My Grandfather and His Drinking Buddy

by Bianca de Ayala

Trigger warnings: descriptions and discussions of death, particularly pet death and at-risk relative death, and COVID-19.

1Cocuyo

 

A little black speck

that glows with light. 

Who cuddles up with 

me in the night. 

 

I wish I could hold you forever. 

I wish I could pluck your

gray hairs away. 

 

But

—unfortunately—

I can’t slow time. 

 

Oh, Cocuyo. 

Each time you flicker, 

I worry it’s the end. 

 

I’ll be here by your side

until the flame dies. 

1 Cocuyo: Spanish word for firefly, South America and Caribbean origin. 

Fifteen years ago, right before our move to Miami, my family adopted a scrawny, runty shih tzu from a vegan couple in North Carolina.. He ran like a shadow between bushes, his black fur melting with the night. Cosmo destroyed all my Webkinz––the plushies resembled zombies with missing eyes and ripped out innards. But my little lion made up for it by cuddling with me every night, promoted above the disturbingly mutilated stuffed animals. 

My grandfather called him his “drinking buddy.” Whenever my Papa T. picked me up from elementary school up until high school, Cosmo would leap to his feet and furiously kiss his wrinkled hands. I cherished these moments with my grandfather. It was on these same days that my grandfather would give me his painting supplies, and teach me how to draw. Cosmo would hug his sides the whole time.

During the pandemic, I felt safe having my little lion guarding me while the world remained uncertain. Even so, his gray muzzle sniffed more after he lost his hearing and eyesight. His white-streaked fur betrayed his fragile age. 

I’d hug my aging friend tighter, knowing also that I couldn’t hug my grandfather for what felt like an unseeable future. 

Before the pandemic, we had already braced ourselves for Cosmo’s passing. Each year might’ve been his last. He was old, and we knew death could come at any moment. It could’ve been  as simple as Cosmo passing away in his sleep. Every time I had to return to New York, I’d bury my head into his soft fur as he slept, kissing him goodbye and whispering how much I loved him. 

In the spring of 2020, I planned to go abroad for the first time in my life for nearly three-fourths of the year. But one fear dogged my excitement– Eight months was a long time for a dog. Would Christmas be the last memory I have of Cosmo? I also thought about my grandfather, who had just recovered from a near-fatal stroke the previous spring. My anxieties heightened at the prospect of being gone for so long. Nonetheless, I went.

During my first month in Florence, I kept having nightmares about Cosmo’s death. I ran around in dreams where he was lost, or held him as he died slowly, and I couldn’t save him. 

I arrived home from Italy in late February to find my dog at death’s door. My mother warned me before I got home that he was in rough shape. In the midst of my parents’ increasingly demanding work and my sister’s busy remote school schedule, his care fell onto my shoulders.

I gave him a flea bath everyday, battling an infestation in the house. I rubbed coconut oil through his fur to condition it and soothe the bites. I kissed him every time he wiggled free of my towel. I hugged him tight and nuzzled his face after cleaning his ears. I scratched his chin so that he stretched his neck upward, allowing me to sneak in eye drops. He munched down on the dental treats I bought for him, his breath smelling like coconut and mystery meat. Within a month, he was a brand new dog. My mom exclaimed that he seemed to be aging backwards– Like Benjamin Button, in the form of a little flat-faced dog. 

In spite of this revival, I began to hold him more tightly, trying to imprint into my mind and skin the feeling of his warm body, the gentle beat of his tiny heart, and the fragility of his bones. 

I began to have more nightmares where I’d lose him. In the dreams, a black dog that looked just like him would appear at my house. I’d welcome him back in, crying and playing with him. And then another black dog would appear, and I’d have no idea which one was him, and which was the doppelganger. 

Then, Cosmo began to die in my dreams. In the most recent dream, he is being chopped up by some invisible force right in front of me. With each slice, he whimpers, but remains entirely conscious. In the dream, I’m petting him, trying to hold him as more pieces slide off. I’m trying to swallow the tears building in my tight throat, whispering what a great dog he has been, how I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. How I’ll miss him so much. In this dream, the grief is visceral. Eventually, all that is left is his head. I kiss his ears, and then he is gone. I wake up with my heart heavy and cheeks hot. 

I don’t want to think about when he will be gone. But I also can’t stop thinking about how we’re all on borrowed time. If I hadn’t come back home because of the pandemic, my gut tells me that he would not be on this Earth right now. Now I truly don’t know when that time will come. But I take him on longer walks, even though he moves slowly. When he sits in the sun, I sit down in the grass next to him. When he tilts his head and lets the wind brush his whiskers, I do the same. 

I think COVID-19 has made everyone more cognisant of death. I worry a lot about the health of my older, at-risk relatives. Much like how I appreciate the time I spend with Cosmo, I am trying to appreciate the time I have with my grandparents. I ask them questions, and listen wholly to their responses. I’ve realized that I had been taking time with my older relatives for granted. It has now occurred to me that many of them may not be around by the end of the decade; like Cosmo, like us all, they’re on borrowed time. 

I’m holding onto old memories and trying to make new ones while I still can. Just like I’ve begun taking Cosmo on longer walks, I’ve spoken longer with my grandparents. When I hug my grandparents, or give them an elbow bump, I try to remember how it feels. I feel despair at both the reality of time passing and the depravity of the disease, but I’ve also never been more grateful for the time I’m living now. I have a chance, and I need to take it before I live with regret. 

I’m trying to document everything they’ve ever told me.  In my journal, I write down stories of my grandmother talking to tourists and hustling them for money, before her mother scolded her into stopping. I’m recording my grandmother’s eccentric opinions on how Spanish girls are now obsessed with the pompi of men. I write about her reaction when she mispronounces “condo” as “condom”, and laughs at her own accented slipup. 

There’s so much I have to be grateful for. I know that there are many people who lost loved ones this year because of the virus. If you have a loved one, be it a geriatric dog or at-risk relatives, do whatever you can to hold them close. It doesn’t matter if it is through a computer, at a distance, or with a safely-calculated hug. 

I’ve also asked my grandfather to write to me about Cuba and his immigration to the United States. While I was in quarantine, he would write me lengthy articles through email about periods of his life– how he left Cuba as a naive 17-year-old, believing that he would return soon. About his first time in the United States. How he managed to get lost as a truck driver. 

He still asks me how his “old drinking buddy” is doing, and I assure him that Cosmo is sleeping soundly on the couch, snoring gently after a long, sunny walk.