Big Love. Big Grief.

TW: Pet loss, death, suicide

A part of me feels like I should have written this days ago, when my whole body was filled with the deepest grief I have ever known; when I was the rawest, the most vulnerable, and the saddest. I would have been able to capture in perfect acuity every thought, every ache of loss that contorted my body into a quivering ball of human on the floor, every word spoken. But that’s the thing. Maybe I should’ve written this days ago, but for all the reasons listed above, I couldn’t.

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

I couldn’t write this a few days ago because I couldn’t write this a few days ago.

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 family coming out of a building and sitting on the ground while they locked up was a laundry basket full of puppies. I stopped to pet them, and the young boy that was watching them told me they were for sale. I said, thank you but no thank you- I’m not looking for a puppy, and I am meeting a friend up the road. But let me get your phone number just in case. Well, it turns out that it was pretty much love at first sight, because after holding one of those pups, I was done for. 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. We always had cats growing up, and this was all very new to me. So Linus and I figured it out the best we could, and 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 dropping him off at the shelter, surrendering him, and going home to take my life. As I sat there in my car, looking at his little body, his paws, his ears, his eyes that knew nothing of what was going to happen and were probably just wondering if this was a place to get snacks, 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? And 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 drove me absolutely crazy for many of the early years. He had food aggression and was a biter when stressed. He probably should have been put down, and I’m sure just about anyone else would have. He didn’t like his paws touched, and when he had a double ear infection, he had to be boarded for ten days because I wasn’t strong enough to both hold him down and administer drops multiple times a day. He was smart as hell. When we took scent classes to exercise his brain, he nailed every task, and the “teachers” of these classes 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 one of the most optimistic dogs I have ever known, 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, and 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 this again.

15 years goes by much more quickly than you think it does. A lot and a little happens in those years. We lived in Texas. Worked on ranches. Drove down country roads, singing and smoking and exploring. On holidays, when it was just the two of us, we would have special meals which meant wet food for him and whatever for me. On Christmas, he would get a stocking and somehow 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. When we met my now husband, he learned how to play frisbee. We learned how to manage risk, and 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 and a mom. He was with me every morning I made our coffee. For an entire third of my life, he was there.

And he got older, naturally he slowed down. A few less frisbee throws at night until there were none- he just stopped running after them. 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. This is getting older, I know it, but it made me sad. And more and more, I’d start to wonder how much longer we’d have. 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 is a good boy, he didn’t. And the wondering stopped, and oddly, there was a sense of relief in the sadness. I no longer had to worry about my boy.

Two weeks before we said goodbye, there was a difference in him. We went to Galveston for the weekend, to get away, to take him to the beach, to have an adventure. He really seemed to turn the corner into Oldmansville but was enthusiastic: he walked along the beach, sniffing everything, barking at dogs; frolicking in the waves, as much as an old man can frolic. I told my husband, if this was his last day on this earth, I would be OK with that, because what a great last day. By the end of that weekend, I knew something was off and said to my husband, I think 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, but old. She gave us some anti-inflammatories for him, and we went home, but said we could start keeping track of his bad days and his good, and when the bad outnumbered the good, then we would know. But we never got there. The day after, his medicine kicked in, and this dog perked up like he had gained a solid six months of his life. He had no problem popping up off his bed, the stairs were easier, he was spry and happy, and I felt terrible that I didn’t know he needed some help. Needless to say, we felt like we didn’t need to track his days yet. He was back to chasing after deer again, after all. I thought, well, I guess I was wrong, and he has more time. He just needed a little medicine. Maybe soon, but not yet. His final days were very much good days. Even his last.

On 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 and comforted him and loved him as he took his last breaths. I couldn’t even get home from where I was 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. It still sucks, but 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, he was gone. And I miss him so fucking much.

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. Death has always freaked me out, and I’ve never touched anything that was no longer living in that capacity. 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. Loving him. Looking at that little body that I loved so hard for so long. 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. My love is so big for this boy, that 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, knowing that they would be just as kind as they always had been, and that he was in good hands.

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. Oh my god the quiet. The last pill in his medicine bottle that he didn’t get to take. Taking the Roomba off the port because I don’t want it to take away my dog’s fur that’s in the carpet and in the corners. The gate at the top of the stairs that is propped open so my husband could carry him down, his little body still on his bed, under his blankie, with his lizard toy. No one told me I wouldn’t be able to move the pot that is propping the gate open. How I don’t know if I will ever be able to put anything in the back of my car ever again because that is where we laid him to take him to the vet to have him cremated. Our staircase and my car, the funeral procession and the hearse. How 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 walk past our bedroom and see him clear as day, curled up in his bed, under his blanket, looking just like he was sound asleep, the way my husband so lovingly positioned him for me for when I made it home. How I can’t sleep 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 even how, after a few days, maybe 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, it’s only been five days, but then remembering that he’s gone, or how soft his fur was under your fingers, and you are 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 don’t know whats bigger- my love for him or my grief in his absence. No one also tells you that even in all that, that it is somehow worse and better than you thought it would be.

I miss his smell. I miss his noises and his smile. I miss his quirks and his boundless optimism. This is a love story about my dog. I’m sure I’ve lost you, dear reader, by this point, and that’s okay. This is for me. This is 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. I suppose it will get easier. One day I will vacuum. One day I will put something in my SUV and not think about it. One day I will close the gate. It doesn’t feel like it today, but I know one day it will be ok. 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. The biggest gift. 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 gave my husband the gift of sharing a sad, but profound and intimate moment between them. He let him hold him for the first time in ten years. He was a good boy. He tried really hard. And one of the last things I asked him, at his side, 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, and I am so eternally grateful to have had the pleasure of being your Momz.