Small Adventures

Stories about life, loss, resilience, and finding our way back to ourselves.

Wendy Moulton Tate's avatar

Wendy Moulton Tate

Writer. Storyteller. Lover of life.

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  • Puppy Love

    Is my dog my soulmate?

    You know what dogs do? They love you way better than any human could.

    My ex-husband stole my journal that was tucked away in my side drawer and read it. I felt so betrayed in that moment. It wasn’t even dramatic. Just a journal of things I was thankful for. After reading the whole thing, he said, “I think you love Chloe more than me.”

    He was right.

    Anyone who reads your journal and makes you feel guilty is a pretty lame guy. But in the years that followed, I realized something. He really was right.

    My love for Chloe was uncomplicated. Pure. Untainted by the complexities of human love.

    It got me thinking. Maybe my dogs are my soulmates.

    Chloe. Shipoo by breed. A bundle of light by nature. She had many nicknames. Little Mama Miss Obama. Coco. Little Little. But her official name: Chloe Sunshine Tate. That’s the name she truly lived up to. She was full of brightness.

    Back in the day, you could go to a pet store in a mall. It sounds insane, but it’s true. My daughter was only six years old. It was fate that drew us inside that pet store at the sprawling Westminster Mall. And Chloe was there in a miniature, tidy crate. She was tiny.  Her almond-shaped brown eyes stared back at us with curiosity.

    Once we held her, it was game over. Love at first furry cuddle.

    But I was a single mom and didn’t know if we could have a dog. We had to leave her there. I can barely forgive myself thinking about it today. What would have happened had we gone back after church the next day and she was gone? My life would have been drastically different.

    I thank God she was still there. That little runt of a baby. Messy blond fur with tints of apricot. Driving home, I was a wreck.  It was like having a newborn baby again.

    Chloe had a spirit of joy. She was sassy and wild and the most loving, intuitive dog I’d ever known. We would take her to the Girl Scout house. A wide-open space enclosed with a low wooden fence. She would zoom around there making infinity loops. So fast, you could barely see her fly by in complete doggy bliss.

    We had her almost seventeen years. Do you know how many ways life knocks you down in seventeen years? I thought I got her for my daughter, but she was my dog in the end. She was with me through every twist and turn. And there were a lot. Trust me.

    Chloe. The truest soulmate I’ve ever known.

    She had a stroke the day before I got fired. That day knocked the wind out of me in ways I can’t explain. But for two months, I had her presence as I tried to make sense of my life.

    I had the privilege of being with her to take her to daily appointments for her treatments. Prayers upon prayers that we could find a way to get her healthy again.

    Her body hung in there as long as possible. In the end, I know she was just hanging on for me. Selfishly I didn’t want to let her go. I will never get over losing Chloe. She was the best friend and safest love of my life. My life will never be the same without her.

    I swore I wouldn’t get another dog. I could not love a dog again like I loved Chloe. And I couldn’t bear the idea of going through that type of loss again. But I was so deeply depressed without her. The darkness was closing in around me.

    Enter Izzy. Also, a Shipoo. But with some Maltese sprinkled in. I like to call her a Shmaltipoo. Jet black with streaks of white. Spunky and free. A spirit of true adventure and endless energy.

    There’s a spiritual part too. Chloe passed away on September 2. Izzy was born September 3. When we made that connection, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Their spirits greeted one another I’m sure of it.

    Chloe brought me Izzy.

    But would I betray Chloe by opening my heart to love another dog?

    Loving Izzy has shown me that even after great heartbreak, there is room for more love.

    I’m crazy for Izzy. She sleeps by my head and wakes me with sloppy kisses each morning. She literally hugs me too. It’s much needed affection these days.

    I keep a beautiful photo of Chloe right by my bed. Some love you never forget. You keep them close to you. They remind you that it is possible to love again.

    Thank you, Chloe.

    An essay from my work-in-progress memoir, The Bridge Year

  • Leaving Fear in the Rearview

    Cancer stole my innocence and created the bravest version of me.

    Certain things change you. Some things change you forever.

    A cancer diagnosis is one of them.

    For me, it was a loss of innocence. I don’t think you’ll ever forget a call after a follow up procedure when they tell you to bring someone with you.

    Or the look in the eye of the radiologist gently holding your hand to tell you that you have cancer. Even if it’s a good prognosis. You’ll never be quite the same.

    In the days after the diagnosis, everything seemed brighter. Like whatever blinders I had on previously were snatched off my face.  Life was in technicolor. There was life before cancer. And life after. A line in the sand.

    I can remember them drawing the marks on my skin with a sharpie pen. The radiation is very precise. You can’t move in that sterile space. You almost have to hold your breath.

    But I had already been holding my breath. It seemed like a lifetime of holding my breath. Clenching. And still, with all that hyper vigilance, bad things sometimes happen.

    After every treatment, I would drink a mint tea and look out at the green space. Seeing the trees felt different. There was a new stillness in my body. I would walk on the beach. Feel the sand under my toes. The sunshine relaxing my tired body. I was determined to feel life. And to really see it.

    When I look back, sometimes I think to myself, how did I get through those eight years of losses?

    The loss of innocence that comes with cancer. The divorce that followed. The loss of what I thought would be my second chance at family. My blended family. The loss of both my father and stepfather.

    Too many losses. It takes my breath away. With every loss, something in me shut down a bit. A protective shield formed around my heart. I felt like my “house” was blown up and demolished to the studs. A complete tear down of my life. Not to say there weren’t those people that were there through it all. Those people became my tribe.

    There will always be a little fear that never completely leaves my side. I’ve learned to accept it. But with that also comes more joy. An opening up again. To my one and only beautiful, imperfect life.

    It’s been eight years. I’m so thankful to be cancer free. There isn’t a day I don’t thank God for this gift of health. And even with all the milestones, the follow up scans, the Xanax beneath my tongue while I wait for results, the anxiety I had to claw my way through. There was a silver lining.  You start saying yes… to everything!

    And that’s when the cheesecake happened…

  • New York State of Mind

    Cities don’t change. We return different

    New York City. I was seventeen the first time I visited. A whirlwind weekend with my mom, newly single and, to me, surprisingly liberated and hopeful. I didn’t know it then, but that trip would shape me in ways I wouldn’t understand until much later.

    New York hits you in the face with its vibrancy. It shook me out of the fog I’d been living in after my parents’ sudden separation. I remember racing through the city in my “cool” Soho t-shirt, clutching my mom’s handwritten must-see list like a treasured map. Russian Tea Room. Greenwich Village. Fifth Avenue.

    We walked fast. We breathed fast. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive.

    It’s funny to realize she was much younger than I am now. A woman with her whole life ahead of her, refusing to let regret shape her next chapter.

    Flash forward to today. A similar pull of sadness, but for entirely different reasons. I thought I’d landed my dream job, only to have it yanked away in a parking lot in Costa Mesa. My much younger creative director asked if I wanted to “grab a coffee”.  I thought it was a check-in. Instead, with a flat tone and the slightest smirk, she told me I was done — right there, feet from my coworkers.

    Gut punch. Shock. Humiliation. The quiet grief of feeling unseen and discarded.

    Then came the deeper loss. Chloe.

    My tiny Shipoo, my shadow, my comfort for nearly seventeen years. She carried me through some of the worst moments of my life. Losing her two months after losing my job nearly broke me.

    So, when I landed in New York again, this time with my daughter, I didn’t expect the city to do what it did when I was seventeen. But somehow, it did. It shook me awake again.

    Cities don’t change. We return different.

    Our first night, my daughter and I had drinks on a rooftop bar. The city stretched out around us. Twinkly lights, loud horns, endless possibility. I remember looking at her. Really seeing her.  And thinking, wow… I’m in New York with my daughter on her business trip.

    When I was her age, I was waiting tables and trying to snag a role in some low-budget student film. She was orchestrating a pop-up in the West Village for a real start-up. I didn’t want to miss that moment. I was a proud mama bear, for sure.

    The last day of our stay, my daughter sent me to the meat packing district for a delivery of their product. During my Uber ride, I soaked in the beauty of the West Village morphing into that part of town. Murals everywhere, gardens in full bloom, and the stunning High Line took my breath away.

    Once I found the right door, I wrangled those drinks up to a promising funder. After a successful delivery, I found myself stuck on that floor. The elevator had no visible buttons. And no stairwell to be found. My face went bright red as I literally called out for help and got no response whatsoever. Remote work is real!

    I stood there frozen. No buttons. No way down. No one answering. This feels familiar.

    I panicked for a second. Then I took a breath.

    I figured I’d find a way out. And somehow… I did.

    I’d visited New York many times in the years between. Grad school. Romantic trips. Birthdays. But this time gave me the same jolt I felt that first visit: open, receptive… alive. This time, I was broken in a different way. Older, yes — but still vulnerable to the kind of sudden change that knocks you sideways. The kind that dulls your senses and slows your brain. Where even simple decisions feel heavy.

    Sometimes you lose what you thought you needed… and it clears space for what actually matters.

    So here I am. Starting over. A little scared, yes. But awake again.