On March 10, 2013 a little dog ran out in front of my car on the way to breakfast. For some reason he trusted us enough to get in the car, and he stayed with me for the rest of his life. I was fresh out of film school when we found him, and his long eyebrows reminded me of my favorite director, so we named him Marty Scorsese. He was a happy boy, mischievous and playful, content to just be held and loved. We experienced many highs and suffered many lows together, and he was always there to comfort me. When I say he was a rescue dog, I mean he rescued me.

The little man got to live in some truly beautiful places: Monterey, Daly City, and several neighborhoods in San Francisco: from the flat terrain of the Sunset and walking through Golden Gate Park, to the beauty of Russian Hill and North Beach, and finally Potrero Hill, where the whole neighborhood knew him. For a street dog, he was incredibly well traveled. But his favorite place to be was in his bed under my desk as I typed away.

I used to think old age was an impossibility for Marty; that he would simply refuse to grow old. But he did, as we all do, and he grew into the grumpy old man he always was, though no less loving and affectionate. Our walks became harder and less frequent, and sleeping was now his favorite pastime. He continued to comfort and love me, and on his last night he spent a long time staring into my eyes, licking my nose, and finishing with a burp (he always had excellent comedic timing).

Saying goodbye to Marty was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but it brings me great joy in knowing he’s at peace and able to run and jump and wiggle his fluffy butt like he used to. I know I’ll see him again, and in the meantime I’ll continue to love him and share stories about his adventures.
-Joey P.