Nobody puts baillee in the corner

One of the biggest drawbacks to growing up is having to say goodbye to the things of your childhood. As everyone’s favorite, emotionally ruthlessly movie My Dog Skip taught us, growing up often includes saying goodbye to your beloved animals. Two weeks ago, I had to do just that.

We got Marvel Ann when I was in sixth grade. My sister had finally brought her home after she got off of work at our public library. Marvel Ann had been pacing back and forth outside for two days, and my sister couldn’t bear it anymore, so she scooped Marvel Ann up in her sweatshirt and decided she was meant to be a member of our family. After several minutes of my dad screaming about us not needing any more animals and eventually storming out of the room (which happened every single time any animal came through our front door and lasted for less than 24 hours when he fell in love with them), my sister passed her over to me. I’ll never forget the first time I held her. (I’ll also never forget what I had on the first time I saw her because it was so early 2000s it hurt). She had chipped red nail polish on her little toenails and a daisy yellow collar. Once I looked into her doe eyes, I knew it was over; I was instantly in love.

Worry loomed over our house for several days while we feared the purposely generic found ad our family friend was required to place in the newspaper stating we had found “a small brown dog” would somehow lead an owner to come claim her. Luckily, they never did.

Marvel Ann quickly made it very clear she ruled the roost. She was never aggressive with any of our other dogs because all it took was her famous side eyes and a little lip quivering, and the record was set straight. She rotated between sleeping with all of us (with me after a late night horror movie viewing of course) and a giant fluffy dog bed that swallowed her. She helped me through many a heartbreak and never failed to lick the tears off my face. She loved to be tucked under your arm or snuggled up in your lap at all times. Basically, her feet rarely touched the ground. For such a small dog, she had the biggest personality you could imagine.

You never really think about your pets growing older with you, so it never really clicked with me how old she was getting. Sure, I knew she couldn’t run around like she used to, and her side eye didn’t pack the same punch, but I never fully processed her age. Not until I got the phone call.

At first, I was totally fine. I kept it together as my mom wept on the phone. It was only after I had to say the words out loud to Vanessa that I really understood what they meant. My little sassy, overweight, and regal friend was gone. The tiny angel that had watched me figure out the complexities of eyeliner, agonize over who to ask to prom, and open my college acceptance letter from atop her couch pillow wasn’t there anymore.

One of my friends said Marvel Ann was the only Chihuahua she had ever loved, and I feel like that speaks volumes because it shows Marvel Ann wasn’t just a Chihuahua; she was simply the smallest member of the Perkins/Miller household. Rest in peace, you saucy lady. I hope you’re hanging out with PaPa.