In Memory: Aspen's Great Expectations of LoupGarou

This story has been an entire year in the making. Pip passed away precisely one year ago today, December 17, 2024. I've tried writing it several times, but I've never been able to get past the first paragraph. Losing Pip has been an experience wrapped up in loss, in guilt, in the pain of promises unable to be kept. Every time I post about him, I cry over the knowledge that I will never have another picture of Pip, that the loving little dog that I knew so well had his life end tragically, so needlessly, that I have a hard time celebrating the lives of the puppies that he left behind. He had so much potential, so much promise. I had told myself that the spring of 2025 would be the time for working on agility, on weight pull, on all of the fun things that he loved to do. For Pip, spring of 2025 never arrived.

Pip was my very first Teddy Roosevelt Terrier. I remember discovering the breed shortly after my Beau died, when I was considering "getting out of" Toy Fox Terriers, which is shorthand for no longer breeding at all or simply switching breeds. Although TFTs were and are my "heart" breed, others have caught my attention over the years. Losing Beau cut through me like the proverbial knife. I found that looking at dogs like him caused me almost physical wounds. I will never, ever have another dog like Beau. I loved him like I will never love another dog--even the thought of his death over twelve years ago sends me into depths of depression.

Pip is a close second.

Unfortunately for Pip, he was a stoic little dog who never saw the unhappy side of life. He must have been in terrible pain, but he went out on runs with Diva as happy as could be. I began to notice that he was losing weight, probably around the twelfth or so of December. Pip was always a "hard keeper," so I wasn't too alarmed by it. I assumed that it was time, once again, to increase the fat in his meals and up his intake by a half cup of food or so. When I picked him up to check him out, however, I could feel the lump under my fingers. I mentioned it to Dan, who agreed that Pip needed to go to the vet the next day. Pip is the dog mentioned in this story who was "sick." He had already died when I went to publish it, but I felt that I wanted to maintain the tone of the story--and--I wasn't ready to tell Pip's tale yet. I'm still not ready, but here it is.

Pip was a wonderful little puppy. I adored him from the moment I saw him, big puppy eyes open wide, mugging for the camera. Like Steele, Pip spoke to me from the minute I saw him. It was as if he could look through the camera and see me. There were two black tuxedo puppies in the litter. I told the breeder that I wanted the puppy "with the big pips, not the little ones," as they were otherwise almost identical. It was the rare case of the call name suggesting the registered name instead of the other way around. He became "Great Expectations" because what else would a person with two English degrees use as a registered name for a puppy named "Pip?"

Pip became great friends with the English shepherd who guards the goats and, later on went on to be the loyal companion of his best girl, Diva. Once she came to join the pack, the two of them were nearly inseparable, unless one or the other of them were off at a show. The only time they spent much time away from each other was when Diva was raising her first litter. Even then, they saw each other frequently, just away from the puppies.

I literally have a tiny home. It consists of 328 feet of living space. The dogs have crates that take up much of my living room. They spend much of their time outside during the day. Because I have a number of dogs, I also have a small kennel building room up at Dan's. I frequently rotate the dogs between the two places, so that all of my dogs are handled, know they are loved, and are socialized. I see the kennel dogs daily, spend a good bit of time with them during the week, and monitor their health as if they were in my living room. Pip and Diva were on the kennel part of their rotation, outside together during the day, crated next to each other at night. They were coming down to the cottage soon. They had recently been bred together a second time and Diva would spend her pregnancy where I could monitor her closely.

The day before he went to the vet, Pip and Diva had had a fun run, scooting out of the kennel building, buzzing Luna and Vex, and heading off to parts unknown. They were both in great spirits. Pip left some food in his bowl that night, but again, I wasn't worried. I had increased his food to help him gain weight, so I figured that he had simply eaten until he was full. The vet didn't seem overly concerned, either. He had palpated Pip's abdomen and aspirated what appeared to be a fatty tumor. No cancerous cells had been aspirated, but it was large. He recommended that we take it out on the following Tuesday, just so that it wouldn't interfere further with Pip's digestive system. I agreed that it was a good idea, as I hadn't seen Pip make a significant poo for a day or two. I brought Pip and Diva back to the cottage with me.

For the next several days, Pip got small amounts of venison, lots and lots of outside time, snuggle time at night. I don't usually let male dogs sleep with me, given that they tend to "mark" things, but Pip was remarkably good. The day before he went to the vet for the final time, he chased the cats for as long as they would permit him, only stopping when Delilah hid under the cottage and the others had treed themselves. Pip had run under the cottage to flush Delilah out, but she was having none of it. He retreated, dashing over to me, filthy and happy, tongue hanging out. I wish that I had taken that picture, but I didn't have my phone in hand at the time. Dan took Pip to the vet while I did chores. Not long after he had been scheduled for surgery, I received a call. It was Dan.

"Pip's not going to make it," he said. "You need to decide what to do next."

I had two choices. I could let him pass away under surgical anesthesia. They simply wouldn't wake him up. The other choice was to perform the surgery, which he had a small chance of surviving, and bring him home if he did. There were no good choices. No choice that would bring Pip home to me for round two with Delilah. No choice that would allow him to see his puppies. No choice that would allow him to become the weight pull champion that he seemed to want to be. I made the decision to let him pass without being awakened. We had said our goodbyes. He'd had good snuggles with me, Diva had been with him before he took his ride in the van. He had been at peace, knowing that he was loved. I wouldn't take that away from him for a few minutes more, no matter how precious they would be for me.

We picked him up the next day from the vet. I took him to the crematorium that had taken Beau and Holly's remains before him. Grief just piled onto grief, but there was little else that I could do. We had deer meat. Christmas was coming fast. There was no time to slow down, to let go. Diva almost seemed not to notice that he had gone. I believe that she thought he had been taken back up to the kennel building. After her pregnancy, after her puppies were gone, I took her back up there for a day. She seemed mildly confused. I think that she expected to see Pip. She sniffed his empty crate--which still stands empty--and seemed to do the calculations in her simplepuppy brain. His scent was not fresh. He had not been there for a while. She would not see him again.

I berate myself for Pip's death to this day. I should have returned to the vet with him when I saw that he was still losing weight. I should have told the vet that I would pay for emergency surgery, somehow. I should have taken him to the emergency clinic in Hattiesburg, which did such a wonderful job with Cyi when she had her first seizures. Would it have made a difference? I don't know. I don't think so. Don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming our wonderful vets. They treated Pip as I would have. They were operating on their best information. I trust them and their decision-making process, even now. It's me that I'm second-guessing. I should have been a better advocate for my little dog. I can't forgive myself for not being one.

I'm so sorry, Pip. I should have seen the shadow of parting from you. I didn't. I failed you. I hope that someday I will have a chance to see you again and to ask you for your forgiveness.