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Pets come into our families in as many shapes, sizes and personalities as there are hairs on a dog. I have no illusion that my bond with my dog was in some way better or more unique than others, but I feel compelled to share my recent experiences with losing my pet in hopes that it helps someone.
I recently lost my dog Stowe. He was rugged with surprisingly soft fur. Athletic, but far from coordinated. Tough, but an impressively aggressive cuddler.
The humane society he was adopted from had a hall of dog kennels behind a heavily insulated door, buffering the noise for visitors. Closing the door behind me forced me to take in the sounds, making me aware of a pocket of silence immediately to my right that was more deafening than the noise around me. A peacefully curled up dog appeared out of nowhere. The paper profiling the dog showed a picture of a mountain cur named Stowe.
He was facing away from the gate, but as I kneeled down for the first of thousands of times to say, “Hey, Stowe,” his head lifted, allowing his deep, soft, brown eyes to meet mine. And without a sound, his stumpy tail started to swirl around. Love at first sight, a meet-cute that makes my partner jealous.
Stowe became my companion as I studied for and passed my board exam, moved across the country, met and eventually married my now-wife, bought a house, adopted another dog who would serve as Stowe’s reciprocal emotional support dog, and had a son who’s closer to his literal day of birth than he is to his first birthday.
The last few months of Stowe’s life probably weren’t his favorite, but he was happy most of the time. Walks became much closer to drags. My last walk with him, the morning of his passing, was especially slow. By the time I came home from work, he was unresponsive. At one point he became conscious enough to roll over, howling in pain as he repositioned his body. Teary phone calls followed — one last call for an appointment for Stowe.
The most obvious noise in our house has been pockets of silence appearing out of nowhere. Places he used to lie, the voids previously occupied by his bed or food bowl, vinyl flooring absent of a tip or tap of claws all blasted out a painful, sad silence.
I wouldn’t trade all of the great memories I’ve had with Stowe for anything, but I would trade just about everything to have five more minutes to snuggle with him on our couch one more time, flip his ears around, and just enjoy his presence again.
The thought of “never” is such a harsh reality, especially when it comes to creatures as innocent as pets. I know things eventually get better because they did with my childhood dog, and I’m sure they will again sometime. But they aren’t great right now.
I’ve spent time looking over photos, the 10th anniversary of his adoption only days away. I had forgotten how decidedly not gray his face was. Seeing pictures of him expertly cuddled against my chest, soaking up views from hikes, or gleefully walking on the coast softens the aching, at least while I look.
If you’ve stuck through this story so far, I’m not exactly selling pet ownership. Petting him as he passed was something I had imagined in my head many times. Actually watching his cataract-clouded eyes as he entered his final nap made me realize I was not ready, but I was in the room and I couldn’t abandon him then.
With what I’ve just gone through, I’ve wondered if I can ever bring myself to get another dog. We already have one dog we adopted together, and we have the flux of a newborn. My shelter dogs have always been flawed, but they’ve been what I’ve needed in my life when I needed them. I’d like to think I’ve helped my dogs in their lives, too.
But right now I just have to exist with my grief as it cuddles against my chest or pokes its cold nose against the back of my leg when I’m getting a snack. I’ll walk our dog, just the one, on the same routes we all took just days ago.
I’ll appreciate the time I had but still wish for more. I’ll think back to that shelter hallway, closing that door, and that piercing silence will fill my ears again as I see your eyes meet mine and that silly little tail thump against the floor.
Consider donating to local shelters or adopting if you’re able. Someone’s Stowe might be out there waiting for them.
