On Friday, Russell turned nine years old. I woke up that morning to find his body pressed against my legs, still sound asleep, just like always. I reached down and gently woke him up and wished him a happy birthday.
To know me is to know Russ. For nearly 1/3 of my life, he has been right by my side. Over the years, we’ve gone on countless walks, car rides, trips and adventures together. He has sat with me while I cried. Laid by my side when I was sick. He’s gotten me out of the house for a nice walk in the neighborhood when I felt it was impossible. He’s given me a purpose outside of my self for almost a decade.
He changed my life.
I could say a lot about Russ and recount all the various memories we’ve shared. I could tell you about the times we drove across the country. When we both ran across the salt flats in Utah. Or when we looked over the cliffs to see the beaches at Big Sur. When we hiked through the red woods or drove across the golden gate bridge. And how we now walk through the streets of Berlin.
Russell is a special dog and I’ve always known that. He’s particular and very opinionated. He likes his alone time but also gets anxious without someone around. He’s defiant and does what he wants. He loves whipped cream and cheese sticks. He always needs a pillow or toy under his head. He carries his koala to bed every night. He hates the sound of the harmonica. He kicks his feet when he’s dreaming. He has to be carried on escalators. He loves horses and squirrels and bunnies.
We’ve grown up together. He grounded me in responsibility and duty since I was 23 years old. He’s the first dog I’ve ever had. He’s the closest thing to me in my life. Every night before I go to bed I roll over, make sure he has a pillow under his head and give him a kiss goodnight. I remind myself how lucky I am to have a friend like him.
Happy Birthday to my Russell.
