An Obituary

Squanto died in January. The magnitude of my loss is simple: He was my best friend for nearly 13 years; the impact he had on my life cannot be understated.

“Don’t get a dog,” said everyone when I thought out loud about it. I went against the advice given.

Or did I? Squanto came to me when I wasn’t looking for him: Some children were throwing stones in my neighborhood in Kigali when I realized they were directed at puppies. “STOP!” I yelled at the kids, calling a nearby vet I knew to come take the litter.

But the smallest one was impossible to ignore. He and I locked eyes and promised to be companions for life. We both made good on the arrangement.

August 1st, 2021

My dog is dying. I am not sure when he will go, but the vet says it’s likely to be within a year. There is a technical diagnosis but I can tell you that he is fading, his gait labored and slow, his eyelids heavy and his desires few. I began the grieving process today. We were on a walk together, just him and I, and suddenly my eyes filled with tears. I became acutely aware that his days were dwindling. I called to him and he came, and we sat on a log together for a few minutes. I buried my face in his fur.

As he enters his later years, I’m overcome with emotion. Living without him doesn’t seem plausible — it’s him that has kept me alive through many darknesses, it’s him who is steadfast in times of unknown. But I find his eyes and words aren’t necessary. He’s gifted me a lifetime of wisdom, a lifetime of love. I am simply expanded.

September 28, 2022

Squanto is, without a doubt, the greatest dog of all time. He has his flaws — no one is without them. His are (1) an extreme amount of hair that covers everything in a 50-mile radius of any place he once was; (2) the inability to calm himself when excited; (3) not trusting men in hats. But his attributes far surpass these annoyances, and he is unwavering as my partner and ally. I hesitate to call him a “dog” — a word that can carry negative connotations — as he is more a being than anything else.

He was named for Tisquantum, a Patuxet man with a fascinating story. Tisquantum was captured from his native land in what is now Massachusetts. He was enslaved in Malaga, Spain, for several years before buying back his freedom. From there he went to England, where he worked for a priest and learned to speak English. He eventually earned enough to buy his passage back to his home. On arrival to Turtle Island, however, he discovered his tribe had died out. He joined the neighboring Wampanoags not long before the Pilgrims washed ashore, misguided and ill-equipped. It was Squanto who worked with the intruders, who taught them the ways of the land, who served as intermediary and translator. He died shortly thereafter of fever.

Squanto carries the name with great respect and has proven to be an equally fascinating individual. Born in Kigali, Rwanda, he was five weeks old when I found him.

The Central African dog is derived from a now-extinct ghost population of Late Pleistocene wolves, with the basenji and the dingo both being basal members of this canine clade. “They’re also the most intelligent of breeds,” said the vet in Colorado, “And you have an incredibly handsome one, too.”

"He's a wild African beast," I had to explain to yet another vet (this time, at the San Francisco ASPCA) who’d never seen anything like him. "He can't be tamed.”

Our first four years together were spent in Kigali. There he had a wonderful upbringing — we were privileged to live in a gated home with a large yard and he was able to explore the soil, the bugs, the roots, the shrubs daily, then to nap in the glorious Rwandan weather. Our home doubled as a children’s arts school, and he was affectionately known as the studio pup. His naps, which were never sacrificed, were often taken in the corner of the ballet room as children would bourrée and jeté across the floor.

Imported dog food was not something I could afford in Kigali. Once a week I would moto to the market in Kimironko and head to the butcher stalls. One was particularly friendly and enjoyed the pictures I showed him of Squanto, so he saved the best scraps for us. The meat was 300 Rwandan francs per kilo (about 22 cents a pound at the time) and carried with it a nauseating smell. It wasn’t particularly bad, it was just thick and raw. The butcher would load a thin brown paper bag with as much as I could carry, and I’d be on the back of a moto again, praying the bag didn’t break (which it did, many times). Once home, I’d let Squanto peruse the pieces and pick his choice one for that moment before refrigerating the rest.

When we moved to the US in 2014, he began eating a kibble, which he found intriguing and delicious. He quickly gained weight and strength, transforming from a gangly teenager to a solid young man.

Squanto has traveled to four countries and 19 states, lived in three major cities, one mountain town, and one remote village. In each of these places it was rare to pass another human without them remarking on his beauty or his presence. He had a way of making eye contact that would reveal inner truths or radiate love. After bearing witness to the rapturous joy that oozes out of him when running across a snow covered peak, I’m fairly positive his ancestral land is that of the nearby Kilimanjaro.

It’s abundantly clear his people were also highly intuitive and selfless. He is there in your every time of need. He is ready to laugh with you and to cry with you. He knows when you are feeling less-than and he comes to you saying “You are more than enough.”

The night of the flood took an immense toll on him. He felt the stress of the experience and guarded Esteban and Wilder as we moved them from room to room, house to house, eventually standing the whole way in the car while we drove 20 miles away to our safe haven. James had to help him up the stairs of the loft we slept in, and he collapsed on a blanket. Again, I buried my face in his fur. “I don’t want you to, but if you need to go — I understand,” I whispered to him. His breaths were so far apart.

“He didn’t leave until you he knew you were ready,” says Gabrielle the day after he died. “He waited for you to find your family.” The words feel empty in the moment but every day I feel their truth. He did not leave me alone in the world.

January 21, 2023

Squanto died yesterday. He was 12 years, 10 months, and 20 days. He died naturally of old age, accelerated by degenerative myelopathy which he lived with for a year and five months. 

I wanted to share with you how he went because it was so beautiful, just like Squanto. The last week his health had been failing rapidly and he stopped eating. I had hoped he was in a funk and would bounce back like he had so many times before, but yesterday morning when Wilder and I woke he indicated he wanted to go outside. I had been awake most of the night and had heard him pacing the house, settling him twice but still he roamed. So we took him out and he walked directly to the center of a grove of trees and laid down, deflating. His eyes found mine and it became immediately clear to me he was ready to pass.
 I wanted to leave him where he chose to be, but it was early morning and very cold, so James and I cajoled him inside where we wrapped him in blankets. As soon as the sun hit the porch, we made a bed for him there and sat with him.
 As the afternoon began he started to make his way further from the house, resting in James’ rock garden, the driveway, the lawn. He continued to deteriorate, breathing slower, expelling fluids, eyes becoming less responsive. At this point I gave him a little washcloth bath and brushed him thoroughly, which he enjoyed. By 4:30 it was too cold again for him to be out, so we carried him back inside.

We were all restless, tearful, expectant. I suggested a walk and went to Squanto. “We’re going to go tell the mountains you’re on your way,” I said to him. “We’ll be back in 5 minutes.” I asked Esteban to be his nurse. 

We walked to the edge of the trees and took in the magnificent view. I said aloud “Squanto will be right there, mountains! He can’t wait for eternal runs and valleys of wildflowers.” I took a photo and instantly felt a painful shock of electricity through my body. When we got home four minutes later, he was gone, Ban sitting quietly next to him. A stunning sunset of vibrant pinks immediately burst forward, the first we’ve had in ages.