My childhood dog took her last breath on August 23, 2022. She lived a very long life – 15 years. That’s an incredible run for a dog, and I’m really pleased that she lived that life. 

This is the version of Boovy I like to remember. Teenaged Boovs. This was my desktop background for years.

But that doesn’t take away from the pain of losing a pet – especially a childhood pet. There’s something particularly special about growing up alongside an animal. The bonds formed through those formative years are unique and deeply impactful. 

For someone like me, who has suffered from mental illness from a young age, the bonds I shared with my dog were revolutionary. These bonds didn’t just enrich my life, they kept me alive. 

A little Boovy Backstory 

My family adopted Bella, or Boovy, as we called her, from the Humane Society when she was a tiny puppy small enough to sit in the palms of our hands. I was 12 or 13 years old when she came home with us. 

I can’t remember when we started calling her Boovy, but once we did, it was a name that just kind of stuck between friends. It’s not a real name. It makes no sense. But for her, it was so fitting and so adorable. Urban Dictionary will confirm this (because some very silly teenager made a “Boovy” entry back in 2011). 

Boovy could jump impressively high and my brother and I used to play this game where one of us lays on the floor, the other person holds Boovy’s toy above that person, and then Boovy jumps for the toy and lands on whoever is on the floor. It was stupid. But we were children and we played a lot of pain-ridden games like that. 

“Boovy” quickly became a word my high school friends and I used to mean “cute” or “adorably stupid.” Meanwhile, Boovy provided far more for me at home than just a silly name to play with. In high school, I began to suffer from anxiety and depression without yet knowing why I was suffering. Boovy was always there. When I got really upset, her cuddles really helped. I could cry into her fur, and she wouldn’t care. 

I found that going for walks with her was one of my greatest sources of comfort – and I think she did, too. She was not the most well-behaved dog (we really fucked up her training), and she had a bad habit of jumping on people, but most folks were still pleased to greet her.

She also had a bad habit of jumping onto my parents’ dining room chairs and sometimes even the table itself. If my parents – or my mom, specifically – were working out in the backyard, she needed to be able to see them… even if it meant putting her ass where we eat. 

She would often bark at people passing by (she was incredibly territorial) but once she was reprimanded, she would default to these very low grumbles so she wouldn’t get in trouble. 

Boovy loved posting up on the tops of furniture, including the rocking arm chairs in my parents’ living room. Her balance was impressive. 

My deceased grandfather, who I’ve written about previously, seemed to have a special relationship with Boovy. She really, really liked him. 

When I went off to college and Boovy stayed at home with my parents, I missed her a lot. But my college friends – some old and some new – began to use “Boovy” as a term to describe our group of friends. We called ourselves “the Boovies.” It took root as a loving term of affection. It became so widely known that other folks around campus would even refer to us as the Boovies. I can’t tell you how meaningful it was to have an entire group of friends identify with what Boovy meant to me.

That’s why I ended up getting “Boovy” tattooed on my back when I was 19. Boovy had my back – both the dog and the people who called me “Boovy.” 

One of my friends was so impacted by what “Boovy” meant that she got it tattooed on her foot!

Once I graduated from college and moved back in with my parents, I finally received my diagnosis of depression and anxiety. My condition worsened when I left school. I was very lost. I was working jobs that made me incredibly unhappy. I had very few friends around to confide in. I didn’t even feel like I belonged in the US anymore. But Boovy was there as my only source of constant comfort when I needed it. 

She would sometimes wait at the top of the stairs for me to come out from my bedroom. 

A guy I dated was so taken with her facial expressions that he ordered some t-shirts and coasters with her face on it. 

Boovy was funny. She put up with a lot of my nonsense, too.

She put up with all of this despite never really liking cameras. 

She helped me survive through times I don’t think I would have survived without her. Her emotional support (which was really just her existence) truly saved my life. 

Even though I haven’t lived with her in years, I still think about her when I’m struggling to fall asleep or when I’m really upset. 

She lived a very long and full life. She was 15. (That’s somewhere between 89 and 105 in human years). 

Boovy leaves behind a legacy bigger than most pets. She helped me survive. She indirectly helped my friends find a sense of kinship and belonging. And then she helped me survive again.

I will always love Boovy. I miss her so much.