Ode to Gus

A tarot card reader told me Gus considered himself a singer. He wasn’t barking at me when I came home, he was serenading me. Despite his abandonment issues, he wasn’t yelping each time I left our apartment, he was belting out an anguished dirge. The noise he made in the park, when he played, was just his version of Pharrell’s Happy song.

Gus had issues—separation anxiety, for example. When I left him and my shih-tzu Jersey, even if only for 20 minutes, he chewed on things that smelled like me: Bole sunglasses, Mui Mui pumps, a silk scarf, a Betsey Johnson sweater, gloves, jackets, sweatshirts, panties. Gus had a delicate tummy—anything other than his usual kibble gave him diarrhea that lasted for days. We were on a first name basis with every vet at Pets Unlimited in San Francisco. Gus was afraid of vacuum cleaners, flashlights, concrete stairs, meaning that if our apartment building ever caught fire, I would have had to carry his 70-pound butt out of the building.

Given Gus’s early childhood, it’s no surprise he had issues. Gus had been abandoned by his previous owner, my former boyfriend, who dumped me and dumped his collie dog Gus on me. I’m one of those people who needs intense ritual around letting go, especially when it comes to a broken heart. I gave away every gift—a brushed white gold and diamond ring, an Elsa Peretti diamond on platinum necklace, clothes, shoes, golf clubs—that this man had given me. But I couldn’t give away Gus. Those first few months—possibly the entire first year—after the breakup, every time I looked at Gus, I felt loss, heartache. I lived daily with the reminder that both Gus and I were rejected, flawed, not good enough.

Everyone I tell that story says the exact same thing: Lynn, you got the better man.

My therapist called Gus my guru. She told me that if I could stick out the relationship with Gus, learn to love him as much as I loved Jersey, I would experience tremendous healing gifts in the process. My therapist was right: Gus was the one who taught me that love is a verb. It’s a decision. It’s not something that just happens. Love is a concerted effort to think, feel, and behave in a way that nurtures another.

I knew I had turned the corner, truly fallen in love with Gus, the day I woke up, for the 200th time, to his diarrhea all over my white wall to wall carpeting, and, instead of thinking, poor me, I thought, poor Gus.

Gus was two years old and completely unmanageable when he became my dog. I hired a dog behaviorist, thinking I would drop Gus off at her home a few times a week, and, magically, she would return to me a mellow, well-behaved, trained dog. Instead, the trainer trained me, and I trained Gus. I hand fed him for a month. He had to work for every piece of kibble he ate. After that month, Gus and I were totally in sync. So many times he and I would be out running errands in San Francisco and I would stop at a store intending to tie his leash around a parking meter, only to realize I hadn’t put the leash on him. He was always right at my left hip, always by my side.

I can say with complete certainty no one will ever love me as much as Gus loved me.

Today would have been Gus’s birthday. It’s God’s greatest design flaw, in my opinion, that dogs live such short lives. I’ve now been through the loss of several childhood dogs, and Gus, and then Jersey. I have never grieved for a human as deeply as I’ve grieved over my dogs. I don’t care if that makes me sound like a jerk.

I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about God. My idea of God changes day to day, sometimes moment to moment. A few years after Gus died, I heard someone refer to God as GUS—Great Universal Spirit. When I feel despair and I remember to pray, I pray to Gus. I know Gus always had my back, so it’s not that big of a stretch to imagine he always will.

When he was about four years old, I wrote Gus a song:

A song for Gus, my collie dog. Gus is very tall and smart. Gus is sweet and handsome too. I love Gus with all my heart. Gus loves running the park. Gus will eat most anything. Gus protects me when it’s dark. When you’re here, you’ll hear Gus sing.

Gus, my guru, I will always love you. Happy Birthday, my beautiful, sweet collie.