Never the Same Again
Part of Us Leaves with Our Loved One
They’re gone. Our babies are gone. One year ago today, Buckley died. He was the youngest of the pack and last of the Texas Pups to walk towards the Rainbow Bridge. Losing him was significant in so many ways. It was the end of his sweet life. It was the end of the Texas Pups and all of their adventures all over the United States. It was the end of the group that brought us together and made us a family. The Beagle girls once entered a dog park with their dad, and I, a Boston Terrier mom, spotted their dad. From then on, we were a family. It was such heavy grief, and it remains so.
I woke up this morning in tearful gratitude. I am not grateful for the cumulative nor disfranchised grief that is so perfectly illustrated in losing those four perfect pups. I am grateful for them, and I am grateful for Gunner and Stewie who are here to keep our lives filled with love, joy, silliness, grace, and peace.
Gratitude and grief coexist rather beautifully. I cannot imagine a life without dogs, and those four dogs were life changing. Oliver became my dearest companion, best friend, and safe space in 2006. He turned me into a Boston Terrier obsessed person. He taught me how to be vulnerable and how to love. He showed me what it meant to feel safe and loved when I had lacked that so much after my mom’s death.
When Lily and Daisy entered our life with their dapper dad, Oliver’s separation anxiety when I wasn’t around disappeared (unless we were at a hotel). Their curiosity and zest for life reminded me to notice the smallest details. They also taught me to never feel guilty for having a lazy day.
Buckley later joined the pack to fulfill my dream of having multiple Boston Terriers. He was our little aristocrat. He patrolled the fence line, licked my face off, and played with his brother. The girls showed him that Oliver was a great cuddler, and soon there was a puppy puddle on the couch. He loved to rock his bow ties and watch early morning Arsenal matches with me.
The Texas Pups hiked in Sedona, Santa Fe, the Grand Canyon, and nearly every state park in Texas. They visited every Gulf Coast state and every state all the way up to Maryland. They explored Audubon Park and sat on countless cafés in New Orleans while I devoured po-boys. Oliver made it to Boston and spent time with me in Pennsylvania. They were just as happy wandering through the neighborhood as they were climbing the serene red rocks of Sedona or hopping around in the snow in New Mexico. Whatever they did, they did it in love and unbridled enthusiasm.
Their deaths have changed us as much as their lives. Anytime we lose a loved one, a part of us goes with them. We are never the same again. I’ve written about both cumulative grief and disenfranchised here before, and the deaths of my dogs are under both categories. These are lonely, layered losses. The grief is not a burden. It is a reminder that we were loved by four incredible dogs who filled our lives with greatness, and we did our best to ensure they knew they were loved unconditionally.
We can feel broken, abandoned, alone, sad, angry, and confused when someone we love dies, whether they have four legs or two. Dogs are more than family to me. They are a constant when so much else isn’t. They are the family I choose. They make me a better person. We should aim to be the people our dogs think we are.
I am so deeply grateful that I was able to share my life with Oliver, Buckley, Lily, and Daisy. I’m grateful for every walk, every morning slap in the face with a paw for breakfast, every Kong I filled with peanut butter, tennis ball tossed, and every squeaky toy that lived or was torn into bits. I am grateful for their love.
I am grateful that God gave me a heart for animals, an example set by my mom. I am grateful that God loves us through animals. This great love that I have for God’s sweetest creatures, horses and dogs in particular, may lead to great grief, but the love is so strong. I will miss the Texas Pups every day for the rest of my life, and I will love Gunner, Stewie, and whomever else God sends our way. One of my Christmas ornaments that was purchased to honor the dogs after they died says, “You were my favorite ‘hello’ and my hardest ‘goodbye.’”
This year marks four years without Daisy, Oliver, and Lily. We passed that mark in January for Daisy, and Oliver and Lily’s anniversaries will be in May and September respectively. Four years without my soul-dog, Oliver. Four years without The Big Three. Four years of grief after nearly 16 years of great love.
Today is one year without Buckley. It has been one year without my little guy who loved to dance between being a lover and a fighter. One year without his kisses. One year of grief over him.
I have no doubt that the Texas Pups sent Stewie. I see both Oliver and Buckley in him, depending on the moment or current shenanigan he’s engaged in. I’m glad we spent a few months before finding our new Boston Terrier, and those months without a dog really taught us that a house is not a home without a dog. We will never be the same without them, and we are so grateful for the people those dogs made us to be. We loved each other deeply, and we love them deeply still.
Until we meet again, my sweet babies.
My soul dog, as you pretty accurately put it, died in October 2023. Which feels weird to type out because it’s 2026. And that means that I’ll be coming up on 3 years without him. The cancer that took him was so sudden—just completely out of nowhere. And that just broke me. I bottle-fed him and his sister from the day they were born, so I’ve had dogs who loved me like crazy (you know I have), but none have ever loved me like these two. Honey Badger and Sherman. And of the two of them, Sherman loved me the most fiercely. No one has ever loved me like he did.
Honey is still here, but I just had a tough vet appointment this morning where we concluded that she is beginning to show signs of dementia. Her arthritis is bad. We knew this already. She practically has no muscle mass in her right rear leg, but she’s still enjoying life. She’s still playing with the pack and wagging her tiny tail and wanting to play fetch for much longer than her body actually wants her to.
These two are a part of me. I thought I knew what the love of a dog was, and then they stepped into my world and blew my perception of love right open. And god, losing Sherman was so, so hard. I don’t know what I’m going to do when Honey is gone. Sherman was always the nurturer, the most in tune with my feelings, but for weeks after he was gone, I couldn’t sniff or blow my nose without Honey immediately at my side to make sure I wasn’t crying. She took on that mantle the day he died, and I’m so grateful for her, and for him, and for the frustratingly short amount of time I’d had with them.
But Honey got to meet my daughters. I’m thankful for that. My girls got to know at least one member of the greatest set of dogs I’ll ever know. The dogs who saw me into adulthood, who were with me when I fell in love, whose coats I cried into when I was outed and lost my church, who watched me go from single to wife to foster mom to mother. And as I type this out, I’m realizing how purposeful it feels that they were given to me in this particular decade of my life. How maybe there was meaning and reason in them being the ones who walked me through such pivotal moments. And maybe as I settle into our newly expanded (perhaps completed) family, a more confident, patient, emotionally regulated human, they are free to be off the clock. Their work is done, and now Pathfinder (our newest husky-mutt rescue) gets to see the whole family through a different set of highs and lows.
But at this point, I'm just cathartically ranting, so I will hit post and sign off now. Thanks for writing this blog, and for having a space to speak honestly about the love we have for our pets. Not everyone gets the level of this grief, and many unintentionally pour cold water on it, so I appreciate the opportunity to grieve openly.