a little black dog

hey there, Delilah

There is a water over there, where the soul of the one who has died must pass. And there is a dog there, a little black dog with a white spot on its throat. And one must ask permission from that dog, so that one may travel on, to reach that other level.

—Ramon Medina Silva

Sidney Paget's illustration of The Hound of the Baskervilles — inspired by the legend of ghostly black dogs in Dartmoor.

Some say the black dog is supernatural, demonic, and sinister. In myths and folklore, they represent fear and the unknown — the sense of dread and irrationality that can cast over one's mindset.

Winston Churchill referred to his depression as his “black dog.” Black for the darkness, sadness, and gloom that overwhelmed him. Evocative of shadows, loneliness, and waves of melancholy.

Black is ever-present, it saturates and blinds. It’s the force that silently follows, prowls, and weighs on the mind. Its presence is persistent and inescapable.

Despite any anguish, the dog remains a companion creature. It is an inseparable presence, the guiding force. It is familiar and steady, as comforting as it is disconcerting.

I know the "black dog,” that specter Churchill knowingly spoke of, for it once sank its teeth into my soul. Its haunting howls pulsated endlessly, and tugged me under the murky waters of despair. Adrift and struggling, I saw no path.

Until a different black dog — one with a white spot on her throat — pulled me from the eddies.

What once was numb, she awoke.

---

I heard Delilah before I saw her. A shrill cry drew me toward her scrawny, grubby body.

I remember holding her shaking frame against mine — warmth flowed between us. And how my hands moved against her protruding ribs.

“We believe she’s three months old,” a shelter volunteer said. “And we don’t know what happened to her tail.” Her mangled nub that I quickly learned was not to be touched.

“You should take her. The black ones are always the last to go,” they said.

I could feel her desperation. Could she feel mine?

There was no way I could leave her behind.

I took her straight to my parents, where my mom and I gave her a gentle but vigorous bath. We affixed a bright pink and green collar to her neck. A fresh start to a new life.

I brought her outside to the backyard, where she sank into the grass, unmoving. Had she ever felt this before? Grass? Freedom? Love?

Our family dachshunds looked at her suspiciously — what is this leggy creature?

It would take years for me to learn how to answer that question, but I now know that she is my soul-dog. She is the little black dog that Ramon Medina Silva described. The creature that I needed to stand and kneel before. The life to learn from. She was and is my guide to the next level, to more purposeful living.

In college, I was a hollow shell. Apathetic and self-destructive and hidden. Always hidden.

I wasn’t living and was barely surviving.

And I couldn’t find a way out.

I did therapy (even group therapy and art therapy), yoga, and meditation…all helped but none healed.

I needed to be broken open. I needed love to shoot through me and restart and recharge me. I needed to escape myself. I needed a purpose, a calling, bigger and more humbling. Something that would push me past my limits and set me free.

I was trapped in the prison of my mind, bars of hopelessness confining me. But then came this furry angel, with her soulful brown eyes, wagging nub, and endless wellspring of joie de vivre. She helped me find the key to unlocked the cage.

With each nuzzle, each playful prance, and each sneaky lick to the face, she slowly but surely melted away my resistance to this life. Her innocent affection for each day was the light that gradually dimmed the darkness.

She tugged me into the warm sunshine.

And through tending to her, I learned how to nurture myself.

We’ve learned and grown and adapted. Together.

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Delilah is unrelentingly stubborn. She knows several commands but responds to none, unless they come from my father. She failed obedience school over her refusal to “stay” or “lay.” At daycare, they describe her as an “acquired taste,” and she’s routinely sent home with yellow cards. She’s indifferent to dogs, is intrigued by cats, loves squirrels, and worships humans — except for our feet, which she finds repulsive (fair) and terrifying. Socks are mandatory in our home.

She’s the energizer bunny; nothing is ever enough. She wants more of it all. And then a bit more.

Once at the dog park, she hopped over the fence and ran into the parking lot. For a few seconds, I believed it possible to die from fear. Two hospital stays have brought that feeling back.

When I sleep late, and even when I don’t, she delivers hard, repeated slaps to my face. When she needs to go out, she sits by the door and screams — no barks, only screams. When she’s hungry, she bangs her food bowl and then runs to stand before me, making hard eye contact. “I know you heard that!”

We’ve never enjoyed a wholly peaceful walk. She drags and I try to keep up, I often fail and sometimes fall. There’s a callous on my ring finger from my tight grip on her leash, from trying to keep us upright and steady. Her muscles and strength put mine to shame. I never stood a chance. “She’s like a little tow truck,” a passerby remarked.

My tow truck. Yes!! That is the perfect description of us.

She leads, I follow.

She challenges and moves me. That’s all I’ve ever needed.

Yesterday evening, after a day of mildly good behavior on her part, we went out for ice cream. A small scoop for her, two big ones for me.

After, we climbed in the car and hit the open road, with windows flung wide to greet the breeze.

Pale petals fallen from blossom trees danced and twirled through the hazy, sunlit air. A few slipped in, landing on my lap.

God’s confetti.

I looked through the side mirror and saw her face leaning outward — into life, into the moment. Her snout upturned catching scents that made it quiver. Her eyes were soft and reverent. And as the milky petals flit past her, creating the perfect contrast, I began to cry.

Gratitude and happiness overpowered my senses.

I didn’t know life could be this peaceful, this simple.

It’s sweeter than my wildest dreams. She is.

I haven’t always been present, not even with her and for that I’m ashamed. But I am now, I’m here flowing freely into each fleeting second. Especially as white hairs begin to poke through her black and our time together shortens.

The greatest gift is this, this very moment.

We are everything, we are love, but we are not forever.

This little (now medium-sized) black dog is worth it all. The face slaps, the face plants, and all the tears and pain to come.

This is the collision of heaven and earth.

eight years in the making