The other day, I briefly wrote about my debilitating indecisiveness and how it is the bane of my existence. I then blamed that side of me for my inability to launch this Substack: I couldn’t settle on a name. I thought I had found it, but true to form, I conjured something better, more sentimental. I’m a sucker for a good name with a good backstory—my previous name didn’t have that, but this one does, so I hope you’ll bear with me as I explain myself further.
Since I’m only human, and I’ll go ahead and assume you are, too, I hope you can empathize with my flip-flopping—maybe you can understand where I’m coming from. After all, our collective inability to make up our minds is one of the most human things about us—it highlights our imperfections, sets us apart from machines, and deserves to be celebrated. I mean, ChatGPT takes less than 2 seconds to respond. In my opinion, that’s too quick for anything, both computer and non-computer, to conclude.
But I digress.
After months of thinking, I finally decided on a name for this page. Welcome formally to mocha latte, a place for my thoughts because God forbid, I keep them to myself.
To go with this name change, here is a story about my soul dog, who taught me that silence is understanding.
Her name was Mocha, but I always called her Latte or Mocha Latte because of her milk chocolate fur, which turned honey-blonde in the summer and dark chocolate in the winter.
She was born in 2007 when I was just seven years old. Her mom, our yellow Labrador Lola, gave birth to her and eight other puppies in our red barn on the ranch. She was the only brown pup in the bunch, and we kept her.
She was my best friend. We just clicked in the way you do with that person you swear you’ve known your whole life. You might say we were one and the same. Two peas in a pod. On the same wavelength. We just got each other. Research suggests that dogs adopt their owners' personalities, mirroring their mannerisms, and thus become more like them. I believe that Mocha did this, but I think she took it a step further. She changed along with me in the same way your romantic partner grows alongside you—as my personality evolved, hers did, too.
We talked every day—or more accurately, I talked to her. I’d get home from school, meet her on the lawn, and tell her about my day—venting to her about boys and how much they sucked or about friends who did un-friendly things. I knew she was listening when she offered her paw or licked my hand. Whether she knew what I was saying was irrelevant. I believed she could still listen without understanding. All I had to do was look into her eyes to measure our connection. She’d lay there, listen, offer slow blinks of assurance, and nestle her head into my lap.
It was George Orwell who said, “Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.” Sometimes, the quietest people are the best listeners—the ones who understand that their presence matters more than their words. We all have someone like that. You don’t seek them out for advice or solutions; you go to them simply to be heard. And when you need words, you turn to the person with all the answers. But when you need silence, you turn to them. Because to be heard is to be understood.
It makes sense to me that I found that connection in a dog—not just because she couldn’t respond, but because she truly listened. I think she enjoyed our chats. I think she loved hearing about my problems, big and small. Sometimes, our talks even soothed her to sleep in my lap. She was the best part of my day, and I’d like to think I was the best part of hers, too.
We did this for years. She was there for the most transformative times of my life—grade school, middle school, junior high, high school, and college. We grew together. We changed together. We evolved together.
I was always scared of what would happen to me when she passed away. I told my friends and family that I would never recover. She was nearing 15 during my senior year of college. I remember when I got the call about the cancer. I fell to the floor in my college apartment, blocking the outside light from my face, trying to go somewhere in time other than that moment. She had two weeks to two months to live. I felt the world's weight on my shoulders, and the only one I wanted to talk to was her.
So, I did.
But I didn’t vent to her about my problems. Instead, I talked of happiness. I told her about the things I love. I told her how happy she made me. I told her about the sunsets and their pink hues. I told her about the ocean waves crashing on the shore. I told her about the perfect bite of apple crumble. I told her about the cherry blossoms blooming. I told her about the book with the happy ending. I told her about the smell of rain. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I would never forget her.
She lasted two months, then the day came. I was returning from a trip I didn’t want to go on when I got a call from my sister.
“Tiana, it’s Mocha,” she hesitated.
I hung up and threw the phone in the back seat because ignorance is bliss. My friend in the passenger seat told me to pull over so she could take over driving. I was shaking, unable to control the tears flooding my eyes. She convinced me to retrieve the phone and call my sister back.
“Tiana, take a deep breath, please,” my sister pleaded. “Mocha is not doing ok; she is going to pass away tonight.
“Put her on the phone,” I demanded.
“Hold on,” I asked of Mocha. “Please hold on, and I’ll be here. Please, please, please just hold on.”
Somehow, she did, and I made it home. I left the car in the driveway, still running, and saw Mocha lying on her bed through the French doors in my bedroom. I fell to the ground next to her. And I let it all out like I never had before. And again, I told her about the good—the cherry blossoms, the sunsets, and the apple crumble. I told her that I’d see her again. I told her that it was ok, that she could go. I told her to listen for me, and I’d be there.
Then, I went silent, and for the first time, I listened to her.
-Tiana