Late Sunday night, in her favorite spot in front of the fireplace, I gazed into Sookie’s soft, soulful eyes. C gently stroked her tummy as she lay on her side, no strength left to roll over for a belly rub, or even lift her head. We told her how much we loved her. That she was the most perfect and loving friend. That it was ok to let go…and then she did. A month shy of her 15th birthday, she had peaceful death, and, we are heartbroken. 

Sookie was an almost constant presence for 15 years. C and I moved from Washington DC to Texas in the summer of 2009, a year after our wedding. We left the east coast for his job, and I left the town I grew up in—my family, childhood friends, and role as managing editor of a science journal. I continued to work from home as a columnist and yoga teacher, and I ached for company. A few months later, Sookie came into our lives.

As a puppy, she was so incredibly tiny. Not much bigger than my shoe but with such a big personality—an intelligence and spirit that was always more human than dog. Small yet mighty, she could keep up on any walk, hike, or adventure. Anything to stay close. Always wanting to be within eyesight. 

She would follow me into my home office to watch me write, teach, and practice. God forbid I closed a bathroom door with her on the other side…she would bang and groan until I let her in. If I left the house, she would wrap her paws around my leg, begging me to stay or take her with me. And so, in the beginning, she just came with us everywhere… from restaurants to appointments to vacations. 

She was my first baby. Pregnancy didn’t come easy for me, and in those three years of trying and waiting and disappointment…I poured my mama heart into Sookie, and she filled my cup with unconditional love. After L was born, she wouldn’t be left out. She was there when I nursed him, or put him down for naps, or cried with overwhelm, or took him for walks—without hesitation, she just jumped right into the basket under his stroller, and came along for the ride.

Our sweet girl loved to sunbath, and had the wrinkles and freckles to prove it. In the colder months, she’d find that warmth in front of the fireplace. Often, those soft eyes would shine with a twinkle. She’d open trash cans to shred tissues or snoop for empty toilet paper rolls, then zip through the house with glee, evidence dangling from her mouth. She’d dig through C’s gym bag for socks (the stinkier the better), and then slink away to tuck them behind various couch cushions. Delightfully toss her food into the air and chase it down across the room. Dance on her hind legs and leap three times her height. Zoom through sprinklers and romp through snow. 

In May 2023, Sookie was suddenly lethargic and weak. After an ER visit, we learned she had a splenic tumor and was bleeding internally. She was 13-years-old; they told us she would live a week, maybe two. We sobbed in disbelief. Called our veterinarian to end her suffering…but I couldn’t go through with it. “Let’s give her a few more days,” I told C and L. And wouldn’t you know it—with some bacon, bbq, and love—Sookie bounced back, more vibrant than she’d been in years. On walks, people would stop us to ask: “How old is your puppy?”

In my sister’s words: “Sookie was always a princess, but in this last year, she was a queen.” Never knowing how much time we had left, we spoiled her rotten. Her diet consisted almost exclusively of whatever her humans were eating at the time. Occasionally, when she thought she was alone, she would climb onto a dining room chair and sneak food off the table. We let her tear into tissues to her heart’s content. Didn’t make her drop the stinky socks. Took her on car rides where she’d perch proudly on the center console (so she could actually see out the window). Showered her with affection and endless belly rubs. 

This last year was a gift we didn’t take for granted, and we knew each day she stayed with us was a miracle. And still, when her health took a turn last week, when her gums grew pale, her belly swelled, and her body became weaker…we didn’t feel ready. Maybe she’ll bounce back again, we told ourselves. Friday she was still following me around the house, but ever so slowly. Saturday we carried her from room to room, and at dusk, a rainbow stretched across the sky to prepare us for what was to come. Sunday, we knew we had to say goodbye. Had to release this little, loving being who had been with us for a third of our lives. 

Her last day, C carried her tiny body outside, holding her up so she could go to the bathroom. We laid her in the grass to bath in the sun. She stayed by our side all day, just like she did as a puppy. We borrowed a neighbor’s stroller and took her on a walk to town and through open fields, where she shakily raised her head to feel the wind on her face or gaze at us with those soft eyes. That evening, at home, she lay in her bed on the living room floor. Her breath shallow and rapid. Unable to move her own body, her eyes still followed the movements of her loved ones. Even then, wanting to know where we were, wanting to be close. After L went to bed, C and I lay on the floor with her…staying up too late, comforting her, comforting one another, knowing the end was near. And even with that knowing and acceptance, her last exhale felt like a shock to the heart.

Starting with that rainbow the day before she passed, and then everyday for a week after her spirt broke free of her body…an evening rainbow graced the sky. 

I feel her presence still. She is close to my heart and always will be. I’m heavy with sadness, and, I’m finding comfort in the following words:

The body knows grief.

The mind struggles to understand.

The spirit knows no loss.