Who Am I If I Can't Be My Dog's Mom?

Out of all the identities I've mourned, this one is the worst.

I will never be Bowie’s mom again.

I’ve mourned many identities in the past—basketball player, full-time journalist, runner—but few things have ever been as permanent.

If I wanted, I could still find a way to play basketball regularly, do journalism full-time and log daily runs. I may always be Bowie’s mom in spirit but that role will never exist again in the physical realm. It’s a feeling pet lovers know too well.

“Just a pet” is a phrase I know exists and, thankfully, has become less chic over time, thanks to my generation. Anyone who understands my relationship with Bowie knows he was never just a pet. He was actually more salvation than pet.

I didn’t know I needed Bowie until a week after we welcomed him. I remember that day so well. I came home from work, excited to see my pets: Bowie and my childhood bird, Ozzie.

I gave Bowie some head rubs and went to greet Ozzie. When I saw his lifeless body at the cage’s bottom I let out a guttural cry and collapsed on the ground.

Ozzie was a cockatiel and, for those familiar with Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials series, my real-life dæmon. He would scream excitedly when he heard my school bus around the cul-de-sac and would always protest if I took a shower without him. When Ozzie died at 15 years old, I told Dave I didn’t think another animal could love me that much again—that’s how much this creature meant to me.

For comfort, I turned to Bowie, who evolved from just a pet to my primary emotional support. I threw myself into caring for him, coming home every lunch break and putting social plans on hold in his favor.

It’s not like he was good at comforting me, though.

I’d be in the middle of my grief and he’d be in the corner, pulling every DVD off our tower one by one. One day, he learned he could leap from the couch to the dining room table. The discoveries kept piling up, like when we found out he could unzip zippers when backpack contents were strewn about.

My mind was distracted by a dog that was constantly outsmarting me. I did know one thing for sure: I had no time to miss Ozzie.

What’s a puggle?

I didn’t know what a puggle was before Bowie. I was familiar with pugs and beagles but I didn’t know the combination could be dangerous.

My years spent in the dog realm taught me some breeds are “bad” smart and some breeds are “good” smart. Dax, our other dog, is a black lab mix and is good smart. He is loyal, listens when called and is sensitive to emotions and energy. Bowie… not so much.

Bowie’s intelligence was rooted in anarchy. To him, the risk was always worth it because he knew we wouldn’t let him starve. He’d have food, water, a warm, comfortable place to sleep and a never-ending supply of pets no matter what. And he figured this out very quickly.

In 2010, six months after Bowie’s arrival, we took a trip to Chicago for our friend’s birthday. My brother offered to watch Bowie while we were out of town. His house was familiar to Bowie, as it was a regular stop on our walks.

Halfway through our friend’s birthday dinner, I got a call. It was my brother.

“I’m never watching Bowie again.”

That was the first time Bowie made a grown man cry.

I know for sure Bowie made three grown men cry during his earthly tenure, however, there could be more victims.

A star is born

As I shared Bowie’s antics on social media, I realized I did not have a normal dog. Friends and family reacted with surprise and amusement anytime I posted about his daily drama. Other people’s dogs aimed to please. They did tricks, returned when called and left personal items alone. Bowie had other plans.

Affectionately nicknamed “Hell Tank” by Dave, Bowie had an appetite for destruction—physical and emotional. I’d often find poop outside the bathroom door if a shower took longer than Bowie’s liking. Other times, he’d pee on me if I wasn’t giving him his way. When our friend briefly lived with us, he put together what we already knew.

“These aren’t accident pees, they’re revenge pees!!”

I knew little dogs had big personalities but I was not prepared to tackle a personality as big as Bowie’s.

It’s a personality, though, that won over many. I took advantage of people’s eagerness to hang out with Bowie. I brought him to writers’ meetings and even dropped in with him on local TV broadcasts, giving him a small but devoted audience early on.

When we moved to Philadelphia, his star only grew.

Bowie loved being at home with us but I think if push came to shove he’d drop us in an instant to live at WeWork forever. Dog-friendly and incredibly Bowie-tolerant (to this day, I still do not understand how he wasn’t banned from the building), WeWork on Walnut Street became a second home for us.

Our morning ritual started with a “Hello!” and some quick pets as we passed by people waiting for Broad Street Ministry to open. In between, Bowie would practice overcoming his only fear, metal grates. Once we got to WeWork I’d drop my belongings in the office, Bowie impatiently waiting for what’s next: his fruit water.

Taylor, a brilliant fruit water architect, noticed how much Bowie enjoyed his infused water and started cutting up extra fruit so he could have his own cup. I can say with confidence that fruit water was one of the best things to happen to both of us.

Bowie is the reason I made so many friends in the building. Efficient in unzipping, opening and unlocking, he’d often escape the office, bored with me typing on a computer.

In a way, I relished these escapes. While embarrassing, yes, they were a break from a toxic work environment and helped build the relationships I needed to rely on when things got tough at work. Hell, Bowie is the reason I had a PhillyVoice column for two years. Without his escapes, I doubt I’d be brave enough to introduce myself to people at the publication.

How do I go on without my whole world?

Dave and I always joked that Bowie would go hard until the very end, and he did.

His final year nearly broke us emotionally. It was the most difficult we’ve had in his 15 years with us. Senility had gotten to him and instead of being a sad and bumbling senior, he pulled out all the stops.

Already a very vocal dog, he began barking incessantly. I quickly put it together that 70 percent of his barking was rooted in wanting to sit with us on the couch. My emotions during his barking spells were complicated. I was exhausted and at my wit’s end—especially when he started messing in the house up to four times a day—but also grappling with what we all knew: time was limited.

Since Bowie died more than two months ago, it has been quiet and peaceful. It has also been excruciatingly lonely. Our dogs chose their people—Dax chose Dave and Bowie chose me—and even though I’m cherishing the new one-on-one time with Dax, there’s a heaviness to it.

Every morning, I’d wake up to a warm, furry log pushing against my body, trying to maximize cuddles. When he was ready, he’d army crawl to the top of the sheets to give me tiny kisses on my nose. Even during our hardest stretches with Bowie, I could still count on these sweet and cuddly mornings. I may not be completely lonely in the morning, thanks to Dave and Dax, but I am lonelier.

Engaging in productive rest

In losing Bowie as a primary focus, however, I’ve found I can love myself better. That emptiness has made room for additional self-care, something I’ve desperately needed for the past six months.

I’ve adopted a term I like to call ‘productive rest.’ I’ve channeled my grief into long painting and reading sessions. As paintings and books accumulate, I see proof of progress and feel a sense of accomplishment.

Artistically, I’ve been clinging to my comfort people, which has helped immensely. I pushed my boundaries and completed a portrait of Iggy Pop, specifically his image on The Stooges’ Raw Power album. Shortly after I finished the painting, I made plans with my friend Stephanie (please subscribe to her Substack) to see the Godfather of Punk in Chicago.

Debbie Harry of Blondie also provided warm, parasocial support during my grief. Her memoir, Face It, was like a candy store, with all my favorite rock players peppered throughout the pages. I was pleasantly surprised to learn how progressive she’s been her entire life, in both artistry and politics.

I painted a moment from Blondie’s 1979 Midnight Special performance shortly after my Raw Power piece. During the performance, Harry capitalized on an instrumental break to protest nuclear warfare.

The moment is unexpected, awkward, clunky and even factually inaccurate. (She was referring to nuclear weapons, not nuclear power.) It’s also punk, and I wanted to honor that punk spirit on canvas.

My 2025 goal is to do an art market, just to have the experience. I like to interpret Bowie’s death colliding with this goal as a silver lining. More and more, I’ve been turning to art in grief and the time I’ve spent painting since November has made me a faster and better painter overall.

I know I’d be a bigger mess if I didn’t have art. The pride toward my artistic evolution has filled some of that empty Bowie space. Plus, having a goal has given me purpose and drive. I’ve never described myself as an artist. If I do, I add “hobby” as a qualifier. Now I’m learning to speak about myself differently.

My time as Bowie’s mom has tragically passed, but in its wake, there is an opportunity to be something new.

I live with chronic migraine, which affects how much work I can take on. On average, I lose one workweek a month to migraine attacks. Not a Fit for Our Publication is my way to raise funds to manage my disease while offering something in return. You can help me out by subscribing to Not a Fit for Our Publication, sharing the website, sharing a free blog post and gifting a subscription.