Vanilla, 2002–2016

Vanilla, the best dog — ever, died yesterday at 5:17pm in the cradled arms and caressing hands of loved ones after a brief battle with canine cancer. Vanilla was 14 years old and lived in New York City.

She was also known as and responded to derivative names that included Vanilla Gorilla, Nilla, Nillerz, Vanillz, Nillz, V-Girl, Girly, Girly Girl, Girly Goo, Girly Goo Goo, Goonzie, The Girly Goonzie, Goozie, Goozie Boozie, Goozie Boozie Karoozee, The Gooz, The Goozer, The Goozerz, Googie, Googz, Shmoogz, Shmoogie, Scoojee, Scoojerz, and occasionally, Mrs. Pink Belly, Dumb Dumb, Dumb Shit, and Dumb Fuck.

With great great grandparents originally bred in China and nurtured in the laps of a dynastic royalty, Vanilla was, true to her breed, a feisty and opinionated shih tzu whose behavior lent itself to being a fetcher of ping pong balls, a feckless guard dog, a fearless attacker of big dogs, and an alluring flirt to small children who she also attacked with zeal. Vanilla’s reputation preceded her; parents despised her without having met. Notwithstanding her seductive cuteness that drew in sidewalk strangers and small kids like moth to flame (with similar outcome) Vanilla was a friend to few.

Those fortunate enough to earn her approval (usually through surreptitiously shared table scraps at dinners — Vanilla was a foodie) were spared from bites by her scarce front teeth, only 3 but sharp as bluefish teeth, and were seduced into her lovable, cartoonish allure. She looked like a Disney-esque drawing of a dog, with bulging black eyes rimmed in white, black nose and lips set against white hair with patches of caramel. She was adorable. She was cute. She was canine kitsch. And if Vanilla liked you, you were “in” and smitten. It was a small club.

The crazy shih tzu was known from the neighborhoods of Tribeca and Lincoln Center on the island of Manhattan to the mountains of Vermont to the shores of Rhode Island and Cape Cod to dog-friendly resorts across the country. The itinerant little beast loved back seats of cars and under seats in jets. Vanilla wagged her tail like crazy at the sight of luggage, which was fortunate because she was regularly stuffed in it for sly check-ins at no-pets-allowed hotels and inns everywhere. She was family, and traveled accordingly.

Life’s challenges to Vanilla included scratching a lifelong itchy ear, enduring the humdrum daytime boredom alone in a Tribeca loft, enjoying two chocolate poisonings, and being picked up and clamped by the powerful jaws and puncturing fangs of an unleashed 82-pound angry dalmatian who violently shook her like a ragdoll. (In recovery, the poised little warrior wore her protective cone-of-shame like an Elizabethan ruff and healed from her injuries with ease and elegance.)

Vanilla lived in routines and created them for others in the grand bargain between humans and canines exchanging food and shelter for companionship and amusement. Her presence will be missed in the daily rituals held within the compressed spaces of New York City life. Vanilla was always there, next to you. Or on you. She never learned any tricks though she could dribble a basketball, sort of. With paws atop the ball she’d stand, growling, and jerkily pull the rolling ball inward while jumping backwards, “dribbling” the ball in figure eights on the floor. It was weird looking and vaguely embarrassing, but ultimately hilarious and great entertainment for dinner guests.

Vanilla is survived by those who were able to pick her up happily by the scruff on the back of her neck with aplomb, a pack that includes Brooke, Mackenzie, Ian, John, Anne, Denyse (maybe, club status questionable), Dan & the Debbadoo, and a few undecideds (feelings were mutual). She also leaves behind her only and bestie friend, Lucy, a suburban schnoodle from upstate New York who played with Vanilla standing on hind legs, bumping chest-to-chest with front paws grappling in sumo wrestling-style battle to the amusement of all.

Vanilla wasn’t much of a licker, except on the occasions of one’s return from a trip away. In one motion she’d bound up on the couch, jump on your chest and lick your face, tail wagging, happy you were home. Yesterday, unusually, Vanilla couldn’t lick her family’s faces enough, right to the end, perhaps feeling the uncertainty that had fallen upon her and sensing the possibility of eternal absence between us in our shared yet asynchronous fates.

Rest in peace, Vanilla. You were the best dog. Ever.