Hersh Varma

His name was Simba, and he was the best first dog ever.

He was found in the middle of winter in a BJ’s parking lot, where, according to the vet who rescued him, Simba may have survived for 3 or 4 months on his own. He barely weighed 45 pounds when we brought him home.

He was already house broken and soft-spoken, which made the circumstances of his rescue all the more confusing. Who abandons a trained puppy?

He was either 1 or 2 at the time. His vet said there’s no way to tell for sure except to cut off his leg and count the rings. We thought that measure to be too drastic, so we celebrated April 28th, 2005 as his second birthday.

He didn’t sleep much during his first few nights. I know that because I sat up next to him in the laundry room, paw in hand, thinking I was comforting him. Looking back, I bet he probably stayed up thinking he was comforting me.

He destroyed both the plush, decadent dog beds we got him. He preferred the cool stone tiles of our kitchen and laundry room, so we let the matter to rest. Eventually, he would sleep on the floor as close as he could to us as possible – the kitchen, the den, the landing of the stairs, or even just outside the bedroom door.

He lost a lot of fur in that first year, while we were testing different food brands to support his coat. We lost a lot of Roombas, too. Ultimately, we found Costco’s Kirkland brand gave him the most stable coat – he had “big” sheds just twice per year, in spring and fall.

He never got table scraps – except when I was home and no one was watching, or if anyone else was home and no one else was watching, or if guests were over and no one else was watching, and on special occasions like his birthday, Thanksgiving, Diwali, weekends, federal holidays, days when it rained, or days when “he just begged in that adorable way.” Other than that, he never, ever got table scraps.

He peaked at 85 pounds, but he carried it well. That is to say – he was never fat. He was just a little Husky.

He had an insatiable appetite for adventure. He followed his nose through every open door he ever found. In fact, he ran away so many times that every single neighbor in a half-mile radius knew him by name and knew how to bring him back to us. He planned one particular escape over a course of 7 years, by slowly digging a corner under our back fence one paw-ful of dirt at a time. Luckily, we found him on Richmond Road just before he could board the 6:30 bus to Zihuatanejo. We fortified our entire perimeter that summer. But we didn’t stand a chance against his wit – he managed to escape as recently as two months ago.

He was a terrible guard dog. He never met a stranger he didn’t love. He would have sold us out of house and home for the price of a bag of MarroBone Treats (TM). He was no bark and less bite. At best, he could have licked an intruder to death.

He hated being wet or muddy. He could spend 8 hours outside in a -20F blizzard, but he couldn’t last 8 minutes in a fall rain. If he got muddy, he would come in and lick his paws clean and white. To spare him the taste of mud, my dad got into the habit of giving him soap-and-water manicures and pedicures twice a day for weeks at a time in the spring and fall rainy seasons. Eventually, Simba would dig up a spot of mud even on a dry day just so he could get pampered a little.

He loved to take us on walks. He was a sled dog by nature, and boy could he mush! He choked himself on every leash and collar combo we got before we got the full chest brace. And then he really developed his chest. If he saw a squirrel in pouncing range, it was guaranteed to be a tug-of-war.

He also loved walks because of all the attention he got from strangers. “Are those blue eyes?” they would gasp. “He is beautiful!” they would gush.

He was a rambunctious, jubilant, handsome little puppy for 12 years and 11 months. Then, all of a sudden, he turned 13.

My dad noticed he had a harder time climbing stairs. My sister noticed his appetite changed and he lost weight. During a vaccination visit a month ago, his vet noted he looked pale and he was tachycardic. His first round of blood work showed severe anemia with lymphocytosis. My dad brought him to the experts at OSU Veterinary Hospital, where he spent a night in the ICU to get fluids and a transfusion. Flow cytometry revealed an aggressive variant of CD8+ T-cell lymphoma. He failed induction and rescue treatments last week. Over the course of the week, he became progressively weaker, anorexic, and lethargic. Where he once bounded to the garage door and waited for me to come in, he hardly greeted me with a nod as he lay in the corner of the laundry room, exhausted from the work of breathing against his profound anemia. He wanted so badly to give me his slobbery kisses, but he just didn’t have the energy left. He was done.

We laid him to rest yesterday with all the peace and dignity he deserved.

He came into our lives with a purpose. He gave my sister and me the gift of friendship and taught us the earliest lessons in caring for others. He made my mom overcome a lifetime of fear of and negativity towards animals so that she could become the dog-lover she is today. He kept my dad company when he most needed it, and kept him young and active one walk at a time. He gave my fiancee, Steph, her first experience with a pet, and now she can’t wait to start a rescued pet family of our own.

He loved unconditionally and without any hesitation. We tried to give him back as much of that as we could, but it would never be enough.

He was the best first dog ever, and he will be missed. I hope he’s gone to a place with no doors or fences and lots and lots of table scraps (which, again, he hardly ever got.)