On October 12th 2019, my first dog passed away.

She was a 16 year old miniature poodle named Hershey, and was one of the smartest dogs I ever knew.

I constantly asked for a dog during my childhood. Nearly every single day my little sister and I would ask for a dog, another addition to our family that we could love and hold. We’d had hamsters and fish and a budgie, but we needed a dog.

The summer I turned 12 years old we were out camping, my parents had gone into town to get groceries. Instead of hamburgers, they returned with the end of mop. Instead of excitement I was perplexed, asking “What is that?” And my parents replied “Your new dog!” To me, a real dog was a golden retriever, a husky, a German Shepard - a big dog, not this matted mess laying on the grass in front of me.

“That is not a dog.”

She came from the RSPCA at around the age of three. She was tiny, skinny, matted, and scared. She was terrified of brooms. Hated the vacuum. And refused to leave your side when we took her anywhere - we never needed a leash when walking down town, she would never go further than two feet ahead of you. Except of course if there was a grate in the sidewalk - she’d go as far around that hole in the ground as possible, and skitter quickly back to your side. It was the same when we were out camping, she never left our camping area, never roaming further than the picnic table. She was so happy just to be with us, curled up in very own camping chair with her very own blanket. Spoiled rotten.

“That is not a dog.”

She came with us on every single adventure we embarked on. All the way across Canada and back, multiple times, down to Vancouver Island and back. She had her own bed set up at the front of the motorhome where she would watch the world go by as we drove down the highway. Or she would take naps with my sister and I in the back of the motorhome, bouncing along with every pothole we hit. There was that one time we accidentally left her behind on the picnic table, in a rush to get back on the road! But she was still sitting there, waiting patiently for us to come and get her, thirty minutes later. Her trust in us was other-worldly.

“That is not a dog.”

Hershey was an integral part of my life growing up. She was one of the hardest ones to say goodbye to when I left Canada, but one of the best ones to see again when I returned home. I hoped, so dearly hoped, I would get to see her one last time when I went home last July. She was still there. Older, slower, both blind and deaf, eating this weird, mushy food that made her fart horribly. But she was there. She was still the same old dog I remembered from years ago; still had the zoomies that sent her taking off around the garden, still slid around on the hardwood floor chasing her toy “gator.” She still had her special spot on the couch, in the sun, with her blanket, curled up hard against your leg seeking warmth and affection.

I needed to bring her back for my mom.

I can honestly tell you that this portrait was, and will always be, the single most important piece of artwork I will ever create. I put my entire soul in breathing the air back into her for my mom to have with her again. And it was just as important for me; through the creative process I remembered so many moments from my adolescence where she was there. She was always there.

She took me hours to complete, there was so much detail I needed to work with. Every curl had to be right. In the end I think her portrait took me around 40 hours to complete. But it needed to be right.

When I finally put the pencils down when she was finished, I found peace with letting her go.

“That is not a dog.”

And she wasn’t just a dog. She was as much a part of our family as I am, and I know she is missed enormously. She was a princess, a friend, a rat, a toot toot, a Cadbury, a fluffy, matted, crazy little mop of fur with a big heart and a lot of love to give.