Finding

This site is primarily about aerodynamics, but I stray into tire tests, performance driving, and other topics. Over the years the website has become less organized with its broader focus, but it’s still essentially an educational outlet.

I spent my professional career in technical writing and curriculum development, and I consider myself an educator. Good educators are forever-students. We have open minds, and find teachers, and teaching moments, in the least likely places.

Like in a tiny dog.

Growing up I always wanted a dog, but I didn’t have one of my own until a dozen years ago. I had always imagined a short-haired medium-sized dog with a good nose, and a love of the chase. We’d be hunting partners. He’d flush and retrieve birds, or find deer I’d shot with my bow. We’d bond over blood, like the original dogs and men.

What I got was a miniature Schnauzer. He turned out to be she. Small, gentle, fragile, and scared of loud noises, she wasn’t going to be much of a hunter.

But she loved seeing deer. She would bark four times and get herself so excited that her voice would break on the second syllable. Her bark would go Roh-Ri-Roh-Roh. But she’d only do that bark for deer. Later, anytime I’d see a deer I’d go “Roh-Ri-Roh-Roh” and she’d stop whatever she was doing and frantically look for deer.

She had some hunting instincts, but used her eyes more than her nose. This got her a couple squirrels, and amazingly one rabbit, in the middle of the night. I fed her seared kidneys at 2am and she picked up another nickname: Tiny Wolf.

Pepper was a nervous traveler, didn’t like cars or motorcycles, or hunting implements, and I can’t say she took to any of my hobbies. But it’s the routines that bind us. That find us.

In the morning, she’d wait at the top of the stairs for me, so we could start our day together. In the day she’d sit in the window, then run out the doggie door to bark at passersby. She took this job very seriously, and she was an excellent watchdog. At night, she’d sleep at the foot of the bed. And then when she was sure I was sleeping deeply, move up and cuddle next to me, pushing her bodyweight into mine.

She was a different dog than I ever imagined owning. I ended up finding what I needed in a place I never would have thought to look.

This tiny dog with a huge heart melted mine. But that heart was medically too large. I forget the name of it, but it’s a chronic medical condition; her heart would eventually grow too large and take up her chest cavity, making it impossible to breathe. This bundle of joy had a time bomb for a ticker, and I knew it was going to absolutely level me when it went off.

Up to this point she subsisted entirely on kibble, never had people food, nor begged at the table. But since she was on borrowed time, I endeavored to spoil her. And transformed Pepper into an entitled princess. Anytime I was in the kitchen she’d trot in with expectant eyes. Or make sounds that could not be misinterpreted as “where’s mine?“

Methinks the daily charcuterie boards were a little over the top.

The meds held her heart in check for years, but recently Pepper began having trouble breathing. Last weekend we took her to the ER at Cornell, where she spent the night in an oxygen tent. The vet got the fluid out of her lungs and said she had made a good recovery, and we could still expect more time with her.

But it didn’t work out like that. Pepper went downhill fast and never recovered. She passed peacefully with a final meal, a bedtime story, cuddles, and an injection. I petted her one last time, blubbering in sadness and madness.

I’m no stranger to loss. I’m also no good at it. My son Zack died of an overdose in 2020.

I can’t think about him without crying. I had to move all photos of him on my phone into a private album so that I don’t see them. I’ve never opened a condolence letter. I haven’t had a service or even looked at his ashes. I haven’t moved on. I’m holding onto the pain because that’s all I have left of him. I won’t lose that, too.

So I had always imagined that losing Pepper would incapacitate me. I’d be a wreck for a week or a month or for however long. I’d feel for her in the middle of the night. I’d wait for her waiting for me at the top of the stairs. But that hasn’t happened.

Pepper had one final lesson for me. It’s about keeping the love with the loss. It’s about cherishing the time we had, rather than the time that was cheated away from us. One fifth of my life I shared with her. And her entire life with mine. It was a blessing, and I’m fortunate.

I don’t understand this entirely, so I can’t explain it very well. But I haven’t cried. I’m not incapacitated. I feel Pepper with me as a strength.

With that support, I know I can finally say goodbye to Zack. To put both of their ashes up on the mantle. To look at photographs, to remember, to love, and to move on.

Thank you Pepper, my unlikeliest of teachers.