Nugget was equal parts Chihuahua, rat terrier, Dachshund, and Jack Russell terrier, but spiritually, he was 100% Chihuahua. He was my shadow, my constant supervisor, and my baby. He was deeply sensitive; a tattoo artist once told me that Chihuahuas are the only breed of dog that cry from their heart, and Nugget made me believe that. When I would start getting ready for work, putting makeup on in the bathroom mirror, I would move Nugget’s bed just outside the bathroom so he could lay down while keeping eyes on me. Otherwise, he’d just stand there looking at me with sadness in his eyes, knowing I’d be leaving him soon. He absolutely required a greeting whenever Connor or I returned home, and would often be so excited to see you, he’d climb into your lap, get on his hind legs, and pin his front legs on your chest, as if he was a mobster shaking you down for a debt.
There was a tie for his favorite place: Either on my lap, or in a pit of multiple blankets and pillows, preferably consisting of faux fur and crochet. If you stood (or sat) between Nugget and a blanket he wanted, he would try to be polite in letting you know: Staring at you unblinkingly and pawing at the blanket until you gave in.
Nugget’s love of luxury and comfort is a far cry from where I met him. He was a “foster failure.” I had fostered a dog and a few kittens before. When I went back to the Greenville County shelter looking to foster again, Nugget was simply the least sick, least offputting dog they offered me. His coat stood out to me immediately: While he had an unmistakable Chihuahua face, his stark-white body was covered in light tan ticking, reminding me of a pointer or Australian cattle dog. His face had a distinctive Jack Russell brown mask around his huge, wet, black eyes. Despite his striking appearance, was unrecognizable from the dog I would come to love. Shaking, scared, reserved; okay, he would be shaking and scared many more times in the future. But his huge personality was yet to blossom.
Soon, he was running around the house like a parkour course and cuddling up with me on the couch. We took 3-mile walks and I tolerated his scream-like cries for two years of driving for a long-distance relationship. He endlessly begged for food but would never steal it – except for once, when I was eating a sandwich and he walked up and took a bite himself.
Despite Nugget blossoming, I initially thought he needed more than I could provide. At the end of his two-week foster period, I returned him to the shelter. I told the woman who took him that I thought he’d do well with an older person, probably retired, so they could dedicate all their attention to him. That was a Friday.
Over the weekend, I couldn’t help but keep thinking about Nugget. He was probably so sad and scared in the shelter. Was he wondering why I gave him back? Would someone else adopt him? I was out of town until Monday, so all I could do was worry. As soon as I could get back to the shelter, I asked to adopt him, fighting back tears. Apparently, Nugget had had a great weekend, sitting on lots of shelter employees’ laps, hanging out with the front desk receptionist, and even having someone else interested in adopting him. I would not let him go again. I paid his adoption fee, and the next day, after they neutered him and removed his disturbingly large black testicles, I took him home for good.
I had decided to adopt a dog shortly after starting my foster period with Nugget. I was three months out of college, living on my own for the first time in a city I was quickly growing to hate. My life felt incomplete without an animal. Besides my two years in boarding school and two years in college housing, I had never lived without a dog. My college roommate had her dog in the house for junior and senior years. As a child, when my first family dog died, it took only three months for us to find the next.
Nugget was exactly what I needed in my life at that time, and remained a crucial part of my life for the rest of his. He was unfailingly goofy, jester-like, and determined. He provided structure to my days; they revolved around his needs and his routine, and I attended to them in ways I feel like I am incapable of doing for myself. When he shivered in the winter, I crocheted him sweaters. When I cooked salmon or trout, I’d save the skin for him. He loved popcorn so much that when we made it at home, Connor prepared Nugget his own bowl, making sure no extra salt or butter made it in. When an ex threatened my custody of Nugget, I got an armed escort to ensure the ex didn’t get in my way.
Nugget charmed everyone he met, even people who claimed they weren’t dog people. That same ex’s parents always claimed they were too allergic for any pets. They fell so in love with Nugget that they watched him for every extended vacation and prepared him a full plate at every Sunday dinner until I had to tell them to stop for the sake of Nugget’s health. After the breakup, they got a dog of their own. I credit Nugget.
On our first date, Connor told me he wasn’t really a pet person. He had cats and dogs growing up, but they were mostly outside animals. Nugget broke down those walls and was soon Connor’s favorite cuddle partner. I don’t know if Connor would’ve adopted Bob, his cat, without having met Nugget. Bob became Nugget’s best friend and twerp little brother, faux-hunting him, cuddling with him, and running around the house with him.
So many people have told me that Nugget was special. His personality connected with people in a different way. He melted into your arms and simply wanted to be loved. He brought so much joy to my life and buoyed me in times of distress. No matter what else was happening in my life, I could wake up and have purpose simply by caring for him. I hope he is somewhere sitting in my grandfather’s lap, or sprawled out in the sun, or eating an endless feast of salmon skin and popcorn.
