People may be wondering if my wife and I ever got Bongo back, seeing as I left the last post on a cliffhanger. Well, the following post explains what happened. I’ll warn you, it’s pretty sad, but also kind of adorable. I’ll almost definitely be crying as I type the last part of this post. Regardless, I’ll try to keep it somewhat cute.
First of all, you may be wondering why I didn’t write more about Bongo sooner. Well, back in the day, my rule was to only update this blog when I wasn’t super busy with work. Shortly after I wrote about fostering, loving and shocking* Bongo, work got crazy busy, as it does. Basically, my mindset was “why write articles about my dog for free when I could be writing for money?” Eventually, in 2020, I did have a lot more free time to write it up, but by then the subject was just too sad. Finally, I’m plucking up the courage to write from the heart about what happened to the dog that no one except me and my wife wanted.
A brief recap of my last post’s cliffhanger: So one day, my wife took Bongo, our foster dog, to an adoption event. That evening, she returned home alone. Yet Bongo hadn’t been adopted. The fostering agency that owned him said that they were moving him to the South, where he might have been more adoptable. I can’t blame them for this decision. After all, they could hardly know how much my wife and I were falling in love with Bongo and vice versa. My wife urged me to agree to adopt him. Knowing that Bongo was an old dog, I initially resisted. That may sound callous, and I definitely regret my decision, but it was pretty clear that adopting that dog meant some major vet bills, and soon.
Then my wife, who was keeping track of Bongo’s adoption page online, informed me of something that made me want to take him in, no matter the expense. Whoever was looking after Bongo at that time had forgotten to give him his thyroid medication, which had caused all of his fur to fall off. Clearly, Bongo wasn’t getting the care he needed. Finally, I relented and agreed to adopt him. So my wife contacted a volunteer at the agency, asking if we could adopt a senior dog with many health problems and severe separation anxiety. Believe me when I say that the volunteer was both perplexed and heart-warmed. I wanted to say “in equal measure” at the end of that sentence, but she was probably much more perplexed than heart-warmed. After all, he was as bald as a plucked chicken at the time.
Pretty soon, the agency got back to us and said they could drive Bongo back up to New York in a couple of weeks. So, hurrah, for the second time in two months, Bongo drove thousands of miles across the country, only this time he wouldn’t be bringing his fur along with him.
Bongo came back on July 1st, Canadian Independence Day. I remember this, because my mother-in-law and brother were visiting us in the city, and we were going to a Broken Social Scene concert in Central Park that day. But first, we had to pick up Bongo. I remember that the meeting point was some sleepy street near the UN building. My wife, mother-in-law, brother and I walked toward a huge jeep, which was handing out foster dogs left, right and center. I think that we were the only ones actually adopting that day. Then I saw them take Bongo out of the car, and my heart dropped. A little of his fur had grown back, but he was terribly patchy all over. He also looked even more timid than ever. Most heartbreakingly, he didn’t greet us with the happy squeals of joy that he had used to when we came home from a night out. Perhaps it was just the fear he’d accumulated from the journey, but I swear he was pissed off at us. Worse, I could tell that my brother and mother-in-law were thinking that we were crazy for taking in a dog that looked so shabby.
With the glum reunion over, my brother and I headed off to the concert. My wife and mother-in-law thought it best to take Bongo home. It turns out that Broken Social Scene’s music further made me question my choices. If you don’t know, they’re a sort of sad indie rock band.
That evening we returned home, and things got even worse. As it was both Canadian Independence Day and the weekend before the 4th of July, many fireworks were going off. Like most dogs, Bongo hated fireworks. But that night was a whole other level. He seemed to have some kind of crazy panic attack, which involved him hiding in our bathroom and knocking all of my wife’s many hair/skin product bottles off the bath and all over the floor.
Luckily, he started to get better. We made sure that he kept on taking his thyroid pills, and his fur started growing back slowly but surely. He also seemed to get over that grudge he had had with us pretty quick. Soon, the squeals of joy whenever we came back home became a regular occurrence. In fact, I remember both my mother-in-law and brother remarking how much healthier he looked when they next visited us. Sure, he was still Bongo, but at least now he looked shabby chic instead of just shabby.
And so, for the next two years, things were, on the whole, pretty good for Bongo. He still had all of his many health issues, but he was always smiling, always overjoyed when we came home after going out. I doubt that he had ever known such permanence before. He certainly acted like he couldn’t believe his luck.
Then 2020 came. Everyone’s least favorite year. Bongo started off the year his usual scruffy self. But then, early in January, he started losing weight. Eventually, he was barely eating at all. My wife and I tried mixing up his food and giving him things that Google said would aid his digestion. No use. He became much less active. So we took him to the vet. From this point onward, basically nothing good happened. Honestly, I want to spare you the grim details.
Funnily enough, something weirdly cute happened on Bongo’s last day on Earth. That morning, we took him to Prospect Park one last time. By then, it was February, so it was still blisteringly cold. A school class of children aged about eight was in the park too. When they saw us carrying Bongo in a little blanket, the schoolchildren all got excited. “A puppy! A puppy!” they all started screaming. We didn’t have the heart to tell them that he was actually a dying old man. At least he made some children happy. Otherwise, he’d never gotten along with kids very well. That night, on February 12th, we were sure that he wasn’t going to miraculously start getting better, as we’d been hoping against hope. Instead, he stopped drinking water. Finally, it was time to say goodbye to him for the very last time.
Two days after Bongo died, on Valentine’s Day, I remember being with my wife in a restaurant, as couples are required to do that day. I told my wife that we should spend the year enjoying our freedom before getting another dog. So we planned lots and lots of fun things to do throughout 2020. And then, of course, they all got canceled. It’s a pity, as Bongo would have loved how much my wife and I were at home that year. He really was unlucky.
One way I think of Bongo is that he was the best worst decision of my life. On paper, it made zero sense to adopt him. And he did cost us a lot of money. But honestly, it was worth it for him to have those two years with us. He was the first dog I ever adopted, and he showed me how much joy there is in canine companionship. Even now, three years after his death, I think about him every day.
*Yes, shocking. That’s not a typo. For those who didn’t read the last post, Bongo would never stop crying when he was left alone, and our neighbors complained about the crying. We didn’t want to move out, so fitting a shock collar on Bongo was basically the only way we could keep him with us. I do still feel bad about having to use the shock collar though.