Eliott is three years old today, and as we celebrate, it makes me wonder: in those three years, he has lived more life than many humans manage in decades.
He lived in three countries across two continents, and with paws on foreign asphalt and noses to unfamiliar winds, he also explored eight more.
He understands the language of highways, border crossings, rest stops, and long silences. He loves cars, road trips, and the comforting promise of moving forward. When it comes to the Budapest–New York flight, he is vague and doesn’t give a definitive statement. I understand; some journeys are too vast for memory to hold.
The series of unfortunate events started when he was only six and a half months old. We were in France when some teenagers suddenly exploded fireworks right next to him. A single blast was enough; panic overtook him, and he tore free from his harness and ran away. We only found him because luck briefly showed mercy. Australian shepherds are highly intelligent dogs, but that’s not always a good thing. Eliott generalized his fear to similar stimuli, quickly extended it to all loud outdoor sounds, such as storms, and soon began to panic even as the sky darkened, when he sensed the first signs of an approaching storm. A year of behavioral therapy followed—a year of rebuilding his trust in sound and sky, and after that, we were doing well. Until New York happened.
His brief life has been filled with loss.
In his first year, he had an older sister, Karmus, the senior greyhound. She was his first sibling, his first anchor in life. Then, suddenly, she was gone. Eliott was still a baby when the world taught him that companions can vanish without warning, leaving behind only the scent of where they used to sleep.
Six months later, a miracle occurred: the arrival of his baby sister, Ellise. He loved her with a fierce intensity that even caught me by surprise. He safeguarded her, stayed near, introduced her to the world, and helped her discover the scariest places, like the cupboard where the vacuum cleaner lived. Their bond was unbreakable, beyond words to describe. Then, impossibly, she was taken from us too; all we had was only one year together, just shy of four days. He experienced once more what it means to love deeply and to endure devastating loss.
The world tested him even more. In Hungary, a giant Bernese Mountain Dog suddenly attacked him while he was sleeping at home. The attack was violent and shocking, rewiring something deep in his nervous system. His body learned fear faster than he could put into words, storing it in his muscles and breath. As a result, we don’t really make new friends anymore, he is threatened by other dogs, and doesn’t wish to socialize. It’s mostly just him and me, now eight thousand kilometers away from everyone who ever loved us — a vast distance filled with emptiness and silence that we carry with us.
He has also endured things no dog should: he saw his human get hurt. Though he didn’t understand the words and actions, he sensed danger and realized something was wrong; and such helplessness leaves lasting scars. Now, when a man gets too close or tries to hug me, Eliott panics. He cries, whines, and trembles until he’s sure I am safe. I don’t know how much of this is him and how much is me. I also flinch at touch sometimes. Maybe he feels my fear, or maybe he remembers—I can’t know. Maybe our nervous systems have become so intertwined that it no longer matters whose fear is whose.
What I know for sure is this: we sustain ourselves by drawing strength from one another.
He is officially my service dog, and I am unofficially his emotional support animal. We keep each other in check. We keep each other grounded. As I reflect on his losses, praising his courage and honoring his loyalty, an honest and somewhat uncomfortable feeling arises: this is also my life. These are also my fears, my losses, my struggles to survive. His losses were my dogs, my body, my safety, my health, my trust. All that Eliott went through happened to me, too.
I try to appear strong for him, acting as the caretaker and constant presence, yet, I am also hurt and navigating life after rupture. Loving him has taught me that caring for him also means caring for myself, especially in this place, where if something happened to me, no one would look after him.
Without him, I likely would have already given up. I often wake up only thinking of him; he’s been the reason for my mornings countless times. He’s had to pull me from the floor to wake me, and when I was trembling from nightmares and flashbacks, he’d lie down on me with his full body weight. He’s been my warmth and my pillow, saving me so many times I’ve lost count.
It’s just the two of us now, two souls forged by grief, still choosing tenderness, moving forward despite our past pain because love left us no other option.
Ellise loved being a service dog; she didn’t just tolerate or accept it—she truly loved it.
Her calling, her vocation, her mission, the core of her life was taking care of me. It was more than a duty; it held a deeper meaning. It defined who she was in this world, and she wore the red harness with pride. God, I miss her so much.
Whenever a flashback hit, and my body wandered elsewhere, she would climb onto my lap with her small, determined weight, pressing into me as if challenging gravity. She often remained there for long minutes, sometimes hours, grounding me with her warmth and breath, and checking on me every few minutes with her gentle, beautiful eyes.
She felt truly happy when she was able to work. Helping me manage my anxious mind and socialize made her feel complete, as if the universe finally gave her a purpose that truly resonated with her soul. Her life’s work was to keep me safe.
Eliott is… not that.
Eliott, I’m convinced, doesn’t actually want to be a service dog. I think, to be honest, he wants to be a stubborn, slightly selfish, glorious pain in the ass with his main job description is fun. He takes on the service dog role because he loves me, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He does what needs to be done with a sigh you can almost hear, as if to say, Fine. I’ll handle this, but let’s not get carried away.
He rests against me, he waits patiently, allowing me to cry into his fur and reconnect with my body, he keeps watch until the pain, emotional or physical, is gone, then — as soon as my breathing stabilizes and my hands stop trembling —up he jumps. His favourite plushie, Mr Alien Green, is gently held in his mouth, his eyes shining with happiness. i just love when his little face lights up with cheerful smugness.
The message is very clear: Okay, drama queen, crying hour is over. You’re alive and okay, now, stand up, throw Mr Green, and entertain me. You are so boring with your misery.
It’s written all over his face: a form of tough love that prevents me from drowning in my own world. He has enough of me to be fragile; he wants me functional, preferably playful. He’s not seeking to be my purpose—he just wants me back in the game.
I know, this is also love. Ellise stayed so I could feel safe, Eliott leaves so I don’t stay stuck.
One carried my pain, the other tolerates it just long enough to remind me that life is still happening and that I am expected to participate. I’m expected to wake up when others wake up, I’m expected to eat when he is hungry, his hunger signals mine, I’m expercteded to keep a routin that involves basic socialisation and not just writing and writing and reading and writing and studying and submitting and writing for days in row, without even talking to someone or answering the phone, I’m expected to give him proper walks and this means dressing up and brusing my hair and to paint a smile on my face with my red lipstick.
Sometimes, love means holding a trembling body close for hours. At other times, love is dropping a slobbery ball at your feet and refusing to let trauma define your personality.
Eliott taught me something I’m still learning how to put into practice. He has experienced loss too, genuine loss, and fear that shook his body—moments when the world suddenly doesn’t feel safe. But for him, trouble is only trouble while it’s real. While the danger is present, he trembles. While the fireworks are exploding, his body reacts. And then, ten minutes later, he is playing again.
The fear doesn’t keep him awake that night, nor does it visit him the next week. It doesn’t settle in his mind or reshape his outlook on the future. For him, pain has a limit; an expiration date. If there’s no danger now, the world is beautiful now — even if yesterday was tough. He doesn’t dwell on suffering from what was or what could be; if now is good, everything is good. And if there’s something to chew or steel, now is even better.
My forever baby boy turns three today. For the coming years, I wish for him something radical: that he no longer has to bear the consequences of human stupidity and cruelty. Instead, his challenges should stem from kindness, consistency, happiness, and love. I wish him boredom and safety so steady that it becomes monotonous.
Over the next three years, I wish him a backyard, cuddles from a man’s hands he doesn’t have to fear, the best organic vegan treats, plenty of peanut butter and pup cups from Starbucks worldwide, and a furry companion who stays. Most importantly, I wish him the freedom to be a stubborn pain in the @ss whenever he wants. I want him not to have to be a good boy, to experience countless moments of ‘f@ck it,’ and to hear lots of ‘nononononooooooooo’ with even more ignored recalls. I want him to be the little, relentless, annoying cutie d@ckhead he was always meant to be.
