A Eulogy for Momo

On saying goodbye to our sweet and spicy baby

tw: pet loss, euthanasia, pet bodily fluids, dog killing other small critters

The wise William Martin Joel once said, “Only the good die young.” It makes sense, then, that our dog Momo lived past seventeen—which in human years, is roughly eleventy million. For the last few years, we’ve joked that she’s either got five months or fifteen years left to live, but it still feels surreal that her time would ever come.

We laid her to rest on Friday, a peaceful death in our home, with Skyler and me, as well as her first mom Jenny, there to send her across the rainbow bridge. Her last minutes on this earth involved eating a bowl of excellent ice cream, curling up for a medically-assisted nap next to her favorite Lamb Chop toy, and basking in the delicious tears of three fully grown adults who did her bidding.

As the doctor administered the painless injection to send her into the great beyond, she said, “Just so you know, Momo is asleep but conscious. She won’t feel a thing, but she knows you’re here. She feels your love, and she can hear you through her sleep.” She meant it as a comfort, but I knew the truth: even to the last, Momo Knows. She Is Listening. Momo Knows All.

***

Of Momo’s seventeen years on this planet, she spent the last 15+ of those living with my husband Skyler. I entered the scene when she was four or five; at the time, I was roughly a year out of a crummy relationship with a high school sweetheart. I didn’t miss my ex one bit, but I sure did miss his dog. In my early conversations with Skyler, this was an easy opportunity to connect, and they mentioned that they had two very sweet dogs and if I wanted to come hang out sometime, I could pet them. (Hook, line, and sinker on that relationship, but I’ll gush about Skyler another time; Momo would want this to remain very much about her.)

I adored Skyler’s two goobers, but once we became serious romantic partners, my allergies meant that Momo and Harvey could no longer sleep in the bed, an unforgivable sin in Momo’s eyes. Did she take it personally? Absolutely. Did she call me a homewrecker? Not to my face, but I heard the whispers behind my back. Still, we forged a tenuous peace, predicated on my ability to provide food and potty breaks at regular intervals.

Unfortunately, our relationship further devolved upon the passing of sweet Harvey. Momo was every bit the alpha dog, and she didn’t hesitate to put Harvey in his place. She also hated boundaries and rejection of any kind, so in the event that I had to tell her no (which, frankly, was a lot.)—she’d immediately go run and hump Harvey’s face. Poor guy generally just sat there and took it, but we were all worried that she’d find a new target or start humping legs after he was gone. The good news is, she didn’t carry on her humping habit after his passing. The bad news is, she did find a new target (spoilers: it was me).

***

I’ve never really liked small dogs until Momo. They seemed too fragile, or barked too much, but Momo wasn’t any of those things. While she was part Chihuahua, she never yipped, and the Jack Russell part of her was sturdy and energetic. She was always down to play, and I appreciated her assertiveness in asking for / demanding pets.

Back before she got too old and grumpy for a snuggle, she used to sit in my lap, facing me, with her paws up on my chest. Snuggling came with Rules, however. The first rule of Momo Time is that you must always be focused on Momo. Your hands needed to be on her at all times, and at least one of those hands needed to be actively petting her. If your attention wavered for even a second, she’d use that opportunity to pop up and smooch you right on the lips. Momo loved mouths, and she wanted to be inside yours. From her perfect vantage point, she’d simply wait until your focus lagged, then try and slip you the tongue. She wasn’t otherwise a licker; she was pretty much a big game hunter only.

The second rule of Momo Time was that if you break the first rule, she was GONE. She liked to position herself such that her exit strategy usually involved using your groin as her personal springboard, as she leapt away to find a more worthy human to interact with. If she had spoken English aloud, you’d have simply heard a “Byeeeeeeee, bitch!” from her.

***

When we said goodbye to Harvey, we decided to do it at home, because my research suggested that it’s an easier transition for sibling pairs. When you take one dog away and come home empty handed, it can lead to a fair degree of anxiety and depression in the remaining dog. I read stories of pets walking around their houses over and over, looking for their sibling, which struck me as endlessly heartbreaking. Despite the obvious power imbalance, Harvey and Momo were buddies, always together in a Kronk-and-Yzma sort of way (IYKYK), and they even shared a crate if they ever needed to be boarded at the vet.

While the rest of us were weeping, however, Momo was unfazed. As the vet took Harvey’s peacefully lifeless body out to her car, Momo came in like a hurricane, Lamb Chop toy in tow, as if to remind us that at least the Important Dog was left. Unfazed, unbothered, and ready to live her best only dog life, Momo did not give a flying fuck about the situation. Harvey, who?

For better or for worse, Momo didn’t give a single flying fuck about damn near *anything.* On one hand, it was kind of inspiring how authentically herself she was. All Momo Time, all the time. No apologies, no playing it small. In my mind, she smoked two packs a day, snapped her fingers when she needed something, and dismissed you summarily when she was done.

On the other hand, that was the first (but not the last time) I remember googling “How to tell if your dog is a sociopath.” Here are some other things I’ve googled over the years:

• Jack Russell + Chihuahua breed combination support group

• Do dogs know how to gaslight their owners?

• What to do when your dog starts spite peeing

• How to enforce boundaries with a dog that doesn’t like you but also isn’t mean?

I never successfully answered any of those questions, to be honest.

***

Momo did truly love three things in this world: Momo, Skyler, and murder, not necessarily in that order.

To be fair, her love of murder was partially our fault, since we trained her to hunt cockroaches and other bugs. She relished the chase, batting them with her paw, doing a a quick chomp to stun them, and then serving one final blow by ducking down and slamming a shoulder onto the dying bug. Much to her chagrin, we didn’t let her eat them, but once we took the corpse away, she would always roll her little body all over the kill spot, imbuing her soul with the blood it needed to sustain her violent mission.

I once witnessed her lick a fly out of midair, snapping her tongue against the dining room window like a furry, overgrown toad. Momo was truly our little Renfield.

Another time, she managed to catch a bird. Like—a real live, uninjured bird with the capacity for flight. She wasn’t particularly fast, and she was a chubby lil’ meatball at the time, so I’m not sure how it happened. After hearing a noise on the back porch that can only be described as ominous, I stepped outside to see its little bird body stuck in her gaping maw. After wrestling it away from her, she made me chase her down to try and remove the rest of its little feathers from her mouth, arguably my low point as her parent.

The thing about Momo, though: she was fucking ADORABLE. She had these tufts of fur behind her ears that were extra soft, and if she wanted something, she’d floof them up nice and high, with one ear up and one down. It was a defense mechanism, to help you cope with all the terrible things she did—so after removing the feathers and stomping around the house angrily for a few minutes, I couldn’t resist the ears and ended up forgiving her with lots of pets.

***

A few days have passed since we said goodbye to Momo, and the grief keeps sneaking up on me now that she’s gone. For all her antics, tomfoolery, and shenanigans, I keep waiting for the click of her nails on our hardwood floor. I see a wadded up black and white shirt on the ground out of the corner of my eye, and imagine it’s her, lurking.

At the same time, life feels measurably easier: no lingering walks where she refuses to come back in the house, no cleaning up pee or poop off my kitchen floor, no demands for food that would ultimately wreck her insides, no sulking or throttling her toys when I told her no.

Despite knowing she’s at peace and feeling a deep gratitude for my reclaimed time and cleaning supplies, my heart hurts.

I miss her stupid fucking face so much. Fuck.

Is this what they’d call Stockholm Syndrome?

***

One time, I watered a plant, and she got mad because she thought I had given it a snack. I’ll just leave this photo evidence right here.

***

On Momo’s last day, she finally got what she wanted: unlimited cheese, permission to sniff outside as long as she wanted, and our undivided attention.

Near the end, she sought me out in the privacy of our hallway, and I sat down on the floor and scooped her into my arms. For once, she didn’t argue, didn’t wriggle away, didn’t even try and lick the inside of my mouth. She just sighed, settled into my torso, and rested there for I don’t even know how long.

We sat there, quietly together, as I petted her soft fur and covered her tiny forehead with all the kisses she wouldn’t let me give her over the last few years. These private, precious moments felt like a consolation prize, as if knowing her end was near, she stopped referring to me as “my dad’s girlfriend” and simply called me “Mom.”