Not all Chihuahuas are mean

When most people think of Chihuahuas, they picture little ankle-biting demons whose constant yap-yap-yapping is enough to make the Pope lose his patience.

But they’re not all like that.

Let me tell you about my sweet deer head Chihuahua named Cisco who became like my second child.

In January of 2016, two months to the day after my grandmother (my mother’s mother) passed away, my son received a call from a friend in an adjoining county, wanting to know if he wanted a dog.

This little Chi puppy, terrified, cold and hungry, had wandered up to her grandparents’ mailbox and they took him in. But they couldn’t keep him.

My son — who lived with my mother and I in the same home — relented to come get the dog. He knew there was a snowball’s chance we would let him stay, especially in the house, but wanted to take care of him until he could find someone to adopt him.

When he brought that sweet little boy home and set him in my mother’s lap, it was love at first sight for both of them and we became the proud owners of a Chihuahua puppy.

Mom had been grieving heavily for my grandmother, but now she had a purpose. She had someone to take care of.

My son named him Cisco from a character on the TV show The Flash and he quickly stole our hearts. Unfortunately, the low-life that had dumped him on a country road — in January, in the freezing cold — also apparently kicked him and shattered his pelvis.

It healed, but Cisco had to take pain medicine the rest of his life and he was also scared of everything. Wind, thunder, rain, boots, brooms, plastic bags — you name it.

But every time he was scared, one of us was there to reassure him that he was in his forever home and would never go through that again. He would never be cold again, he would never be hungry again, and no one would ever, EVER, hurt him again. And we kept that promise.

The problem with pain medicine is that it has side effects. Fast-forward to the spring of 2021 and Cisco suddenly goes into kidney failure, caused by his pain meds. Our vet pulled off a miracle and we didn’t lose him. (Also changed him to a med that wasn’t as effective, but also not as dangerous.)

My son and I were not only grateful that we didn’t lose Cisco, but we had also worried about losing Mom if Cisco didn’t make it, because the two were inseparable by that time.

Later that year, a few days after Christmas, my Mom suddenly starts having severe abdominal pains. After passing out — and me hysterically trying to give our address to the 911 operator — she was taken by ambulance to the hospital where they at first thought it was just some GI problems but ran some tests just to make sure.

A few hours later, my Mom was gone.

She had developed an abdominal aortic aneurysm that no one knew about, and the initial pain was when it burst. We didn’t even get to tell her goodbye. But that’s another story for later.

When my son and I returned home late that night — shocked and confused — Cisco greeted us at the door and looked behind me searching for “Grandma.”

I picked him up, held him in my lap and explained that Grandma had to go to Heaven but he would see her again one day. And I will swear until my dying day that he understood me, because his eyes welled up with tears and he never looked for her again. He knew.

So, now Cisco was mainly my responsibility, because with Mom gone, he attached himself to me.

The next few years were rough — with grief, financial troubles and moving to a different house — but through it all, my sweet Cisco was always there for me, making me laugh when he “sang” or melting my heart with cuddles and carrying around his “baby,” a small stuffed squeaky dog.

In the spring of 2024, Cisco started having liver issues. Then stomach issues. Then heart issues.

Swapping foods, taking new meds, lots of vet visits and in and out of the vet hospital. And then, it seemed like he had turned the corner. He was slowly getting better.

But then an old, forgotten nemesis came back to finish what it once started. His kidneys began to fail. Again.

And he didn’t want to eat his prescription food. So my son — with blessings from the vet — would cook chicken for him every night because that’s the only thing he would eat. Still more hospital stays and vet office visits and we thought we were beating it.

And then he stopped eating the chicken. His favorite food in the world and he wouldn’t eat it.

And he wouldn’t drink.

I was sitting with him in my lap the morning of November 21, waiting on the vet to open to take him back again, and he looked at me with a look of Mama, it’s OK. I can’t do this anymore. It’s OK. I understand. It will be OK.

I held it together until I got him to the vet and waited on her to run more tests and call. Hoping and praying, and praying, and praying some more for a miracle that would turn things around.

And then finally she called.

And said his levels were even higher than before.

My heart sank. She started naming this thing and that thing we could try and I stopped her. I told her it was time. We didn’t want him to suffer anymore.

And she thanked me. Because she thought the same thing but didn’t know how she was ever going to broach the subject with us.

The next morning, at about 9:30 am on November 22, 2024, I said goodbye to my sweet Cisco. My son told him goodbye here at home, because no one wants to see a massive giant of a man cry.

I was right there with him in the room — the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do — and on the way home, I had to pull over because I couldn’t see through my tears. Once home, I let out gut-wrenching sobs for Cisco, for my Mom, and for the life we no longer had.

It’s been almost a year now, and I would like to tell you the pain is better.

I would like to.

But I can’t.

It’s been suggested by some friends that I get another dog, but no one can replace my Cisco. And I don’t want to try.

So, no, not all Chihuahuas are ferocious noisemakers that will destroy your ankles.

But one day, they will break your heart.

Originally published on Medium here.