Grief.

TW: Pet loss, death, suicide

On the evening of Monday, Oct 23rd, 2023, my dog died, just a few weeks shy of his 15th birthday.

On the evening of Monday, Oct 23rd, 2023, my heart broke completely in half.

On the evening of Monday, Oct 23rd, 2023, I lost my baby boy. My companion of almost 15 years. A third of my life.

My friend, my joy, my buddy, and my savior.

His name is Linus, and this is our story.

In February 2009, on my way to meet a friend at a bar in San Francisco, there was a laundry basket full of puppies on the ground in front of a building. I stopped to pet them, and the young boy that was watching them told me they were for sale. I said, thanks but no thanks- I’m not looking for a puppy, and I am meeting a friend for a drink. But let me get your phone number just in case.

I hadn’t even finished my beer when I decided to call. The next day, I picked up my dog.

I had never had a dog before. So Linus and I figured it out the best we could. Four months after our love affair began, we moved to Texas. Just the two of us. We didn’t know anyone, had no family. Just each other. And after a few months of living in Texas, in my loneliness, when the sadness almost got to be too much, he saved my life. I had planned on surrendering him, then going home to take my life. As I sat there in my car, looking at his body, his paws, his ears, his eyes that knew nothing of what was going to happen, I wondered who would take care of him. If he wasn’t adopted, would my little guy be euthanized? What kind of life would he have? Would he be loved? Neglected? Put down because he had some behavioral issues? I started my car, and we went home. I couldn’t leave him there, not knowing his fate- so his fate became what saved my life. I would stay alive for him. I owed him everything and spent the next 14 years doing my best to give him that.

It wasn’t easy. He wasn't easy. He was stubborn. He had food aggression and was a biter. He should have been put down. He didn’t like his paws touched. He was smart as hell. When we took scent classes to exercise his brain, he nailed every task. The teachers applauded him and his natural aptitude. He could find a morsel of chicken in an acre of brush. He had a blankie he carried to bed with him at night. He loved swimming. Fetch. Chasing his tail and humping his bed. He was funny and peculiar and optimistic, and he was mine. I knew every swirl of hair on his body, every freckle on his paws; my forehead fit perfectly in the slope between the top of his head and the end of his snout, and every morning, when I would crawl to him on my knees to say hello, and smell his fur and to kiss his head, I felt love, pure and simple. Almost every morning I would cry a little knowing that one day, there would be a day that I wouldn’t be able to do it again.

15 years goes by quickly. A lot and a little happens in those years. We lived in Texas. Worked on ranches. Drove down country roads, exploring. On holidays, we would have special meals which meant wet food for him and whatever for me. On Christmas, he would get a stocking and knew how to open his gifts. On days that I worked and had school and didn’t have a lot of time for him, he forgave me. We made friends. Went through a few boyfriends. A graduation. A home purchase. A new career. We met my now husband, and he learned to play frisbee. We managed risk to keep him and everyone else safe. He got his sea legs on our fishing boat, and we learned that he had to be crated on the boat after he tried fetching every line we cast. He was with me when I became a wife. He was with me every morning I made our coffee. For an entire third of my life, he was there.

He got older. A few less frisbee throws at night until there were none. One day, at the ripe old age of 14, he stopped humping his bed. He needed stairs to get in the car. Getting out of bed took a little more effort. My boy, my dog that was so strong and so full of life, slept more, and started looking for more quiet places to do it. When his legs weren’t as strong and he was slipping on our tile, I bought hundreds of dollars worth of rugs. And more and more, I’d wonder how much longer we had. The wondering was hard. Wondering when, wondering how. Wondering if he would get more aggressive in his old age and we wouldn’t be able to help him. When he 12, I thought we were close. Then he chugged along to 13, then 14, then almost 15. I’d ask him, when the time comes, please don’t make me decide, and because he was a good boy, he didn’t.

Two weeks before we said goodbye, there was a difference in him. We took him to the beach. He really seemed to turn the corner into Oldmansville but was enthusiastic: he walked along the shore, sniffing everything, barking at dogs, frolicking in the waves, as much as an old man can frolic. By the end of that weekend, I knew something was off. I said, "we only have a few weeks left." We made an appointment with the vet to discuss our options, she felt that he still had some time with him. His labs were good, he was still pretty spunky. She gave us some anti-inflammatories for him, and we went home. She said to start keeping track of his bad days and his good, and when the bad outnumbered the good, then we would know. We never got there.

His final days were very much good days. Even his last.

His last day, he poked around in the yard, smelling the smells. He ate a good breakfast. Was happy. That evening, he was gone. My buddy died in the arms of his big guy- my strong, sweet husband, held him, comforted him, and loved him as he took his last breaths. I couldn’t even get home in time- it was that fast, and he was just that tired. He gave us everything, even in his final moments. I know, this is all we want for our pets. To live long, healthy lives, to not have to count the good days and the bad, to not watch them suffer for prolonged periods of time, and to have them go peacefully on their own. I couldn’t ask for more for him. He was a good boy, and he was joyful, and then he was gone. Two weeks to the day that I said we had two weeks.

We took his little body on his last drive, to the vet that he had known for so long, and to the place he had just been a week before. I used to worry that when he was gone, that I wouldn’t be able to touch him. That his lifeless little body would make me too sad, or quite frankly, that touching a dead body would be too much for me. I had no idea that when you have such a big love for someone, or something, that you don’t care. That your love will be the thing that makes it ok. That your love will be the thing that allows you to hold onto their little bodies, to nestle your head against theirs, to hold their paws, to pet them and kiss them. Love is the thing that made it so hard, after laying with him for several hours, to say goodbye to my sweet boy for the last time. I could’ve stayed there with him forever. It took so many tries to leave, knowing that once I left, I would not see my boy again. Not in the flesh. I just kept wanting just one more minute. Just one more touch. Just one more kiss. I held him until I felt strong enough to walk away, and to leave him with the people that took such good care of him for 14 years.

He was my first dog. My first companion. My best buddy. And I knew it would be hard. I knew I would be devastated. But nothing prepared me for everything else: Coming home to an empty house. The quiet. The last pill in his medicine bottle. Taking the Roomba off the port because I didn’t want it to take away my dog’s fur. Not closing the gate at the top of the stairs that was propped open so my husband could carry him down, his little body still on his bed, under his blankie, with his lizard toy. Not knowing if I would ever be able to put anything in the back of my car ever again because that is where we laid him for his last drive. Our staircase and my car, the funeral procession and the hearse. I thought I would be less sad if I slept in the room he never went into, but that was in fact, sadder. How when I walked past our bedroom, I could see him clear as day, curled up in his bed, under his blanket, looking just like he was sound asleep- the way my husband lovingly positioned him for me for when I made it home. Not sleeping in our bedroom because that is where he died. How your body doesn’t know what to do because everything is different, and the grief is coursing through you, and you don’t know if you should sit down or stand and so you stand in the kitchen shaking to try and get it out of you. How you have to find a new routine because the old one involved him. Or how, after a few days, you don’t cry as much, and you feel normal for a moment, and you think maybe you didn’t love him as much as you thought because how could you possibly not still be crying but then remembering he’s gone, or how soft his fur was under my fingers, then letting out a wail louder than any sound you have ever made and from somewhere so deep inside you that you didn’t know it existed. I didn’t know what was bigger- my love for him or my grief in his absence. No one tells you it is somehow worse and better than you thought it would be.

I asked him not to make me choose, not to make me make the decision for when it was time, and he gave me that. He gave me the gift of not having to see him go, which I think would have been even harder than saying goodbye the next day. He was a good boy. He tried really hard. And one of the last things I asked him was to find me again. So, here’s to hoping he can give me that too. Until then, Bubs, you live on in my heart, and I love you forever.

This is a love story about my dog. This is for me and for Linus. This is for the life we had, and the love we shared.

And it’s for everyone that has lost their animal. Our grief is shared.