Cody, The Golden Boy, A Perfect Companion

The other day I walked into my parents' house, and for the first time in 13 years, I was not greeted by a playful bark, a wagging tail, and a joyful mass of golden fur pressing against my legs. That’s when it really hit me. Cody is gone.

Cody was my parents’ dog, a Golden Retriever/Chow Chow mix, and he was beautiful. Long, soft golden hair, with curls around the ears, and a purple spotted tongue usually hanging out of his smiling mouth. He was exactly the type of dog you imagine when you want to get a dog. Loyal, loving, playful, chill, obedient, handsome, sweet, friendly, fluffy. A perfect companion.  

He was the first dog my parents got after I moved out, so I never lived with him, but he always made their house feel like it was still home. Soon after they got him, it was like he had always been a part of our family. He would get so excited when I visited, rushing to the door and positioning himself between my legs so I would rub his head and butt at the same time.

Last year, he was diagnosed with cancer. I was sure he was going to die, because it was 2020 and nothing good could possibly happen. I was preparing for the heartbreak, but I was really more concerned about my parents, especially my Dad. With the pandemic, my mom in a wheelchair and suffering from Parkinson’s, and a cold winter setting in, this was the last thing he needed. It was too cruel. But my dad didn’t give up, and neither did Cody. He underwent treatment for the cancer, and although it wasn’t easy—he lost some weight, he coughed stuff up—he made it.

It took a lot out of him, though, and he was almost 14 years old. His hind legs had been bothering him for a while, and by mid-May, they had completely given out. He couldn’t walk. He deserved comfort and peace. It was time to let him go. So my Dad, merciful as always, brought him to the vet and let him transition.

My family always had great dogs. Ramses, a Golden Retriever, died a couple years after I was born. All I remember is that he was a good boy. Tuffy, another Golden, was there for my entire childhood and helped shape who I am almost as much as my parents did. He was anything but “tuff”, by the way. A sweet, fluffy boy. A real good dog. We got Dakota soon after we moved to West Hartford, when I was living at home, going to high school, and my brother was away at college. I was in a new town, in a new school, by myself. And I was a teenager. It was a time of great change, and Dakota helped me through it. He was a giant white horse of a pooch who would chase deer all over the golf course. A handsome, independently minded, but needy and loving pooch. Another good boy. He was too much for his previous owners’ to handle, but perfect for us. 

While we had Dakota, my parents raised a Fidelco guide dog for a year. Rachel was a good dog. It was an interesting experience because we had to (try to) maintain an emotional distance since she wasn’t staying long. That didn’t stop us from loving her. When she was done with training, she provided her services to an elderly woman with bad sight. After many years, Rachel retired, and she actually came back to live with my parents. Sadly, she passed away soon after. That entire experience taught me a lot about the process of fostering and doing something for the greater good. And it really made me admire my parents. Not many people are willing to sacrifice their time and efforts for others. Although, they did get all the benefits of a kind, loving dog for a year, so they made out pretty well, too.

Dakota and Rachel, before she started working.

Cody and Rachel, after her retirement, with Sophie, my brother's dog. She was a good girl, too.

Then there was Cody. The sweetest dog. He did more in his life than most people. Literally. My dad brought him to nursing homes to volunteer as a comfort dog. And of course, he worked as an unofficial comfort pet at home, helping to get my parents through some tough years. He was a constant presence, always by my Dad’s side.

Even on vacation in Florida.

At the beginning of this year, as the fear of Cody dying from cancer started to subside, we were blindsided by the sudden sickness and death of our kitty, Nola. It was devastating. She was only 11 months old, but the impact she made on our lives was immeasurable. Not having any other pets to comfort us only made it worse. Thankfully, Cody was there whenever I visited my parents, or when they visited us. It was almost as if he stayed around to get my parents though the winter and to help me through Nola’s death. Even in the short moments I saw him, he brought such great comfort.

We also took some comfort in remembering the two encounters between Cody and Nola. He was the one dog she ever met, and no surprise, Cody was great with her. He let her get close and sniff, and he didn’t even mind when she stalked the floor by my mom, looking for scraps of food. Nola had never met any other animals, and very few people, but she met Cody, the best the world had to offer. 

One of my favorite pics. Their first meeting, during our Christmas celebration at our new house. 

It’s hard to believe that Cody and Nola are both gone. I don’t believe in an afterlife so I won't say, “they’re playing together in Heaven now,” or something like that. I have nothing against people who say or believe that. I wish I could believe it! It’s just not how I view the world, or how I envision death. But Cody and Nola will always be connected in my memories, and even though it is heartbreaking that they are only memories now, I’m happy they are together in my mind and in my heart. 

Cody also met our new kitties, Zoli and Bijoux. I'd like to think there was some kind of transference of energy from Nola to Cody to them. Like, she met him, then he met them, and there was a connection established through Cody, as if he was a conduit of life that let her spirit continue on in them. I'd like to think that. That's my vision of the afterlife.

Cody also met our dragon, Puff! And guess what? He was great with him, and the kitties, too. Because Cody was great with everybody, and everything. Old people, kids, other animals. He was just a real good boy.

Miss you buddy.

What a beautiful boy. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Overwhelming Influence of Home

My creative writing teacher at UConn wrote a story (and screenplay) called The Secret Life of Houses. I don't remember much of it, except that Jackie from Roseanne starred in the movie, and a main concept of the story is that houses have unique spirits. Not floating, drinking spirits like in the classic 80s Gutenberg comedy High Spirits, or conniving, womanizing, trickster spirits like Beetlejuice. Just a certain energy and vibe that is imprinted on the house by its tenants, its pets, its visitors, its neighbors, and anything else that made contact with it.

 

The energy of each individual home has an impact on the people living there as much as they have on it. Some of the influence boils down to nostalgia. Houses are a living memory. Looking at a picture can bring back specific memories, but being inside a house you grew up in, whether it's a friend's childhood home or your own, is like floating inside a cloud made of memories. The memories can be so overwhelming that it's hard to focus on just one. When I go to my parent's beach house, memories flood back from great vacations as a kid with friends and family and birthday gifts and dogs and beaches. Entire days and years come rushing back as familiar scents and sounds and sights fill my senses. Sometimes specific memories pop up, but mostly it's just an overall sense of peace and happiness.

Every place I have lived had a different energy and made an important impact on me. I still have dreams that take place in the first house I grew up in Hartford. I see the layout clearly. It is literally providing the framework for some dreams. It has subconsciously become part of my identity.

That phenomena occurs not only with our childhood homes, but with the state, town, and neighborhood we grow up in. Americans like to think that we, as individuals, are completely in control of who we are and how we perceive the world. The reality is that where we grew up and where we live has an immense effect on who we are and our perceptions of reality itself.

In addition to providing a literal and figurative structure for our lives and memories, our homes are extensions of who we are. The pictures we put up, the color we use to paint the walls, the choice between hard wood floors and shag carpeting. They all reflect something about us (especially the shag carpeting) and our homes retain that reflection long after we leave.

Growing up, my mom had a small pillow with a phrase stitched on it: A house is not a home without a cat. I always thought this was propaganda from the Cat lobby, but as I got older I recognized the truth in the statement, and it applies to more than just cats. A house is just a building. A home is a safe place full of love. Pets help give a house its character, its spirit. Pets need love and attention, so when there is a pet in a house, that means there is love and affection in that house, which creates a home.

Pets help create that "lived-in" feeling, a term that has a positive connotation even though it literally means there are signs of wear in a house. Beyond the literal meaning, the term refers to a place that feels like people have made into a home. It feels comfortable because there's a familiar energy to it. People even want that lived-in feeling in a new home, which, logically, doesn't even make sense.

A major part of the impact a place has on us is the people we interact with there. My parents still live in West Hartford, the second house I lived in, so it still feels like home when I go there, even though they completely renovated my bedroom. When I moved out of my parents house, I lived in a condo in Newington for 7 years, with 3 of my best friends (at separate times). It was small, but it was comfortable, and it ended up being the foundation of countless incredible memories. My friends and roommates are largely responsible for those memories, and those memories and those relationships will stay with me forever. When you occupy the same space with someone for an extended period of time, an unspoken bond forms. Movies portray that connection with the military and sports, where soldiers and teammates start to respect and trust each other after being in close quarters. But sports and war aren't necessary to create that bond. Simply living together, enjoying each other's company, learning each other's routines, creates a connection that lasts well beyond the time spent living together.

The same applies to the living space itself. The memories I have from the time I lived in that condo are intricately linked to the building and the location. I can't imagine them occurring anywhere else,  because quite literally, they would have not occurred or they would have been drastically different. Think of your favorite vacations. We go to certain destinations because we want to experience certain things. The people you meet, the food you eat, the activities you experience all contribute to your memories, of course. But the foundation of all of that is the location. The same is true of your home.

We talk about "home field advantage" in sports; players usually do better at their own field, and there are many reasons for that, but a main reason is "environmental familiarity." We are more comfortable at home. When we played tag as a kid, "homebase" was the safe space. You could always go back there to avoid danger. That's true of home as well. Kids often rush home from school to avoid bullies or to simply get comfortable. When the bullies are at home--parents, siblings, or spouse--home becomes a place of dread, which reflects the immeasurable impact "home" has on our psyche, whether positive or negative. That's why children who move around a lot often have difficulties with relationships and an overall poorer quality of life as adults.

I only moved once as a kid and that was incredibly difficult. Thankfully I wasn't too far from where I grew up, so I could see friends and hang out in familiar places, but it took me a while to adapt. I liked my original home and everything that came with it. I only truly considered the house in West Hartford "home" when I went away to college. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. I absolutely loved college, and each place I lived at UConn has incredible importance to me (my memories of college are organized in sections according to where I lived) but sometimes, we simply yearn for the familiar. And home cooked meals.

Most recently, I lived in a house in New Britain affectionately referred to as Corbin Frat. There was no fraternity (I paid rent, not dues) but the house itself became a meeting place for and symbol of friendship. If you lived there or spent a significant amount of time there, you were initiated into the Corbin Frat for eternity. The President of Corbin Frat always steered the energy of the house. He set the tone. But the pets (RIP Bay and Deucey) the roommates, and the visitors all contributed to the spirit of Corbin Frat. The music we listened to, the food we ate...those scents and sounds are embedded into the fabric of the house. The living room floor isn't just a floor, it's the place where Bay would purposefully spill people's beer so he could lick it up. It's a place that birthed FRIENDSHIP, the greatest kickball team known to man. There is a sentimental value to everything within the house because our energy is infused into the building.

The energy of the previous tenants was there as well, making its presence most obviously felt through the stark patterns of the wallpaper. That wallpaper told a story. There was time and effort put into deciding the pattern and then sweat and hard work to put it all up. That energy remains.

One day when I was living there, a former owner knocked on the door. It was just like in the movies; he was nervous and embarrassed to just show up at a stranger's home, but once we started talking I could almost see the memories washing over him. He was happy just to be there, to feel the energy of the house. And I think he was satisfied with the energy we brought to it. I know that I will be forever influenced by my time there, and I'm truly grateful.

Now I'm living in a refurbished zipper factory in Berlin. If you listen close, you can hear whispers of "YKK" coming from the vents. It's actually a really cool building. Brick outer walls give an old-fashioned, sturdy feel to it. The ultra high, wood ceilings inside make it feel extra spacious.

Plus, I live with my best friend, the love of my life. It was her home first, so she chose the interior; it smells pretty, everything is soft, clean, and organized. It's like being on a white sand beach with no flies or annoying tourists or sunburn. It's pristine, but lived-in, and I feel right at home.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.