Her name was Penny.

I picked her up from a foster home when she was 2 years old. She was staying in the garage, alone, separated from the other dogs. She wasn't spayed and her history was patchy, they knew she came from Texas and her human parents didn't want her anymore. I had just turned 21 years old and was living in my first apartment, which didn't allow dogs, but I was going to worry about that later. My roommate was my sister, she was at work when I picked up the pup. I took her to the store to buy her bowls, dog food, a collar and a leash, then I brought her to my apartment and her new home. I immediately phoned my best friend and she rushed over to meet the new addition. My sister would be home soon and I was only slightly nervous about not mentioning my recent adoption, but I knew once she met her she would melt and fall in love like I did. My assumptions were right about my sister’s reaction. She fell in love instantly and all the stress and worry of our landlord fell by the wayside.

They called her “Penny” but we just couldn't get used to that name. She wasn't a Penny, it wasn't descriptive or alive enough for her, she was the most precious thing I had ever seen! She had the sweetest eyes, most gentle disposition, so grateful and quiet, she wanted to love you and for you to love her. She accepted treats from your hand so considerately with just her front teeth, she was polite, never barked, waited to be invited up onto the couch or outside for a walk.  I had never bonded so quickly with anything in my life. I respected her and I wanted to be around her always. She had such a beautiful and shiny red-brown coat, white fur around her nose with little brown freckles and long white whiskers, the white on her chest representing the shape of a question mark and only one white paw with the rest all brown. She was magnificent, she was not Penny some old rusted, sticky, dirty change that's been cemented in the ashtray of some junked 92’ Cutlass! She didn’t even respond well to Penny, she knew it was bullshit. My sister and I spent the next few days trying to come up with her new name. One day my sister was just randomly blurting out sentences in Spanish, as she often did. When she said “My Ruca”, the pup responded with her ears perked and it was settled. Ruca: (noun)1.Girlfriend. 2. True Love. It was perfect, we threw her old name in the garbage and she was ready for her new life.

She was such a nervous little pup, she would barely eat, I used to drip the grease from my chorizo onto her dry food to get her to even attempt it. I won't ever know what she went through because she can't tell me. I don't think she was beaten, she may have had a litter, although I don’t really think so. Mostly, I just think she was neglected. I assume she was an “outside dog.” I know she lived with a lot of other dogs so I predict she was the last to eat, if she even got to eat at all.

Ruca turns 10 years old this year and in our time together we have moved 7 times, lived in 4 different cites and 2 states. She has been camping in the Arkansas Ozarks, she has kicked up the dusty desert dirt in New Mexico, carelessly frolicked through the snow storms and rainstorms of Chicago, climbed the mountains of Malibu, swam in the Pacific Ocean, jumped in Lake Michigan, and canoed on the Fox River. She is fearless, adventurous, athletic, she is curious and happy, she doesn’t need to impress you, she hates squirrels, she is quiet and calm. Her eyes share a lifetime of love and yet are still concerned. I love her more than anything I can ever fathom loving. She has made me and continues to make me a better person. Her happiness comes before most things in my life. I will always be eternally grateful for her companionship, I know there will never be another like her. 

I am aware of the fact that we all leave this earth at some point and I have been preparing myself, to some degree, for that reality with my pup Ruca. I have never been faced with death too closely and I have never owned a pet through the entirety of its life. I don’t know how to prepare and I don’t know what I will do when shes gone. I am focusing on making sure each day she is with me is a good day for her. I am fairly certain I have given my old girl a good life and I will continue to do so until her last breath. September 2nd, 2007 is the day I took her from that cold garage in Hanover Park, Illinois, our lives were altered extraordinarily for the better and I wouldn’t change a thing.