Remembering Mabel

I am writing this so much earlier in my life than I expected. On Friday morning, Emily and I lost our beloved Mabel. And although the tragic circumstances are something I’ll spend a very long time unpacking, I want to focus on the amazing life she gave me and my little family.

Mabel came into this world as “Sadie” on November 23rd, 2018. After the passing of one of her original owners and the health decline of the other, she was surrendered to KC Small Pet Rescue. There, the foster mom was so impressed with her that she almost kept Mabel for herself. She was already calling her “Sable,” prepared to make that her permanent name.

Around that time, my young family of three cats and two sinners living together out of wedlock were homeless. A friend was generous enough to give us a room in her basement while we shopped for our first home. We were not a very maneuverable family as is, and the small, temporary space was already too little for them.

Emily had wanted a Sheltie, as they were a breed she grew up with. While “keeping an eye” on the dog market, she came across Sadie/Sable. She shared the beautiful pup with the pointy ears with me. I had no connection to the breed, but after one picture, I knew that dog was way too fancy for someone like me. Surely, the universe wouldn’t pick us out of the large number of applications for this highly sought-after dog. I was wrong.

Emily’s background with the breed and the age of our family got us chosen. I drove up to that building, tempering my future wife’s expectations. “Don’t settle for this dog if they’re a dick. Just because they’re pretty and the universe granted us the pick doesn’t mean we have to get the dog.”

We followed the foster mom’s directions, going around to the side gate. I looked over her fence and literally gasped. She took my breath away. I had no idea a dog this beautiful could exist.

The woman’s yard was pretty wide open. Mabel glided through it. I remember saying that night that I’d never seen a dog move like that before. Even when she was alive, I always viewed that day as if she was floating just barely off the ground. I’m not sure what words were exchanged, but Emily and I’s reactions were both awe. It was understood that this girl was not like a first meet with a Tinder date—she was even more beautiful in person.

She was pretty distracted with the backyard but eventually made her way to greet us. It felt like one of those clips of Elvis, where he stops to talk to one girl in the crowd of hundreds throwing themselves at him. I did whatever the body-language version of stuttering is when I reached for my first pet.

Mabel always had a way of almost bowing and moving forward respectfully when going in for affection. There was a politeness in her eyes that I connected with. Going in for a pet had a soft sweetness to it that said, “I’d like it if you’d pet me... if it’s convenient for you.”

We had already known we were going to change her name to Mabel if we got her. It felt so fitting for the character we saw in her pictures. I also liked that it rhymed with the name the foster mom was already trying to move her into. We wanted to give her an “old lady” name, and we were so glad to find that her personality fit it perfectly.

There were growing pains at first. Living in the basement with the cats was tough. And although I already knew Boots had a strong call to violence toward dogs, I believed Emily and I could do it.

We finally got into our house and made sure the fence (that broke right after we purchased it) would be fixed just in time to be Mabel’s backyard paradise. The growing pains with Boots continued. After an encounter that led Mabel to get stitches and many fights, I wondered if we would have to give her up. But they managed to keep a mostly peaceful rivalry after about year two together.

Freddy, being our more shy guy, seemed to enjoy Mabel’s presence since they both preferred to just be left alone. Harvey tried so hard to make Mabel her friend. Emily and I believed she could sense the feminine energy. But Boots ruined cats for Mabel. There would be no relaxing long enough to accept one of Harvey’s long brushes past.

I watched Emily’s confidence grow beside Mabel—the way she bought the treat carrier clip-on and took her training seriously, how she was the more strict disciplinarian on walks, and how much she felt personally attacked by Mabel’s bouts of selective resistance. Mabel brought out a beautiful and motherly side of her.

As for Mabel herself, she was a particular girl who was always present. If you stayed up past bedtime, she sighed and stared. Any movement after that would be followed by her walking toward the bedroom, leading the way.

She was the queen of side-eye and sass. If another dog dared to exist in her presence, she gave them an earful. No matter the size, or if there was anything to protect her from them, she barked and always moved closer—always brave at times when she shouldn’t be.

To truly encompass her personality, I think it’s more fitting to point out her dislikes before her likes. Although she was the sweetest, most gentle dog with people and kids, she had a great disdain for squirrels. There was nothing she hated more—which I always joked was cruel when Emily started feeding them.

The foster mom who gave her to us made a joke about how it was one of the few personality traits she was able to pick out in a short amount of time. But that girl “LOVES squirrels.” The foster mom thought it was a cute, fun thing. Our neighbor told animal control she found it to be more of a noise complaint.

There was no breaking her of the hate for squirrels. The second we’d let her out into the backyard we provided her, she went straight to the tree to bark at it. It was her job. She barked when she saw no squirrels, challenging them to come out and get barked at. When she did see them, she barked even more for them to leave. And the cycle continued.

Her patrol was a figure eight, circling both of her trees, crossing between the two. Both trees have had permanent dirt patches around them since we moved in. Her tiny feet killed the grass within just a couple of weeks. Over and over again, she just circled them and barked.

We once got a vibrating collar that was able to get her into a bit of a quieter phase. She got so much energy built up wanting to bark that she just spun in circles. It reminded me of a weird circus drill—the thing she would do, spinning in circles while keeping her eyes up on the trees. Even though the barking came back, I didn’t mind that she’d still mix in some of the spin moves.

Mabel knew how to chill. She lived up to her old lady name, an age we spoke so excitedly about her reaching. Although she could get excited and play sometimes, no one else was allowed to. If we tried to get one of the cats to play fetch, she’d bark the second the ball went in the air. Zoomies were for her and her only.

Emily and I had a joke that she just wanted to keep the vibes. If anyone was too loud or expressive in their movements, she’d bark at them. “That’s not the vibes!” we’d always yell, to accompany her fits. When my dad got excited during Chiefs games, Mabel would join in—not to cheer, but to tell him to shut up. Even at Emily’s Nonna’s funeral, the clapping after a touching speech caused Mabel to stand and bark. This was a moment everyone remembers as her giving Nonna a send-off. And yes, she was the kind of dog who got invited to funerals.

When Emily and I got Mabel during the summer of 2021, we knew she was our baby. We already knew that summer that her third birthday deserved a full-blown party. We got her a cake from a pup bakery, a pink crown, and had all our friends over. She dressed up for occasions and unwittingly became our performance art.

Every holiday and life event was made instantly better with Mabel there. We figured out how to love holidays again without using a kid to give us that magic. We turned walking into a healthy habit that doubled as relationship-strengthening therapy sessions between Emily and me. Our wedding venue choice was made so she could be there (and have a room to sleep in if she got overwhelmed).

Our army of nieces and nephews instantly bonded with her. From day one, she never had any aggression toward them. We were so impressed. I couldn’t believe I took her to a three-year-old’s birthday almost right after adopting her.

Mabel started every day waking up from her little nook she made under my side of the bed. Every weekend morning started with a sigh before slowly emerging, walking around the bed, making her way up her set of bed stairs, then laying on my chest. From there, she would stare at me, eventually resorting to lifting my hands with her little snoot.

Her job of emotional support had the same schedule, no matter the day of the week or federal holiday. She was going to make sure you knew she loved you, even if she had to wake you up for your reminder.

The rest of her days were spent rushing between Emily and me, bringing joy like a man in a burning building equipped with a faucet, one bucket, and no hose. She only broke from that to nap, bark at passing cars, and patrol her trees (when allowed).

She hated loud noises, like the blender or the ice machine. She eventually learned to love the ice machine because no barks received her ice to chew on. Our kitchen has had a permanent dog bed in it since Christmas, when Mabel got it. She loved to lay on it and stare at anyone who cooked. I would regularly look over from kitchen chores to see how beautiful this creature was. I was taking her attention away by doing the most mundane things, and her laying on a comfy bed in my kitchen felt like a double rainbow to me.

Mabel loved long walks to get pup cups from our local ice cream shop. She loved all of her family and any kids she met. She has a fan club of children down the street from us. One of the kids always messes up and calls her “Maple.” Every time they see us, they drop everything and run to see her. Last time we saw them, they apologized to Mabel for not seeing her as much lately because of school starting back up.

She had an anxiety that I always felt akin to. Although she stood bravely in the face of imminent danger, she crumbled at her own perceived issues. The smell of smoke in the air would cause her to army crawl as low to the ground as possible while pulling away. Fireworks were an obvious one, though I loved having her to keep me from celebrating. Loud bangs in the distance made her visibly distraught. We had a Scooby-Doo/Shaggy sort of thing where, in any scary situation, she would jump to let me pick her up. She hated being held up high, but I know she felt comforted in those moments.

My most used phrase to her was, “It’s ok. It’s ok, puppy.”

I wanted to protect her from anything and everything, even from herself in one of her really brave moments. Her expressive eyes always let me know when she was scared. For all the mental support she brought me, I wanted to return the favor everywhere I could.

For me, Mabel was the start of my home. Until today, I had never lived a day in this house without her.

I remember at a young age hearing the quote that goes, “Cats are for people who want to give love, and dogs are for people who want to receive love.” That always stuck with me. And although I love all animals, that was always the quote I used to justify why I was a “cat dad.”

I thought a lot about that quote when we adopted Mabel. When I met her, I thought, “This thing is way too nice for me.” Honestly, I never stopped feeling that way. But when she chose me and the universe let me have this girl, I decided that I also deserved to be loved.

Mabel’s presence in my life made the world fit more comfortably. She made my social anxiety easier to manage. I grew into a new person with her by my side. And although she’s not the only reason that happened, anytime you’ve thought, “Trevin puts in a lot of work for that show,” just know that was always done with her there, on the dog bed by my desk. She’s been my cheerleader for what have been four of the happiest years of my life.

This is not a full eulogy or obituary. I think Mabel’s mark will be felt and remembered through a lot of different artforms that Emily and I both work on. I just need more Mabel in the world. And unfortunately, art and expression are the only ways that’s possible now.

Mabel was my miss puppy, miss pup, snuppy. My big fluff. My best girl. Marble. My little lady.

I’ve performed thousands and thousands of songs in her honor while in the kitchen. I even got to a point where she would come to me after one particular number that I happened to repeat a lot. It was basically just me singing “I really love the dog” over and over again in a jazzy swing style.

She had the worst breath, but she could rock a pair of freshly groomed buttcheeks. She was trained to break up any time Boots would hump Freddy. She was the easiest dog to give a bath to. When things got too overwhelming, she put herself under the couch. (When a friend recently watched her, their couch was too low, so she slept next to it, with just her nose squeezed under.)

Although I imagined the story of Mabel would be much longer, I can’t ignore how dense her short life was with love and joy. Old dogs could only wish to retire with a résumé half as long as Mabel’s.

One thing I keep reminding Emily and myself is that, on a weekly basis, we shared with each other how that excited feeling we felt the first day we met her never faded. We thought we’d get used to her and she’d just be the dog after a while. But every action she performed still left me feeling like I was in the presence of a celebrity. I reminded her of that regularly.

Today, I finally got myself out of bed just to sit in a chair and cry while looking at her tree. She exerted so much energy around that tree that it feels like the place she left the most of herself.

While walking around in the bare dirt circle around her favorite tree, I found the nametag of hers that had fallen off over a month ago. It felt like she left it for me to find that day.

Emily and I have continuously brought ourselves to the lower level of our deck just to look at the tree. We’ve been so conditioned to look out and see her spinning around it. Sometimes I can catch a glimpse of it in the corner of my eye and still trick my mind into filling in what I’m used to seeing beside it.

My heart will break again when the grass grows back, but Emily wants to plant wildflowers around it next year.

We tried to train out the habit of barking at the tree, but we would give anything to have her screaming at the squirrels today.

No amount of words is enough. There will be more posts and pictures to come. But for now, I want to give Mabel the stage to show you all her passion project when she wasn’t making Emily’s and my lives the happiest—and that’s protecting her tree.

We love you, Mabel.We had the cats sniff some of your fur today, and it felt like they got it. When we open the door, they look with the expectation of you coming in.