Just a Girl and Her Taco

One drizzly morning in early July I finally decided I’d had enough. After almost a decade and a half of abuse and countless declarations of “today is the the day”, I was done. Really, truly done. I was done with the yelling and fighting. I was done with the name-calling. I was done with being constantly torn down by the one person who was supposed to build me up. I was done with “no” never meaning “no.” It was time for me to do what I needed to do for myself and my own happiness and mental health. And as scared as I was to be ending one chapter of my life and beginning the next, I took comfort knowing that I wasn’t facing in alone.

Way back in the first year of my marriage, in one of his few expressions of genuine kindness, my husband gave me exactly what I wanted for my birthday - a puppy. I’ve always been a “big, cuddly dog” kind of person and never thought in a million years that I could fall head over heels in love with a Chihuahua. But the second I saw that tiny, chocolate boy peeking over the edge of a wicker basket between his two fawn sisters, I knew he was meant to be mine.

Over the next thirteen years, Taco was my constant companion. He was my snuggle-buddy when I needed comfort. He listened without judgment when I needed to vent. He gave me a reason to smile during times when smiling felt impossible. He went with me everywhere, sometimes whether he was allowed or not.

So, when “the day” finally came, Taco knew that something was wrong and he was concerned about his mama. As I rushed from room to room through the house, packing as much of my life into my small, black hatchback as it could hold, he was glued to my heels. I had to be careful not to step on him as I carried bags of clothes and boxes of keepsakes down the stairs and out to the car. He followed me back and forth, up and down the stairs no less than fifty times.

When I was finally confident that I had packed all of my most important possessions (and there was no more room left in the car for anything but myself and my furry best friend) I made one more nervous pass through the house just to be sure. All that was left to grab was Taco, but as I was ready to walk out the door for the last time, he was nowhere to be found.

I walked back through the house calling for him. I checked behind every closed door, under every bed and inside every closet - twice. When I realized he wasn’t in the house, mild panic set in. Did he really choose today as the day to run away?

I grabbed my keys and picked up the search outside. I checked his favorite spots in the yard, but still no sign of him. I walked back to the car to start driving the neighborhood and immediately burst into tears. In my rush to pack I’d left the driver’s door open, and sitting there in the front seat waiting for me, was Taco. He looked up at me is if to say, “Are we leaving now or what?” I grabbed him up in my arms as I got in the car and hugged him tightly, kissing his sweet little face through my tears. “It’s just you and me now, little buddy.”

It’s been three and a half years since that day, and I’m proud to say that Taco and I never looked back. He is sixteen years old now and is still my best little friend. He may be moving a little slower and may not be able to see the world around him as well as he used to, but he is stilling taking care of his mama just as well in the best days of her life as he did during her worst.