Momo, Part III
The Shared Summer of Life
I sat down every morning last week to write Momo’s story. The story. The summer of his life’s story, you know? Those calmer post-puppy/pre-senior years. When his personality was consistent and things were mostly predictable and I got to worry about my own life a little more. I told about how I came to bring Momo into my life as a puppy. I told about the impacts he had in my life. Now, we arrive at his halcyon years. Those years after the chaos of a puppy, after the heavy training, and before the reframing of a relationship that aging promises.
Initially, I thought I would try to give Momo a voice. I tried to imagine the words he would use to tell his story. After all, who better to give a dog a voice than the person he most closely followed? But, that didn’t feel right. Maybe I’m not clever enough, or perhaps not sage enough, but in truth, a dog's voice offers something words cannot.
In trying to recount Momo’s story, I kept returning to my own life. The events, the people he met because of me, the ones I met because of him, the places we went together. But everything, selfishly or not, was framed within my own experience. The stories we tell about our dogs are not always even theirs. They’re our stories. Storytelling is a human thing. A dog’s experience falls somewhere outside of words and stories.
I remember the story of my godparents’ dog, a little scrappy terrier. She got lost in the woods, only to be found by a trucker over a week later, miles away from where she was lost. We can tell the story of why she ran off, how she returned with matted hair, but the middle part of that story is left to our own interpretation. We’d like to imagine something grand happened, à la Homeward Bound, but we’ll never know the truth. Our stories tell of only the parts we can see.
Laurie Anderson, in her film called Heart Of A Dog, said “the creepiest thing about stories [is that] you try to get to the point you’re making, usually about yourself … and you hold onto it and every time you tell it, you forget it more.” (The film is available in its entirety on here)
When we remember a story, we remember the part we want to tell, and other fragments get lost. Storytelling is a fundamental part of our existence. Not a dog’s existence, however, at least not for them. A dog won’t retell an encounter with a bear, or tell you about her favourite beach. Of course, these experiences will impact the dog’s view of the world: an awareness of the smell of a bear, or an excitement when she arrives at her favourite beach. But these aren’t examples of dogs telling stories, they’re examples rather of a dog’s infallible ability to live in the moment.
From my perspective, making each of my books with Momo was exhausting. We had loads of fun, but it was rarely easy work. Momo’s perspective was much different than my own. I could guess that waiting for my next command while he sat and stayed was Momo’s intermission between real living: sniffing the cobblestone streets of a rural town in France and chasing chuck-its on a beach in Florida and finding the perfect stick. Momo didn’t think much of these moments in waiting, when I was sweating and repeating “stay” and checking the light and focussing on my camera and making sure the composition worked in a state of anxious panic.
I often wonder what his most memorable moments would have been. Is there something that bubbled to the surface more than anything else? Maybe chasing rats at 4am in the streets of Paris? Surely, that was interesting. But that may not have been any different than chasing chipmunks in a forest in North Carolina. If I’m the one talking about it, I’d think it’s more interesting to tell you about Paris. Momo? He’d be more excited about what’s in front of him in the moment, even if it’s just a leaf rustling by.
I’m certain Momo’s experience wasn’t void of a broader awareness, but perhaps not the storybook tale we’d hope to hear. It’s likely somewhere in between – a life of experiences that made certain places exciting, dreams that made his feet kick, and an understanding of the world that’s far more sophisticated than our own. We might be able to grasp a little more understanding by paging through a book or two by Alexandra Horowitz. But I doubt we’ll ever truly understand a dog’s experience.
Momo was indeed a bridge to a lot of my own life’s events. He was my rock when my mom died, he lived with me in a lot of cities, watched me fall in love a few times, stayed by my side through my party years, was there to mend a few broken hearts, watched friends come and go, and of course helped my career blossom. Momo was my therapist: I remember crying on the floor, having in depth conversations with him, while he offered his sagest advice: just be here. When you talk to your dog out loud but you’re really just verbalizing your own thoughts: that’s therapy. (Read: Can Confiding in Your Dog Improve Your Mental Health?) I remember looking into his eyes on a few psychedelic trips certain I wasn’t worthy in the presence of this majestic creature.
Momo’s reach, perhaps one of the most unusual things about him, meant very little to him. It meant that people stopped to pet him often. People seemed to know his name a lot, but what did that matter? He never understood the complex inner workings of our often dramatic and complicated social lives. From his perspective, what happened in his life was always exactly what should have: every moment appreciated for what it was. A lot of people ask if I think Momo knew he was famous. My answer is no. He knew he was loved, and really, that’s all any dog, any person, can ask for.
Storytelling allows us to travel back in time to a moment that meant something to us, and more importantly, it allows us to connect with each other. But a dog owner’s job is not to make sure we have the wildest adventures, or have the greatest tales to tell. We just have to make sure that they’re safe, loved, and that they get to do what they love to do often. Of all of our shared experiences, and all of the stories I love to tell about Momo, I’m certain his best memories would be walking in the woods, with me not too far away, watching the world go by.
Best,
Andrew, Yaya, Boo, and Momo
Pre-order my new book. Find Momo Everywhere is a whole-hearted tribute to Momo. A children’s book about dogs, love, loss, and nature. Written, photographed, and illustrated by yours truly.
This newsletter was originally published in October, 2022.
Momo peeking through leaves (fronds?) Is absolutely precious.
For those of us that document our lives and the lives around us on film, I often wonder if we're truly living in the moment or just living to capture the moment? Are we present or just observers?
Beautiful Andrew. Just beautiful.