The Story Of Bongo

No one blinks when I say that I met the love of my life at a party. But everyone does a double-take when I explain that the love of my life is a dog. Named Bongo.

I left my job in the city with a bad case of what is affectionately known as burnout. The seven in the morning starts and late-night finishes had led me down the road to a place where the only thing I looked forward to was my glass of wine in the evenings and the chance to sleep away most of my weekend so that I could be refreshed enough to do it all again the next week.

I had gone from being an overachiever in school to a go-getter at university to a hustler in the workplace. And despite my many achievements, I was deeply unhappy. It was deep soul exhaustion that showed in the absence of a crease when I smiled and a bounce no longer present in my step. And so I planned to take off a few months and do nothing. A feat that to this day I have never accomplished.

I decided to return to my childhood home while my parents went away on a holiday. It was on the train trip home that I first knew that Bongo existed, although it would be several more years before I met him.

I was sitting there in the baking heat, having woken earlier in the morning than sanity would encourage, to pack up the last of my things and vacate my apartment. Having spent the previous night at my farewell party I was hungover, exhausted to my soul and hungry but unable to eat. I pushed away the churning in my stomach, made worse by the rocking motion on the train, and I fell asleep. It was not restful so much as a way to escape the self-inflicted pain of overconsumption. And as I slept I dreamed about a dog.

He was this little runt of the litter, a Cavalier King Charles. I could see his tiny black and white face with brown inquisitive eyebrows. I could feel the weight of his cuddles in my hand as I held him to my chest and felt the flow of my love for him and his for me, I felt happier than I could remember being in a long time. In the dream, I knew two things. He was sick and he needed me to take care of him. And I needed him. And when I woke, strange as it seemed, even to me, I was certain that this dog was not just a comforting thought but rather someone I would one day meet.

Over the next weeks, then months, and even years, I searched pet adoption websites in my spare time always on the lookout for my literal dream dog. I was told more than once that if I wanted a Cavalier I would have to find a breeder, these were not the kind of dogs you adopted but rather the kind you bought. Trying to explain that it was not that I wanted a Cavalier but that I was destined to own one was not an easy task. So eventually I stopped telling people about my dream dog. And as time passed and discouragement took the place of certainty, I looked at the adoption websites less often until eventually I was no longer seeking my dream.

Then one day I was invited to a small celebration at my friend’s partner’s house. I wasn’t really in the mood for a party, I had my hopes pinned on a quiet night in, and I didn’t really know anyone else that would be there, which is never my idea of a good time. But I felt the urge to go nevertheless. And so strangely excited for no reason I could find, I grabbed some drinks, donned some comfy clothes, and took the long drive several suburbs away to the party I wasn’t sure I wanted to attend and yet couldn’t wait to get to.

I arrived and wandered along the side of the house to the backyard where the masses gathered and wondered again why I had felt the urge to come to a party where I didn’t feel I belonged. I chatted only for a moment or two with the adults standing around in polite conversation when I heard the delighted squeals of children coming from inside the house and went to see if perhaps they needed another person for their game.

I walked into the house regretting my choice as the cacophony of sound grated against my nerves. And yet I was propelled further until I entered the living room. Something caught my eye and I dropped to my knees, placing my hands outstretched in front of me as the tiniest ball of fluff I had ever seen ran straight into my arms. Lifting him up I held him to my chest and thought, ‘Finally I found you.’

I could feel the twitching of his muscles against my skin and realized that, as overwhelmed as I was by the shouting children and general noise, for him it was worse. And so I stood with the puppy nestled against the crook of my neck and went to find a quiet corner for us to enjoy.

We sat on the deck, I did not move for more drinks, or even to go to the bathroom for hours as I simply enjoyed the company of my new friend. Others came to sit with us and time after time remarked, ‘I’ve never seen him so calm.’

I came to learn that Bongo had been christened at birth, Growly. Despite being the runt of the litter and half the size of his brothers and sisters, or maybe because of it, he was considered the most rambunctious and noisy of the litter. And he had apparently lived up to his name the last few weeks while he had been staying here, barking as best he could and attempting to fight everything that crossed his path. But I saw no sign of anything but sweetness as I sat and listened to his story.

Not only was he the runt of the litter, but he also had a severe cleft palate making it difficult for him to eat and drink, so much so that the vet had suggested he be put down the moment he was born. The breeders had said no, let’s give him a chance and reared him by hand and he had survived his first few weeks. But sick as he had the potential to be they could not sell him, so they hoped only to find him a home. And they had. The owner of the house I was in had adopted him with the plan to give Bongo to his mother.

I was heartbroken, I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me to reveal shards of glass that sliced through my soul. I tried to convince myself I was crazy. I wasn’t destined to love a dog. That was insane. The fact that he was the spitting image of the dog I had dreamed of was merely a coincidence. The fact that his story matched what I remembered when I woke up was merely a cruel joke of fate. Bongo had already found a home. And it wasn’t with me.

Almost a month had passed and I felt I had let it go. I got a last-minute request to do a show on a Thursday night and took the spot thinking, ‘See, this is the stuff you couldn’t do with a puppy.’ It was a rougher room, one that I tended to avoid, but I had some new jokes to try out so I spent the afternoon rehearsing, in the attitude of ‘Why not?’ That was the first of the things that never happen.

As I was getting ready to go out to do my show, my dad ended up picking a fight with me over something so stupid I can’t even remember what it was. But it pissed me off enough that I left the house hours early, which was again something that never happens.

And since I had quite a bit of time to kill before the show, I thought why not stop by my friend’s house just in case she was home. Although I’d never stopped by unannounced before, I always considered it the height of rudeness. But she was home, and happy to see me, so we caught up for a bit, and then she decided, even though there wasn’t a spot for her to perform, she might as well come to the gig with me, which she’d never done before.

As I drove her to the gig, her phone started ringing, it was her partner’s mother. She apologized profusely, she’d never normally take a call in front of someone like this, but her mother in law to be had never called her directly before so it must be important.

As I drove and she talked, I got only one side of the conversation, but even so I began to feel hopeful. She was speaking to the owner of Bongo, who had called my friend to ask her how she should handle telling her son that as lovely as the puppy was, his boisterous energy and his potential ill health was too much stress for her at the moment.

I listened with bated breath. And as we pulled up to the gig my friend finished her call, turned to me, and said ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do, we’ll talk to the breeders but no one seems to want this dog.’ And I said, ‘I do.’

As embarrassing as it was I told her the story of my dream that day on the train, how I’d baked in the heat of the sun, hungover and tired but certain that a dog was my fate. Then I told her that I knew that Bongo was that dog, but that I hadn’t said anything because he already had a home and because I feared being sent to the loony bin when I explained that my soulmate was canine. But believing as she does in fate, she simply said ‘Well, that must be the answer.’

There were logistics to sort out and some issues to settle, namely that I was still living with my parents and they weren’t overly keen on me getting a dog, particularly not one with a serious health issue that could end up costing a lot of money. After all, I wasn’t living with them because I was flush with cash. But I knew it was fate so I brushed their concerns aside, along with many of my own and Bongo came to live with me.

I consulted with the vet and he told me that Bongo would eventually need surgery to fix the hole in his mouth that lead to his airways, and that it was incredibly painful and very expensive. I asked him what else we could do, happy to spend all of my little money for his life but not willing to see him in pain. He said that I could hope. Hope he didn’t get any respiratory infections. The surgery couldn’t be performed until he was two years old anyway, if he adapted and didn’t have problems then we wouldn’t have to do it. And so I hoped. And more importantly, I loved.

I loved him as much as my body could. I took him everywhere I went if was allowed, often strapped to my chest like a baby. He came to some of the shows I performed at and wandered alongside me when I worked outside events as a photographer. We went on adventures and camping trips and I even threw him a birthday party, much to some judgmental people’s censure and my friend's delight.

I knew this was my dog and my dream had been right, I loved him so much and he needed me. But the second part of the dream was that I needed him. For a long time, I figured it was just that I needed some unconditional love in my life. Someone who would always be happy to see me, someone who would want to cuddle up and watch movies on cold nights, someone to remind me to take the time to go for a walk every day. But I was wrong.

I was still living with my parents when they announced their divorce. I didn’t find this news particularly upsetting but for my sister, it was the beginning of a chain reaction of distress until one of the people I had been closest to in the world cut me out of her life, along with our family in one fell swoop. My inner child understood more than I did, for she was also in pain. I confronted the thought that the people who had brought me into the world from love couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other and that it was quite possible I would never spend time with my sister again. And in the weight of that moment, I sat on the floor to cry and Bongo crawled into my lap.

I had my own freelancing business as well as my performance career but as Australia burned that summer I noticed a sudden lack of work and that the only shows being booked were charity shows. I signed up to all of them, thrilled to have a chance to help even in a small way. But my own bank account suffered as a result. I had been building up my savings, to invest in my career and myself. Then in the course of a few months, all my hard work was undone. Once again I sank to the floor as I felt my sense of failure overwhelm me, and Bongo crawled into my lap

I was figuratively getting back on my feet thanks to a lot of hard work as we heard the first whispers of Covid 19. When it was decided that the virus had reached Australia and we would all be going into lockdown, I had used the last of my savings to go away for the weekend to finish some training I was doing to expand my skill base, in the hope of finding more work.

I knew that while I was away for those three days, my dad would be moving his stuff out of our family home. My mother was already long gone. I’d be returning to see the house emptied of all the furniture, every family photo, and every last thing that made it home. But I pushed that to the side, I had other things to worry about.

I checked my emails every evening as the cancellations slowly trickled in. Every small business that had wanted my services told me they’d changed their mind as they watched the epidemic become a pandemic and the world close down. Every show I was booked to perform at was now canceled until further notice. Over the course of the weekend, my carefully planned financial recovery was gone.

Sunday morning I woke ready to pack up my stuff and head home to regroup and find another way to get my life back on track but I couldn’t find my purse. I searched the house and after an hour I thought; maybe I’d already packed it in the car but forgotten about it. So I went to check the car, but the car was gone. Someone had broken into the house overnight, stolen my purse, and used my keys to steal my car. So there I was, completely broke, with no money coming in, hours away from home, in the first days of the pandemic and I would have to catch public transport to get back to an empty house.

I got home that night, and I found myself in the kitchen, the only room that didn’t appear empty, as there was no furniture to remove, so it didn’t burn my eyes with all the family moments that would never happen again. I sank to the floor to cry and Bongo crawled into my lap.

My parents were selling the house so I spent my time over the next few days cleaning, painting, and tidying the empty house so that it would be presentable. I found what work I could, working online for less than minimum wage until I could get some assistance from the government. I’d come to the conclusion that for now at least I would have to make do with anything I could get because there was no work to speak of and nowhere to go to get any.

I was alone on my parent’s property, and as we stayed in lockdown I found that time meant little to me. I didn’t see anyone or speak to anyone that much. I helped organize some online shows to support the local Women’s Health Clinic, which was suffering under a sudden increase in demand for their services. I dedicated myself to creative projects I’d never had enough time for. I made an effort to cook nice meals and keep a schedule. In essence, I tried to be constructive with my time. But it was hard. I am not a person designed to be only in my own company. There were moments I couldn’t see the point in getting out of bed. And yet every day I had to get up, feed Bongo, and take him for a walk so I didn’t have a choice but to keep going. And every evening when I sat on the floor, Bongo crawled into my lap.

Eventually, the lockdown began to lift and I found another car, it would cost me all of my little money but I needed something to get around as the world opened up. I was hoping I could start earning again, as some shows were starting to run again and an old client had asked for some of my work. Things were getting better.

Then one day while I was out scouting for a new place to live, knowing that my time looking after my parent’s old place was coming quickly to an end. I was rear-ended by another car and while I was fine, if a little shook up and embarrassed for crying in the middle of the road, the car I had bought was crushed in such a way it was not to be driven again.

I got dropped home and cried as I freaked out trying to figure out how I was going to get to my show that night and what I was going to do next now that my plans for my life were once again in tatters. And I sat down on the floor, thinking I might just give up, but then Bongo climbed into my lap.

With my savings once again damaged and our newly reopened world not bringing as much financial repair as I had hoped, I had to give up on my original plan to move in with some friends. I would instead move into my father’s new house, a place I was grateful to be able to go but embarrassed to need. I just couldn’t seem to get my life together and find another way.

My parent’s sold my childhood home and I began packing up my things and moving them to my dad’s place. Then I helped clear out all the stuff still left in the house. In the final weeks before the handover, I spent almost every day cleaning, tossing out garbage, and arranging items for donations. I wasn’t meant to do it alone but my father had had a complication from his surgery to remove a tumor in his fight against cancer and wasn’t able to help. And so I did it all myself, while I visited him every day in the hospital. On the last day as I looked around the empty house, and thought of the four large garbage skips of stuff I had removed and the eight carloads of donations, I felt the exhaustion catch up. And I sank down to the floor, unwilling to stand anymore, and Bongo crawled into my lap.

And then suddenly there I was, in my dad’s house. Never to see my childhood home again, a place that had meant so much to me because of what I saw when I looked around each room; the family dinners, the celebrations of life, the memories of a full and connected family. It had been my safe place, time and time again, the center I always returned to when life got messy.

My first night in my new home I was alone, dad was still in the hospital. And as I looked around my room, and thought about where I was and how I had ended up there, the weight of my year crashed down on me. All the things that had happened and the things I knew were still to come.

I sank to the floor as I began to cry. I was racked with sobs that shook my bones and made it hard for me to breathe. I felt an ache in my throat like someone had poured fire into my chest. I wondered what was the point. I had tried again and again to rebuild, to get my life back on track. And every time I felt knocked on my ass. As if the world didn’t want me to stand up.

I wondered why I bothered. Maybe I should just stay down. Down on the ground crying, and just fall apart. Maybe I wouldn’t get up tomorrow and the next day or the next. Maybe I’d just stop here.

I should have reached for my phone and called someone, anyone. I should have put on some music, or a video that made me laugh. I should have done something other than sit on the floor and let the darkness take me. But I didn’t. I sat there as I considered my options. One of them, in my mind, at that moment, was not to continue. I knew it was unfair to those around me in my life. But I felt the pain crushing me and I just wanted a way out.

And then I felt the nudge as Bongo pushed under my arm and climbed into my lap. I ran my fingers through my little ball of fluff and thought about all the other cuddles we’d had, I remembered all of the times in the last year when I’d found myself on the floor. And his warm weight in my life reminded me that every time I'd thought I couldn't get up again, I did.

When my parents had announced their divorce and my sister had disowned us all, and I sank to the floor, the next day Bongo and I had burgers on the beach and he'd brought me shells and rocks he found. That first time I started to lose my savings and applied the word failure to myself, and how I ended up giving bongo some leftover tuna for the first time, and he’d been so excited he fell over and made me laugh. When I knew I really had run out of money and my car had been stolen, and I’d had to risk my health on public transport to get home. We couldn’t go anywhere the next day, so I spent the day dancing and singing at the top of my lungs as Bongo and I walked along our street. How alone I had felt in what was once our family home and how little I wanted to get up each day and how he’d nudge his nose into mine to wake me up every morning so he could go out to pee. I remembered when my second car had been destroyed and yet thanks to the kindness of a friend, we’d still made it to our favorite show. And while I was still upset, I’d had the chance to make other people laugh with Bongo at my side. I remembered the exhausting days cleaning out the house and how Bongo followed me from room to room or planted himself in the shade of a tree and watched me as I worked. I remembered coming back, exhausted from the hospital to the empty house. But it wasn’t empty. Bongo was there.

Looking at my life, nothing had worked out the way I had planned. But I had somewhere to live and if I chose it, I had time to try again. And I had the literal dog of my dreams. And so I cuddled him close to my chest and whispered, ‘I love you.’ Turns out I did need him as much as he needed me.

It was for that little ball of fur, the one who had launched himself into my arms the moment I had met him, that I got up off that floor, took a shower, and called a friend. He needed me to love him. I couldn’t leave. I knew I was going to get up the next day and the next day and rebuild my world. This wasn’t the first time I was down on the floor. And it sure as hell wasn’t the last.

Six months have passed since that night and Bongo is happy and healthy and taking a nap on my bed, tired from our afternoon walk. He’s adapted so well to his cleft palate that the vet is even a little worried he’s overeating. And I am here, happier, healthier, and still moving forward one day at a time. I’m still trying to build the life I want. And that’s all the matters. Trying. And more challenges may come. But if I sink to the floor, I know Bongo will climb into my lap.