I remember when we first brought her home,
so small she fit in my palm,
a warm blur of fur and sleepy breaths.
She wasn’t mine then,
just my sister’s new impulse,
and I laughed at the name Mochi,
said it was dumb...
but even then, it clung to her perfectly.
Soft. Stretchy. Sweet in ways I didn’t know
I would need.
I helped bottle feed her,
held her against my chest
where her tiny heartbeat tapped
against my ribs like a secret.
She had eyes like mine,
tired, wide, knowing more than she should.
She grew, brave despite her size,
and my sister learned responsibility
is louder than affection.
She quit.
And the dog became mine
without ceremony,
without choice,
without question.
I was annoyed I couldn’t rename her,
but Mochi fit,
because she melted into me
every time she curled up in my arms.
Because her skin stretched
just like the love I didn’t think
I was capable of giving.
And then it happened,
I felt unconditional love
for the first time in my chest,
a bloom so painful
I nearly cried the day I realized
she chose me first,
always.
She greets me like I hung the moon.
She follows me like gravity.
She loves me without asking
for anything but presence.
It broke me when I got sick.
I couldn’t chase her anymore.
I couldn’t be the sun she ran toward.
I saw the sadness in her eyes,
the way she’d bring me a toy,
wait,
see that I couldn’t move,
and sigh...
but still she stayed beside me.
Her loyalty hurts.
It hurts because I don’t deserve it.
She deserves a backyard,
a world to run in,
a body that won’t fail her.
She deserves better than a heart like mine,
beating wrong,
beating scared.
Sometimes she is the only reason
I don’t take more than one heart pill.
She is my tether,
my anchor in a world
that feels eager to let go of me.
After dark thoughts,
I hold her close
and pretend my warmth will last.
But lately,
I wonder if she’d be fine without me.
If maybe she deserves
to be freed from the weight
of a broken owner
who can barely stand.
Because even taking her outside
is a battle,
my body trapped,
my heart pounding,
steps to the door feeling like miles.
A hospital trip waiting to happen
from a task as small
as letting my dog pee.
The annoyance comes sometimes...
sharp, quick, shameful,
but it dissolves the moment I imagine
her growing old.
Her muzzle graying.
Her legs slowing.
Her time shrinking.
If heartbreak from humans
nearly kills me,
I know losing her
will shatter whatever is left.
I know I will sob to the heavens,
accusing them of cruelty,
for taking the only creature
that ever loved me
without conditions,
without pause,
without doubt.
Mochi doesn’t just love me.
She sees me,
the pieces no one else stays long enough
to learn.
And I don’t know
how to live in a world
that could take her from me
before I’m ready...
or how to forgive myself
if she grows old believing
I was enough
when I never believed that myself.