Growing up, I was petrified of dogs. They were loud and scary, with teeth that were way too sharp. If one got even an inch too close to me, I would run to my dad and climb up his shoulders to hide from them. That was when he had the brilliant idea that the only way to stop me from being afraid was to get a dog. My six-year-old self was mortified. Bring a beast with giant teeth into my house? Nuh uh, not happening.
Anyway, that beast’s name is Harper Cutie Deans, and she is my best friend. My six-year-old self insisted that if I had to put up with this, I had to at least get to name her. Unfortunately, not everyone loved Cutie as a first name—I know, ridiculous—so I had to settle for the middle name. She’s a beagle, the runt of her litter, yet somehow still chubbier than the weight of two of her siblings combined. I may not have known it at the time, but that little puppy would help me through friend issues, AP tests, finals, and college applications. I would be in ruin, freaking out about if an essay were good enough, or if I even really had a chance to get into a school, when Harper Cutie would waddle her chunky self on over and sit directly on my lap. She was a cuddle bug and was more emotionally intelligent than a lot of people I know. She knew when something was off, when you were run down or tired, or absolutely obliterated from some bad news. She would be right there, sitting next to your feet, just in case you wanted a cuddle.
Whenever she wasn’t cuddled up or napping, she was hunting, learning. Learning how to push out the kitchen chairs and climb to get the food above, digging through the garbage and learning to open the lid with her paw. Somehow, she always found food. It would get so bad that when I put butter out to soften before school, I found a Harper and no butter by the time I went to make cookies. On the kitchen counter, far from her reach, was slightly punctured wax paper that had once contained butter. While I was at school, she had managed to pull a chair from the dining room to the kitchen, right where she needed it to get up. I don’t know if I’m that committed, but she’s certainly a girl after my own heart.
She and I had become incredulously close. I would get home from school, and she would run like crazy (which if you knew Harper, you knew she didn’t do). We would go for nice long walks and stargaze at night. We even went to the playground a few times — her favorite was the slide. And at the end of every day, the lights would be turned off, and she would run for my door. She slept with me every night. She had it made: her own special fuzzy blanket, a staircase to walk on and off my bed, and a dog bed on the floor in case mine wasn’t cutting it.
One of the hardest goodbyes I had to say was to her. Coming to school, I knew it would be hard. I would no longer have my buddy at night. My mom’s response to this was a giant pillow with her face on it. While it may be hysterical, it has helped since I haven’t had the opportunity to see her. She means so much to me, and one of my biggest fears was that I would be at school as she took her last breath. A fear that unfortunately is becoming much more realistic. So now, I must say goodbye for much longer and it’s much harder.
I love Harper and am forever thankful for the day I found out. To think I would go from this little kid petrified of dogs, to having to say goodbye to my best friend. I luckily will always have that pillow to hug, but it won’t be the same as my butter-obsessed, chubby puppy.
