Why losing a four-legged elder is as sh*tty as losing a human

Writing these insights is not unlike writing for the newspaper deadlines that comprised the bulk of my (meager) income in my twenties. You know when something is due, you know how much space you have to fill, and you spend the time in-between waiting for a spark to ignite into a story.

Before I started typing these words, I was flipping through the dozens of email eldercare newsletters I receive each week, and through the dozens of ideas I jot down with my beautiful Blackwing pencils in my inspiring Ink + Volt notebook (shameless plug by a Luddite who still loves paper). I was waiting for inspiration to hit — a topic that mapped to my latest anecdote, a personal experience, a specific event.

Instead, I realized the stars had aligned with the new resources I already planned to plug, all in the At the End of Sh*t > Pet Section. The stars were illuminating Aggie.

Aggie is — was — the canine companion of the dear neighbor and eldercare consultant you hear me reference throughout my site. Howard is a kindred spirit, both an avid storyteller and a fellow irreverent. We fell into easy conversation when I moved into my “new” neighborhood six years ago, meeting on the street as we walked our respective dogs. Over the years a friendship formed around his professional eldercare experiences and my amateur expertise.

Howard is responsible for every effective eldercare decision I’ve made in recent years, from recommending the best rolling walker on the market when my Mom’s mobility declined, to pointing me to her current Utopian Rest Home. He even served as sounding board and practice partner for an irreverent TED-style talk I delivered on eldercare.

And during all these conversations, be they on the street or in Howard’s home, Aggie was a participating member.

Whether sounding her Beagle bray to tell my fresh Frenchie to $%?!-ing back off, or sleeping on a nearby couch as we chatted, Aggie’s stocky frame and big personality mirrored the owner who took her on daily outings. All through my working-from-home Covid year Howard and Aggie were one of the channels I tuned into, walking past my picture windows with charming consistency, happy to shout and bark a hello while still staying focused on their own itinerary.

On an outing last Saturday with our own two pups, my family saw Howard headed in the other direction. When we called out “hellos” Aggie was noticeably absent. I rationalized Howard was just focused on his human friend so had left the hound at home. But the email I read when we returned told me Aggie had gotten incurably sick, and the day before Howard and his husband had to make the hardest and most merciful decision any pet owner can face.

Howard didn’t want to break the news in front of our ten-year-old, but what I shared with him I now say to you. When you allow your children to experience human and pet death as a natural and normative and compelling cycle of life, those moments are integrated instead of emotional. My son was by our deaf dog’s side when the animal’s cancer-ridden body was euthanized five years ago, and that remains one of the sweetest memories our little family shares. And the commissioned picture of our first-ever canine kid (above) hangs next to my son’s bed in happy reflection and remembrance.

Our elders may be with us for their lifetime, but the short seasons we share with our pets can be just as powerful.

Aggie, we’re all going to miss you.

Yours truly,

Irreverent Rachel