I don’t hate popular music, nor do I hate everything that people like. But this song, I cannot stand. I don’t have a list of reasons compiled with evidence and supporting quotes. I hate the reminder it serves. It reminds me of something. Well, it reminds me of someone.

 When I was eight years old, my mom and my aunt fostered a litter of puppies. As you can imagine, that made me very happy. I loved animals then, and that love has continued throughout my life. We always had dogs, and a year prior I had gotten my Dachshund, Dexter.

But these puppies, they were adorable. So filled with innocence and life, they reminded me of myself because at that time I wasn’t jaded and cynical like I am now. There were four, only a few weeks old. Their father was a Boxer, and their mother was unknown. Two of the pups were brindle and the other two were black.

Eventually, both of the males were adopted out and we decided to keep the two females. One was pure black, with white down her chest and the other was brindle with white on her chest plate as well. We named the black one, Rose and my aunt kept her. The brindle came home with my parents and me.

Her name was Angel.

Angel and Rose both grew to be the sweetest dogs known to man. I often joked that Angel would let a robber in the house as long as they petted her. Rose had the same temperament, and both girls would eat just about anything if you left it done. (They would outgrow that habit, but it makes me smile nonetheless.) On the weekends, in particular, Saturdays, all of our dogs would play outside with me. Angel, in particular, would play tug-of-war with a rope with me well into the evening.

Perhaps, these happy memories are what caused me to despise “Girls Like You” so much. It did remind me of both girls, but shouldn’t that make me love the song? Instead of salty, bitter tears falling from my brown eyes, shouldn’t I be smiling? Shouldn’t it be a good reminder?

Maybe, the answer has something more to do with the fact that the story I speak of doesn’t end happily.

Time is such a strange thing.  When you go through life and fight with depression, it seems like you can blink and twenty years will have passed. That seemed to happen to me, my life began to flash forward. Seven years would pass before I would realize that time had passed. The river of time didn’t move along at a bumbling pace for me, it seemed to be as fast as the rapids.

I became jaded and bitter. I didn’t see the happiness within the world that I used. However, my animals were the one bright light. The dogs always helped to make me smile, no matter how cold I was.

About a month before Rose’s and Angel’s birthday, Rose was diagnosed with cancer. It was surreal to me. I had never seen cancer within any animal. Her weight seemed to fall off of her and her stomach betrayed her. The medication didn’t work. I don’t mean chemo or cancer-fighting meds, I mean palliative care meds. I began to see that cancer truly was just as evil in animals, as it was humans.  

A week before their seventh birthday, Rose passed away. Her posture seemed to be of one in agony, like when people use drawings to show Medieval torture methods. Angel was right at her side. The one good thing about Rose’s death is that she died with her sister’s love surrounding her. The girls had always been close.

Angel was healthy. She didn’t have any of Rose’s symptoms. She was still her sweet self. Every night, I would hug and kiss her. She always kissed me back. She always allowed me to cry on her and to hold her. Research has shown that hugs stress out dogs, but Angel seemed to live for them.

We would take her camping with us, in our RV. Her and Rose, My Dachshund, my mom’s Great Dane, and my aunt’s Saint Bernard. Angel loved running on the beach. She would wag as if her tail was a helicopter blade. She seemed to smile.

One of my personal favorite charades she would do is a game that my mom and I would play with her. It was called “Steal a Kissy”. Angel lived for that. All you had to do was be at eye- level beside her. You would look out from the corner of your eye and tell her “I’m going to steal a kissy.” At this point, her tail would wag and her expression would be gleeful. Either she would lick you or you would kiss her. Both caused happiness, like a bright balloon, to appear.

When we got rid of our couch and got recliners instead, she began to sit on the footrest once you put it up. She would snuggle against you, and if you slept in the same bed as her, she would snore in your ear. (Her snores were loud, but they warmed my hardened heart.)

Perhaps, you see where I am going with this story.

In this year, 2018, Angel would have turned nine. She never got to see her ninth birthday.

At the beginning of August, on a Tuesday, Angel had an eventful day. I will always remember it. She went with us to my dad’s doctor appointment. Then, we went to the vet to get her nails trimmed. She was having fun, and so was I. She had an effect on everyone she met. She could make you smile with barely any effort. We took her into Lowe’s and eventually we went home. One highlight of that day was when we went to my dad’s work. She came into the building with us, and then when my Dad had to go across the street, she sat on the golf cart with us. I wish I had a picture, but I was laughing at her joy.

I hate clichés. I hate them so much, that I despise superhero movies because they are filled with them. My least favorite cliché? All good things must come to an end.

All good things must come to an end.

On the first day of eleventh grade, we took Angel to the vet. That previous Thursday, she had coughed up blood. She stopped eating. Our vet suggested taking a chest x-ray. I hated the results. She had spots covering her lungs.

“She could have a rare type of fungus,” our vet began and I instantly knew what the other option was. “Or she could have small- cell lung cancer.”

“So, I can blame our neighbor for spraying pesticide on our fence?” I asked.

My father wanted to murder me for that comment.

“Blame it on second-hand smoke, blame it on a rude neighbor’s pesticide,” the vet said. He knew that it made me feel better. “We can try an antifungal and an antibiotic to rule out the fungus.”

We took home the antifungal medication and antibiotics. She ate that night and we were able to start the medication. The next day, Angel seemed better. She seemed happier and wasn’t coughing as much. That night, however, she went downhill. Fast. She started to bleed internally. My parents called our vet and this was his advice.

“Enjoy the time you have left with her.”

That night seemed to go by fast. When we went to bed, I grabbed my mother and whispered: “I don’t want tomorrow to come.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s not fair.”

She agreed with me on that one.

So for the last time in my life, I hugged and kissed Angel goodnight. Up until the time I fell asleep, I cried.

Here’s a fun fact: There is no physiological use for crying. I myself hate it because it shows that I’m losing control. I don’t like feeling weak nor do I enjoy feeling like I lost my tight grasp on my emotions. Tears symbolize so much and yet the only thing they’ve ever represented for me is pain. Pain and suffering. Loss and mourning.

On the way to the vet, I sat in the back with Angel and kept an arm around her. Whenever I looked at her, I started crying. Whenever I saw a sign that I was getting closer to the vet’s office, I cried even harder.

The last song on the radio before we took her into the vet’s office for the last time was “Girls Like You” by Maroon 5 and Cardi B.

That song is a physical representation of evil in my eyes. The world and my family lost someone so great that she never once lashed out, even in her agony. We lost someone who would make you happy, even if she was miserable. We lost our Angel.

Her name really fit her.

You may tell me that my hatred is unfair. After all, the only thing it is another product of the formula that is pop music. It’s harmless, supposedly. But to me, it is a living reminder of the darkness within this world. The song makes me cry. I can hear it in a store and I instantly am filled with pain. It should fade soon, but as of right now the evil thing is at the top of the Billboard 100.

That shows the amount of luck I have.

I hate when people use it as a ringtone. I hate when people praise it. I hate the words within the some. The lines “Spent 24 hours/ I need more hours with you” are especially grating. What wouldn’t I do for more time?

I hate the song, for a personal reason. It reminds me of her, the one loss I can’t yet forget. It’s been two months. In a sick twist of irony, that’s about as long as “Girls Like You” has been at number one. Perhaps the reason is silly, but it’s not to me. I love Angel and that song is a physical reminder of the last time, I ever her saw her in person and not in a photo.

My reason is simple, I still miss her.