Esteban the Magnificent

Featuring - Me as that one papped photo of Big Foot just living his life.

So, my dog is magic.

There’s something completely galactic about the way he looks at me.

It could be 6 a.m., I could be in my pants and an old T-shirt, I could be hunched over, creeping across the cold tiles like a bone-white cryptid squinting at the harsh morning light, and he would catch my one open bloodshot eye and look at me like I built his entire world with my bare hands. Esteban is magic, and he makes me feel like I’m worth something.

Like the fact that I woke up is special and exciting. Like squeezing gravy and meat chunks out of a foil packet into his dinner bowl is providential. Like when I roll over in bed and grumble, blinking at the ceiling before getting up. Like tying my shoelaces with tired fingers or scraping the last bit of peanut butter from the jar. He makes the most mundane parts of my day feel earth-shattering. My lovely little black cloud. I’m telling you, he’s magic.

He’s been quite sick over the last two weeks. Lots of trips to the vet, lots of not knowing, then not really understanding. Lots of time just holding him, giving his bum a soft pat and kissing the space between his ears. For the first time in our lives together, he looked at me, and I saw my wonderfully mundane acts for what they really were. There’s a raw helplessness when your failure is seen so entirely. And that’s what truly sent me spiralling. As the days dragged on and I spent more time on my knees cleaning the carpet than I did making his eyes sparkle, I just felt more and more like an utter failure. To be clear, before anyone gets too worried - he is much better now and back to wiggling his bum and sleeping belly up like a spatchcocked chicken. But, for a while there, it was really scary, and it made me feel so shit. His magic disappeared, and he stopped looking at me altogether.

There was a time, a few years ago, when I refused to even take ownership of a house plant. Convinced I would do something wrong, and I’d have to watch its little bright leaves turn crispy, curl up and fall off. I don’t really know what possessed me to think I could keep a whole-ass creature alive. But much like I imagine parenthood to a human baby changes the chemical balance of your binary computer brain, the second I felt that little wet nose dip under my trouser cuff and leave a wet kiss on my ankle, I was ready to lay down my life. No curling up and falling off, here. No way.

But sometimes those things are out of your hands. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but stand by and try your best. And that’s scary as all hell. It’s horrible and really very hard. Just being present in situations that are out of your hands is some of the worst shit that humanity has to deal with and work through. It feels like standing on a sinking ship with a bucket in your hands, knowing full well that no amount of frantic scooping will keep it afloat. And still, you scoop. You do it because it’s the only thing you can do. Because sitting back and doing nothing feels worse. Because you love something too much to just watch it disappear without a fight.

But here’s the thing I didn’t realise: the ship doesn’t expect you to save it. The magic isn’t in fixing everything. It’s in staying on board. It’s in keeping your hands busy. It’s in being there, even when the waves are lapping at your ankles, even when you’re exhausted and convinced you’re failing, even when you don’t know if it’s making any difference at all. Because maybe the difference isn’t in the outcome—it’s in the effort.

And that’s what Esteban has always been trying to tell me. That showing up is the real magic. For so long, I avoided things I thought I’d be terrible at. I thought responsibility was some enormous, suffocating thing, a weight that I wasn’t built to carry. But it turns out responsibility isn’t some grand heroic feat. It’s not climbing mountains or making the right choices every single time. It’s not knowing exactly what’s wrong with your dog and being able to fix it right away. It’s not perfect.

It’s just showing up.

It’s scraping the peanut butter jar. It’s sitting on the floor when your dog is sick and patting his bum, even if he won’t look at you. It’s being there, being seen, being the imperfect, deeply human thing that you are, and knowing that it’s enough. Just to be there.

Esteban is magic because he sees the magic in me. He looks at me with his cosmic eyes that understand so much more than they can say and shows me that I’m magic. Because it’s always been there. It’s just that sometimes it’s really hard for me to see. And I promise there’s magic in you too. The magic is there. And someone, somewhere, sees it in you. Even if you’re creeping across cold bathroom tiles at 6 a.m., 50% awake, 100% cryptid, barely alive, questioning everything—trust me. You’re magic. Esteban says so.