Leaving My Family and Inheriting My Dead Grandmother’s Dog
Recently, my maternal grandmother passed away, a woman I never really got to know due to her agoraphobia and a plethora of other debilitating mental health issues. She lived in filth, amongst piles of old things that she hoarded from years ago. In the midst of all this, there was a dog. A terribly cute Pug-Boston Terrier mix with enormous eyes, a wiggly butt and a propensity for giving long and loving kisses.
I met her when she was just a mess of squirming limbs, as my grandmother proudly showed me her new puppy during the last visit I had with her before our death bed exchange. Named Pepper (aka Peppy, Pepper Bear etc.), the dog that looked like a pug with the coat of a Boston terrier coated my hands in kisses as she snorted eagerly. A few Pepper farts later, my grandmother turned to bring her back upstairs to her house so as not to offend everyone with her stinkiness. I felt dread for the dog as she was carried back up to the dark and dusty house. That was over a decade ago.
When I learned about my grandmother’s quickly declining health this winter, the first thing I thought of was Pepper. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was still alive, nor did I know anything about her condition. But for some reason, I felt terribly inclined to finally rescue her like I had wanted to do all those years ago. So I asked my mom if Pepper needed a home — and not even two weeks later, I was picking her up from my mom’s house with a new dog bed and plenty of treats in tow.
I was delighted to see that Pepper was just as silly and loving as she was the day I met her. She’s 11 now, with a gray muzzle and thick cataracts. The vet would later say to us, “boy, you can always tell when a pug’s gotten old.”
As I examined her, the results of staying in my grandmother’s house for all those years clearly manifested itself before me. She was quite overweight, had a chronic ear infection, her paws were covered in what looked like mange, she smelled terribly, her nails were overgrown and she couldn’t stop scratching. She also never met another dog or went on a real walk before. As she bounced all over me to lick my face, my determination to help her get better didn’t waver for one second. Every other and more financially stable candidate for adoption in my family simply shrugged. And that’s fine because I definitely wanted her the most.
See, I too had to leave my house recently out of painful necessity, and started over in a way that I never imagined I’d have to. After all, grandmas are supposed to live past 70 and parents are supposed to love you unconditionally…right?
Three months ago, I finally mustered the courage to leave home myself and move onto a place where I was better cared for. But instead of mange and overgrown nails, the damage was a bit less visible: bipolar disorder, complex PTSD, alcoholism, and a number of chronic physical health afflictions. Years of verbal abuse, psychological manipulation, physical abuse, gaslighting, childhood sexual abuse and shitty genetics were to blame.
I was raised by a narcissistic father who made me the main target of his abuse and ridicule. He manipulated me into hating myself, went out of his way to hurt me, and brainwashed my mother and sister into hating and ganging up on me (my sister has luckily recovered her opinion of me since). This, combined with all the above abuse, continued piling onto me as the whole family loudly proclaimed that none of it had happened and that I was just being “too sensitive.” Back in January, I finally saw myself out the door after not being able to bear being so unwelcome in my own home for another day.
This realization that I had been, and always have been, essentially “voted off the island” was incredibly painful for me to face. I had tried so hard to reason with my abusers for years, after all. I had listened to their ridiculous denial of responsibility for their mental health and actions; I endured one too many proclamations of “but I only hit you like two or three times;” I had observed their circular talking and their shocking inability to self-reflect. I had enough of being silenced, abused and discarded. I was ready to finally heal my wounds and blossom in the way that I should have been able to for so many years, removing the toxic obstacles that were stunting my growth as a functional person (since no one else in my family was willing to make a change or help me out of the ditch they dug me into).
I found an enormously loving and welcoming home with my partner and their parents, where I started working on my trauma and sobriety more intentionally. Living with them helped me realize just how toxic my previous environment was. I caught myself apologizing profusely if I left a dirty plate out, and would sometimes cry in my room, refusing to go out and greet them out of shame for living with them rent-free.
But, as I slowly learned. these people aren’t the parents I grew up with. My new parents (that’s the first time I said that!) are super laid back people who treat me with respect and love. They honor my boundaries, and they help me with my recovery. They take care of me in so many ways, ways that I’ve never been cared for my entire life. And as I see myself begin to blossom at a ridiculous rate just from this change alone, I truly learned that family isn’t forever. The people who raised and traumatized me do not always have to be in my life. Their actions don’t define who I am. Their opinions of me don’t reflect on the beautiful person I truly am.
After bringing Pepper to the vet, our mission became clear through a simple checklist: two pills a day, one bath a day, two paw soaks a day, and absolutely NO grains. As we tirelessly scrubbed her day after day and treated her to two more walks a day than she was used to, everything changed so fast. She lost three to four pounds and is slowly but surely learning how to walk on a leash. The rashes on her paws are disappearing and that gross smelling fur of hers was replaced with a shiny, healthy coat.
In two weeks, Pepper looked like a different dog — and from start to finish, she’s maintained the same resilient and positive attitude, never failing to make us laugh with her antics or warming my heart with her intense affection as I cried about my own things. I’ve known this dog for just a month and I’d already give my life for her.
She reminds me so much of myself, of my own journey and the huge growth spurt I experienced when I finally left home. I couldn’t stop thinking of the metaphor I had written about before, about how flowers need room and sunshine and love to grow. Pepper and I were both deprived of some or all of the components that allow a plant to grow. And now, we both have new homes, embracing the turbulent impermanence that is life. Now, we’re running in the sun together, finally free, laughing and tripping over one another as she tangles me with her leash on walks.
She’s still got a lot to learn. Freedom, nurturing and happiness is a lot to take in when you’ve been deprived of it for so long. But it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.
