I feel like almost everything fits into the category of “before” or “after.”
Before or after I graduated from college, before or after I moved back to Texas, before or after I got married.
Before or after Rupert came into our lives.
Time is such an interesting concept; there are moments that happened years ago that I still remember vividly. Those are the moments where you ask yourself “could that really have been ten years ago?” Then there are the moments that happen that you struggle to remember, the inconsequential details of what you wore, or what you had for lunch, or what day of the week you went to the bank. Did that only happen yesterday?
It’s tough to remember life before Rupert. As a six-week puppy, he peeked his little tri-color face through the bars of his crate at the Humane Society of North Texas. J.B. and I had visited the shelter that day to inquire about another dog, only to find out he had been adopted less than an hour earlier. We had been talking about adopting a dog for years, but even as we entered the building that day, I don’t think either one of us anticipated signing adoption papers that day.
But … that little face. As soon as we held him, we knew he was our Rupert. It was truly love at first sight.
Before or after I graduated from college, before or after I moved back to Texas, before or after I got married.
Before or after Rupert came into our lives.
Time is such an interesting concept; there are moments that happened years ago that I still remember vividly. Those are the moments where you ask yourself “could that really have been ten years ago?” Then there are the moments that happen that you struggle to remember, the inconsequential details of what you wore, or what you had for lunch, or what day of the week you went to the bank. Did that only happen yesterday?
It’s tough to remember life before Rupert. As a six-week puppy, he peeked his little tri-color face through the bars of his crate at the Humane Society of North Texas. J.B. and I had visited the shelter that day to inquire about another dog, only to find out he had been adopted less than an hour earlier. We had been talking about adopting a dog for years, but even as we entered the building that day, I don’t think either one of us anticipated signing adoption papers that day.
But … that little face. As soon as we held him, we knew he was our Rupert. It was truly love at first sight.
A few weeks later, at the veterinarian’s office for his first check up, we were alerted to a prevalent heart murmur. While it’s common for a puppy of that age to have a 1-2 grade heart murmur, Rupert’s came in at a strong three. Everyone around me had a positive attitude and said we would just monitor it as time passed. I got back into our car and began to cry; that was the day I knew deep in my heart that his time with us would be short.
Rupert acted like a normal puppy and so we treated him like a normal puppy. We went on trips together, took him on walks, attempted to potty-train him (we failed miserably). His energy level was high - in between his five naps a day - so it wasn’t until he started laying down more frequently that we knew something was wrong.
Our little puppy, who was about four months at the time, underwent test after test. He had an x-ray, which showed an enlarged heart. We followed up with a cardiologist in Wichita Falls, who performed an echocardiogram, revealing a hole in his heart and other heart issues. They suggested we take Rupert to the vets at the Texas A&M Small Animal Clinic and, the next day, we were on our way to College Station. After four hours of testing, it was explained to us that there are four types of heart defects that can affect a dog; Rupert’s heart suffered from three of them.
Rupert acted like a normal puppy and so we treated him like a normal puppy. We went on trips together, took him on walks, attempted to potty-train him (we failed miserably). His energy level was high - in between his five naps a day - so it wasn’t until he started laying down more frequently that we knew something was wrong.
Our little puppy, who was about four months at the time, underwent test after test. He had an x-ray, which showed an enlarged heart. We followed up with a cardiologist in Wichita Falls, who performed an echocardiogram, revealing a hole in his heart and other heart issues. They suggested we take Rupert to the vets at the Texas A&M Small Animal Clinic and, the next day, we were on our way to College Station. After four hours of testing, it was explained to us that there are four types of heart defects that can affect a dog; Rupert’s heart suffered from three of them.
Medicine helped and we could tell he instantly felt better, even if it wasn’t actively solving the problem. At that point, the only visible symptom of heart issues was the slow accumulation of fluid in his stomach, medically known as ascites. This buildup occurs in the belly when heart failure is present on the right side. With diuretics, we could manage it. But in early July, the swelling accelerated and our poor puppy was unable to get comfortable in any sort of position. He became sluggish, didn't want to eat anything except for Chickfila nuggets, and wanted to spend some time by himself. We tried a Hail Mary and had his stomach drained, but the process didn’t sit well with Rupert and a follow up visit to the veterinarian had us asking ourselves the most difficult of questions: were we ready to do what we needed to do to keep him from more suffering?
 | Before I continue the story, I need to make one thing clear: prior to adopting Rupert, I knew nothing about dogs. I always liked them, sure, but the connection that a human has with his dog was always lost on me. I never understood the overwhelming emotion of love associated with being a pet owner. On Rupert’s second day with us, I cried because I could not understand how I already loved this four-pound creature so very much. With each passing day, my love for Rupert grew. As he learned his name, trusted us, and loved on us, I felt like my heart would explode with love. |
Overnight, I belonged to the special group, those people who love their dogs and take photos of their dogs and talk about their dogs and obsess about their dogs. But not only did I belong, I was a proud member! Yes, I created an Instagram account for him – the world should see how cute he is! No, he was not allowed on grass until he got all his shots because do you know how many diseases can fester there?! I embraced being a dog mom, thrived at being a dog mom. The shelter has a 30-day return policy; if, for any reason, your dog doesn’t fit well in your home, or if his bill of health doesn’t come back clean, you can essentially exchange your dog for another. This just blew my mind; how could we EVER take back Rupert? One night in and he was a key part of our family. Sure, it’s April, but I’m already planning for our Christmas card, brainstorming Halloween costume ideas. Rupert was in our family to stay.
We can make all the plans that we want, but even if we do everything right, it doesn’t mean that our plan will come to fruition. We had talked so long about adopting our Rupert, growing older with him, growing our family with him. One diagnosis later, our plan is thrown out the window and a new, more painful plan is put into place.
My heart hurts for every human being that has had to say goodbye to his precious pet. For those who have had to make what I believe is the ultimate selfless decision for a pet who is sick, my heart shatters.
I couldn’t remember life before Rupert; he was embedded into every detail of our lives, his adventurous personality exploring anything and everything. Our mornings and afternoons revolved around him; as he became more sick, every decision was made with him in mind. When the vet told us that the most humane thing to do was to put him down, I balked. How could I live in a world after Rupert? I found a new identity in being his mom, in, after thirty years, having someone who fully relied on me for survival. Surely I didn’t wait decades to adopt a dog to have him leave us four months later?
My husband, suffering alongside me, offered his thoughts: Rupert did not fit our plans, but we fit Rupert’s plans. His time on earth was always going to be short; this was written into his plans from the moment he was born. I don’t know the circumstances surrounding his surrender to the shelter, but I’m grateful to have met him that day, to have fallen in love with him that day. He needed parents who would do anything for him to help him have the happiest life in his short time here and we were his parents.
On our final day with him, our veterinarian said to us, “To take away the pain and suffering he is feeling and put it onto yourselves is the ultimate gift you can give him.”
So we did.
It’s been exactly two weeks (though it feels like longer) and I still cry every day. Words have so much more meaning to me: grief, devastated, cherished, consumed. I feel every word in my soul. I struggle with wanting the pain to go away; I struggle because I never want it to stop. When the pain stops, does that mean that you no longer feel the loss? Grief is something that we will never fully understand.
The week that Rupert died, I was reading Lost and Found by Australian author Brooke Davis. I was unaware when I began reading it that Davis had penned this book, her first fictional novel, shortly after the death of her mother. In the afterword, Davis discusses her own emotional struggle.
"That word: grief. It is a word I never needed, until I did, and then it wasn’t enough."
The day after Rupert’s death, I googled “books about grief.” I couldn’t find the words to express my sadness. I needed to see them already written on the page, allowing me a simpler way to process the enormity of heartbreak I was enduring.
In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis writes about the death of his wife, “I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out not to be a state but a process. There is something new to be chronicled every day.”
I believe that anyone who has endured a loss, from a spouse to a parent to a beloved pet, should handle the process on his own terms. As Lewis eloquently states, there is no map or state to sorrow. Sorrow affects us all differently. There are moments when I feel anger that his toys, his bed, his treats are all still here, taunting me. Even physically removing these items from the apartment doesn’t change the association we have of our loved ones with our homes, our furniture, our time. There are days when I can remember happy things and smile, and there are days when I’m in awe at the number of tears that my body can produce without ever running out.
For those also struggling after the loss of a pet, I highly recommend the book Lily and the Octopus by Steven Rowley. It’s a based-on-a-true-story account of the author’s farewell to his dog, Lily; his own experiences resonated so deeply within me.
In his final reflections, he writes to his prized pup, "you were fiercely loved.”
I am so grateful to every person who reached out to us about our loss. Each text message, phone call, and social media note made me cry and want to give all of you a hug. The support we received came from those close to us, but also from people and old friends I hadn’t interacted with in years. This, however, now made sense, for no one can understand the loss of a pet like someone who has experienced it. As pet parents, former and current, we all share a special bond.
Rupert changed my life. He showed me that I was capable of selflessness, opened my eyes to the incredible bond between a human and his pet. I’m not ready for human motherhood quite yet, but Rupert showed me that one day, I will be. Four months may be a blink of an eye but the beauty in our time together encompassed a lifetime.
The healing process continues, but above all else, I know one thing.
Rupert, you were fiercely loved.
We can make all the plans that we want, but even if we do everything right, it doesn’t mean that our plan will come to fruition. We had talked so long about adopting our Rupert, growing older with him, growing our family with him. One diagnosis later, our plan is thrown out the window and a new, more painful plan is put into place.
My heart hurts for every human being that has had to say goodbye to his precious pet. For those who have had to make what I believe is the ultimate selfless decision for a pet who is sick, my heart shatters.
I couldn’t remember life before Rupert; he was embedded into every detail of our lives, his adventurous personality exploring anything and everything. Our mornings and afternoons revolved around him; as he became more sick, every decision was made with him in mind. When the vet told us that the most humane thing to do was to put him down, I balked. How could I live in a world after Rupert? I found a new identity in being his mom, in, after thirty years, having someone who fully relied on me for survival. Surely I didn’t wait decades to adopt a dog to have him leave us four months later?
My husband, suffering alongside me, offered his thoughts: Rupert did not fit our plans, but we fit Rupert’s plans. His time on earth was always going to be short; this was written into his plans from the moment he was born. I don’t know the circumstances surrounding his surrender to the shelter, but I’m grateful to have met him that day, to have fallen in love with him that day. He needed parents who would do anything for him to help him have the happiest life in his short time here and we were his parents.
On our final day with him, our veterinarian said to us, “To take away the pain and suffering he is feeling and put it onto yourselves is the ultimate gift you can give him.”
So we did.
It’s been exactly two weeks (though it feels like longer) and I still cry every day. Words have so much more meaning to me: grief, devastated, cherished, consumed. I feel every word in my soul. I struggle with wanting the pain to go away; I struggle because I never want it to stop. When the pain stops, does that mean that you no longer feel the loss? Grief is something that we will never fully understand.
The week that Rupert died, I was reading Lost and Found by Australian author Brooke Davis. I was unaware when I began reading it that Davis had penned this book, her first fictional novel, shortly after the death of her mother. In the afterword, Davis discusses her own emotional struggle.
"That word: grief. It is a word I never needed, until I did, and then it wasn’t enough."
The day after Rupert’s death, I googled “books about grief.” I couldn’t find the words to express my sadness. I needed to see them already written on the page, allowing me a simpler way to process the enormity of heartbreak I was enduring.
In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis writes about the death of his wife, “I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out not to be a state but a process. There is something new to be chronicled every day.”
I believe that anyone who has endured a loss, from a spouse to a parent to a beloved pet, should handle the process on his own terms. As Lewis eloquently states, there is no map or state to sorrow. Sorrow affects us all differently. There are moments when I feel anger that his toys, his bed, his treats are all still here, taunting me. Even physically removing these items from the apartment doesn’t change the association we have of our loved ones with our homes, our furniture, our time. There are days when I can remember happy things and smile, and there are days when I’m in awe at the number of tears that my body can produce without ever running out.
For those also struggling after the loss of a pet, I highly recommend the book Lily and the Octopus by Steven Rowley. It’s a based-on-a-true-story account of the author’s farewell to his dog, Lily; his own experiences resonated so deeply within me.
In his final reflections, he writes to his prized pup, "you were fiercely loved.”
I am so grateful to every person who reached out to us about our loss. Each text message, phone call, and social media note made me cry and want to give all of you a hug. The support we received came from those close to us, but also from people and old friends I hadn’t interacted with in years. This, however, now made sense, for no one can understand the loss of a pet like someone who has experienced it. As pet parents, former and current, we all share a special bond.
Rupert changed my life. He showed me that I was capable of selflessness, opened my eyes to the incredible bond between a human and his pet. I’m not ready for human motherhood quite yet, but Rupert showed me that one day, I will be. Four months may be a blink of an eye but the beauty in our time together encompassed a lifetime.
The healing process continues, but above all else, I know one thing.
Rupert, you were fiercely loved.