A few weeks ago, when our dog boy, Munchkin, passed, I posted a farewell letter here which has likely raised some eyebrows. Not because it was inappropriate or had questionable content, but because it seemed too emotional to be true. I even received a comment from a well-meaning dear friend of mine who, certainly with the intention of comforting me, said “come on man, it was just a dog; don’t over-dramatize it.” Like this friend of mine, most of those who are familiar with the theatrical over-dramatization of the wakes and memorials in Iran, probably considered it as a typical example of such exaggerations, similar to some attempting or pretending physical self-harm on the anniversary of the passing of an Imam who lived some 1400 years ago, or unrealistically loud cries or jumps into the open grave of a recently passed loved one as a sign of affection, respect, and sorrow. I wouldn’t blame anyone for having such thoughts, as I was born and raised in that land and with that culture, and no matter how hard I try, I am undoubtedly affected by it to some extent. And in all honesty, I cannot convincingly argue that what I wrote that day was not overly dramatic. One thing I can say for sure, though, is that, unlike the above examples, there were no theatrics involved in that writing; it was a true expression of my emotions at the time, and quite honestly, I still don’t feel any less intensely about the loss. Of course, I wouldn’t write something like that years ago when I was younger; that same culture of exaggerating fake emotions also comes with hiding real emotions, to the point that in those old days, parents were reluctant to show their affection and love to even their children let alone pets, if they had any. But I guess I am now old enough to realize that expressing emotions and showing vulnerability is not a sign of weakness.

The reason for me feeling so strongly about the loss of Munchkin is partly the special bond that was developed over the years between us, mostly during the years when I used to work for Google in Irvine, and used to stay at a condo I had there during the week and would return to San Diego for the weekends. I used to take Munchkin with me to Irvine since he was a few months old, and had had many many days and nights of alone time with him. Some part of that period overlapped with the peak of my struggles with depression, and during those darkest days and nights of my life, I would confide in Munchkin, the same way one would in a close friend, and would talk to him about how miserable I felt. And he would look at me with those big bright eyes, as if he was telling me to not worry about anything, and that everything was going to be fine, and that he loved me. Or, at least, that was what I pretended to read from his eyes. And that would give me some comfort. So, when in an earlier post, I mentioned that Munchkin helped me through the toughest times of my depression, I was not exaggerating.

But now he is gone, so unfortunately, and right when I need him to talk to about how miserable I feel again. And I can’t help whispering to myself parts of a poem I posted earlier (with apologies to my non-Farsi speaking friends), that

تو نیستی که ببینی
چگونه با دیوار
به مهربانی یک دوست از تو می‌گویم
تو نیستی که ببینی، چگونه از دیوار
جواب می‌شنوم