality. And there's no sense in putting your life on hold in order to wait for someone to die, no matter how beloved that particular someone is to you. Death is something that can't be predicted or timed and no human should attempt to do so. For in showing your devotion by suspending your life to sit at that person's deathbed, you ultimately disassemble and destruct your own life, perhaps even beyond considerable repair. What if I had said forget college and stayed home to wait out Princess's passing, and she somehow managed to live another four or five years? While certainly possible, it would be of far greater difficulty to get proper financial aid and scholarships (the only manner in which I could even dream of coming to a place like WAC) at 23 than it would at 18 when I was fresh out of high school. Conversely, what if I'd decided to wait it out only for her to die the summer after I graduated? I would have been left with no future plans and nowhere to go come fall, and any chances at college would have been painfully uncertain. So by seizing the opportunity to go to the college of my choice, I had to give up the ability to be with Princess as she slowly detached herself from this world. It's a difficult sacrifice but a wise one, for I plan to reap the benefits of my education for the remainder of my life as opposed to doing something that -- although it would undoubtedly ease my conscience -- would also leave an unsettling memory in the back of my mind and unknowingly hinder the life that lies ahead of me. Obviously, Princess meant the world to me. I intentionally speak of her in anthropomorphic terms because she meant far more to me than any human being ever has and likely ever will. Dogs seem far more accepting, far more tolerant, and therefore far more appealing than most human beings. Perhaps their supposedly inferior intelligence prohibits them from judging others on irrelevant matters. Princess never cared what I looked like, what I said, what I did; as she long as she was fed, hydrated, walked, sheltered and loved, she remained affectionate and faithful. She would listen to me run my mouth, sometimes to sort out all the hideous thoughts that seemed to be crowding and clamping my brain (kind of like what I'm trying to do here), sometimes just to hear myself talk about the most vapid, insignificant things. No matter what, she would listen without casting judgment on my words or thoughts. Granted, she may have been in a deep sleep a lot of the time, but she would at least listen to me when no one else would. I took a lot of heat, endured an endless stream of mockery for my vocal adoration of Princess. But I don't care. The concept of keeping a dog as a pet is idiotic to some; the concept of being so reverent towards one as I was to Princess seems to be idiotic to many. Yet even the most disputatious skeptic would rethink those reservations if he had even half of what I had with Princess. Perhaps because I was so alienated from my peers for a good chunk of my young life, I sought solace in someone who would embrace my differences instead of ridicule them. She was my only friend for much of her life and my best for all of it. She was there when no one else was, youthfully playful when all the adults were busy with "adult" things, each of us growing increasingly sullen and tired as we grew older. She was like the faithful, endearing friend I'd always wanted, the little sister I never had. Occasional or even constant derision was a small price to pay for having her in my life. Despite the uneasiness that surrounded her final year, Princess brought much-needed elation to a wincingly painful fourteen years, the vast majority of my young life. And for that, I am forever gracious. I will certainly never forget her. I will laugh at every adorably cute little mishap she got herself into. I will cry when I recall every intimate moment we shared, when I held her in my arms and stroked her soothingly soft fur and we just lay together like we were two misfit souls discarded from an all too cruel world. I will sob when I peruse the many photographs that encapsulate the beauty that she injected into my existence. I will quiver when I'm back home, wandering through the apartment we once inhabited together looking for her in the middle of the night or in broad daylight, briefly forgetting that she's no longer there. I will always carry her with me, both figuratively -- the myriad memories that I wouldn't trade for all the riches in the world -- and literally, in the engraved wooden lockbox that contains her ashes, a memento to remind me that while she may be physically dead, the memory of her is something that defies mortality. And although I will miss her dearly, and the grief and guilt is likely to linger for years to come, I can say with a smile that I am wiser, richer and happier for having had the privilege of seeing, hearing, petting, hugging, loving that little basset hound for fourteen long years. Goodbye Princess.