An ode to Fudge | Maia’s Inner Monologue

I grew up with a dog named Fudge — Fudgie Bunny Penzer to be exact. My family got him when I was three, and had him until about a year ago.  

15 years of Fudge. 

You may be wondering, why the name “Fudge”? All I can say is that 3-year-old Maia and 7-year-old Rachel, my sister, thought that it was the best idea ever. To be quite honest, I would do it again. The name Fudge encapsulated who he was. I don’t think there was a better name for the man.  

Fudge’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. Well, we actually don’t know for sure. My parents were told by the breeder that his birthday was sometime in mid-February. They didn’t have the exact date or paperwork. Looking back, it was sort of sketchy, but that’s beside the point. 

My family took “mid-February” and ran with it. So, Fudgie’s birthday was now declared as Valentine’s Day in the Penzer household.  

Naturally, Fudge was my Valentine every year. This is my first Valentine’s Day without him. 

Fudge and I were one of the same. He was a grumpy, old man who enjoyed sunbathing, sleeping and eating, and — honestly — same. 

I was teased for me and my family’s obsession with Fudge. They called it a cult. “The Fudge Cult.” And listen, I don’t blame them. My dad, sister and I have tattoos of Fudge on our ankles (my mom is afraid of needles). 

Weird? Maybe. But, I would do it 100 times over. 

If you walk into my house, you’ll see dachshund decorations, wiener dog-shaped cookie cutters and blankets with Fudge’s face on it. 

Oh, did I mention he was a dachshund? A fat dachshund whom I love — loved. Our family group chat on iMessage is still called “Fudgie Fans.” Still is. Even though he’s gone. 

Fudge was 15 years old with auburn, but almost totally gray hair with lumps, fat rolls and was always sort of smelly, even when he took a bath, which he despised. All he wanted to do all day was sit in the dark with my dad in his man cave and chew his bone — and you know what? Valid.  

To me, Fudge was perfect. It felt like he got me. He was always there, ever since I was a toddler. 

I remember waiting for the elementary school bus with him. He watched me grow up and I watched him grow up. Thinking about that makes me happy.  

It always felt like I could talk to him and he would understand — and I would do just that. He was the best listener, even though he was absolutely not listening and was probably just waiting for me to drop my Chipotle chips, which he loved. As a matter of fact, he loved any food other than garlic and onions.

Once when Fudge was younger, my dad and sister came back from a trip to Italy with a whole bunch of Italian chocolate. Fudge ate it while we were out one day. How? I don’t know, but he legitimately ate every single piece. Surprisingly, he was fine. 

He got to my Rainbow Loom kit during that phase of my life — shut up, we all did it — and chomped and swallowed the rubber bands. His poop was colorful for almost a week. 

Let’s just say I had to get rid of my Rainbow Loom supplies after that. 

About a year before he passed, Fudge ate an edible that my dad made. Again, not sure how he got to it, but he found his way around getting things he wasn’t supposed to. Long story short, Fudge got high. 

My parents didn’t tell me or my sister until the day after because they didn’t want us to freak out, and rightfully so. Apparently, he just sat and stared at a wall all day — and I resonate with that. Don’t worry, he was fine. Fudge’s stomach and heart were both made of steel.

I was given a pajama set with his face on it for Hanukkah one year, and I can confidently say that it was the best gift I have ever received. Even though Fudge probably preferred everyone else in the family to me, I didn’t mind. He was just so special to me. 

I draw Fudge on pretty much everything I can get my hands on, whether it’s homework or random white boards in classrooms. If you see a random drawing of a dachshund somewhere on Commonwealth Avenue, you can safely assume it’s me. 

Listen, I know people get attached and develop immense emotional connections with their pets, but I didn’t realize how true this was until I lost Fudge.

This isn’t meant to be sad. In fact, I feel more happy than sad as I reflect on my time with Mudge (as I called him). It’s been a little over a year since I last saw Fudge, but it was his time. He lived an amazing life full of bones, cuddles and sun baths. 

Happy Birthday and Valentine’s Day, Fudge. I hope you’re up there eating a giant steak.