There are millions of people in the USA who are either “dog” people or “cat” people—that is, those who have consistently kept pets throughout their lives with minimal gaps or concurrent overlaps. I’ve never been much of a pet person myself. The last dogs I ‘had' were a pair of twin dogs our family owned when I was in my early teens, just entering high school. I did have a cat or two during my high school years, and I appreciated that they required less time and attention than the dogs did. By the time I was living on my own, pets weren’t of interest.
My wife Jennifer is definitely a "dog” person. She occasionally suggested that we get a dog at some point. Her previous dog, a 13-inch Beagle named "Scout," had died a few years earlier. He was in her ex-husband's custody, but had been “her dog” and her responsibility during their marriage. It was only after the divorce—and after Jen got approval for Scout to be with her in her Sacramento apartment—that Chris decided it was his dog, not hers, leaving her without a pet.
Jen was confident that having a dog with us in our rental home at Matson would be a wonderful experience to share. Yes, we would have to alter our lifestyles, but with the right dog, we could manage it without too many constraints. My daughter Lauren, 16 at the time, also wanted us to get a dog. She was staying with us 50% of the time under the custody agreement I’d established with her mom the previous year. She already had a dog at her mom’s named “Lucky”, which they had adopted in the summer of 2017 when he was about 6 months old. Lucky was pretty much Lauren’s dog, but having another at Matson for those off-cycle days away from Lucky was compelling. A “backup-pup,” if you will.
DECISIONS
They responded that it was only to look, and that I could come along to make sure no papers were signed behind my back. That’s precisely how they tricked me. I took the bait and went with them. Jennifer drove while I repeatedly reminded them that we were only looking; we wouldn’t be bringing anything home. Period. End of story. Just… no.
After we arrived, Jennifer and Lauren briefly huddled with a receptionist, exchanging whispers, a giggle, a glance my way, and what looked like a roll of $20 bills secured with one of Lauren’s scrunchies. We were escorted to the kennel where this particular dog, whom she’d seen in a photo online, was being held. The dog was a tiny, tan, terrier-ish-looking mutt —a male Bichon Frise mix with short hair. He was panting incessantly due to severe anxiety while wearing a cone to keep him from biting at his recent neuter scars. They put him on a leash and led us outside to an area with lime-green astroturf, where pets are introduced to people. As soon as we entered the enclosed space and he was off leash, the dog they’d temporarily named “Scottie” darted about briefly, stopped, spun in a circle to align himself with Earth's north-south magnetic axis, and dropped a dookie.
Once that was done, he ran to me, wagging his tail and leaping about with enthusiasm and excitement before doing the same to Jennifer and Lauren. It was a textbook orphan’s audition, a time to shine, and he was absolutely adorable. He worked that green turf like a coked-up runway supermodel strutting to “Pup up the Jam”. When the timing seemed right and a slight nod was exchanged between the three of them, the staff member looked at me and said, “What do you think?” Lauren’s hands snapped instantly into her trademark pleading prayer position. Jen’s eyes sparkled and her lips pursed slightly, a look of desire sending me confusing signals between a promise of reciprocal reward and the fulfillment of a desire for a pet she’d been expressing for years. Even the damned dog stopped long enough to cock his head at a side angle in my direction with an inquisitive look of heartmelting eagerness to be given a new home. How could I resist?
I tried. I gave resistance my best shot. I hmm’d and hawwed, running through my rote recitation of objections and challenges around owning a pet. Jen's landlord had previously told her that she could have a small dog in the house, which this was. I’d said in one of our prior “…dog??” conversations that I’d never want a puppy due to the damage and training demands that would entail. That I’d perhaps consider an older dog, which this was. Jen and Lauren promised they'd pick up his poop. They promised to walk him daily. They promised to feed him, bathe him, groom him, and work at his side as they combined their efforts to rid the world of all cats and squirrels. I’d not have to do anything beyond endure his presence.
Around that time, in the classic manner of the most seasoned car salesman, the staff person mentioned that they’d had another party reach out about his availability, and that they’d be coming to look at him later that day. I, of course, saw right through that old trick, waiting to be told how chicks dig dogs, how cool I’d look to my friends walking him down the El Camino on a Saturday night, and how they’d go talk to their manager and see if they can work out a better deal on this bitchin' set of paws. Let’s step into my office and discuss it in private.
And of course, there was the unspoken understanding lingering in the air that this was a ‘kill' shelter. What if there wasn’t another party interested? What then?
The dog was still looking at me, panting, wagging his tail, sitting up straight and hoping to be the one selected for adoption out of a lineup of… one. They were all looking at me: the staff member, my daughter, my wife, the dog, and a guy in the back security room watching via the outdoor camera, his hand on the trap door button, waiting patiently for me to be nudged just a smidge closer to committing.
We drove home with him in the back of my CR-V in Lauren’s skillful hands, panting all the way. (Scottie). Back at the house, Lauren and Jennifer went to work setting up and organizing a place for his bowl, his bed and his belongings. I went about the house working to “dog-proof” things. We now had a dog. I was still reeling while Jennifer and Lauren were elated. As was Scottie.
One week later, Jennifer left for a 10-day road trip. I was left alone, with only a week of indoctrination and on-the-job training, to attend to Scottie. Fortunately for both of us, it proved to be enough. The only issue that arose during her absence, one that threw me completely off kilter, was his having a shaking/shivering fit that would not stop. I took him to a nearby vet, and the moment we entered, he returned to his calm, usual self. During those 10 days, we took walks, had Lauren and Tommy on hand, went on drives and played together. I taught him to sit, spin, and lie down. When his wimpering overcame my determination on her first night away, I allowed him to come out of the crate and sleep on the bed beside me. We started to form a bond. Maybe Jen’s trip was a strategic move to cement my acceptance of his presence. It did.
DEVELOPMENTS
Over the years that followed, we had numerous adventures with backyard squirrels, a 3 AM possum encounter, and a coyote pausing briefly to assess if Scottie would make much of a meal. We established a daily walking pattern around our small neighborhood. I popped the screen off the lower section of a small side window in the dining room of the rental house that afforded him in/out access to the front, adding a mesh barrier to the front gate after finding him capable of squeezing through the bars to chase after a jogger. We learned that he had a heart murmur and dental issues necessitating having several teeth pulled (I slept on the floor beside his crate that night). The day after watching a documentary titled “Dog Fooled,” Jennifer started making his food by hand, and we never looked back.
DEVOTION
DECLINE
On the night of October 17, Scottie apparently suffered what we assumed to have been a seizure—something we had never witnessed before. At one point, I was certain he had died, yet a short while later, as we hovered over him, stunned, and saying goodbye, he blinked once or twice, twitched in parallel, and, slowly, regained consciousness. It still took him a few hours to seem fully recovered and stable A few weeks later, a similar but less dramatic episode occurred. A third, identical to the second, happened three days later in the middle of the night, followed by a fourth, this week, on the evening of November 4th. Although I repeatedly raised the probability with Jennifer that we would likely be facing a difficult decision as his gradual decline reached a point of diminishing quality of life, just as many of our friends over the past few years have faced with their own pets, she did not see that as being within months, but maybe a year or two. In contrast, what I did not anticipate was that Scottie, or nature, would be deciding this for us.
DEMISE
He'd had a wonderful day before that fourth instance occurred, spent it in his relatively routine habit of mulling about, following Jennifer, and the monthly mass production of dog food took place that afternoon. Taste tests and spoon licks were ample. He was reasonably active, reasonably spry, reactive to and engaged with us, able to run, spin, and bark without showing any signs of difficulty.
Just as Jennifer was walking out to offer me a sample of a new recipe, Scottie strolled into the entryway from the kitchen, slowed, stopped, and his head drooped downward. He stood frozen in this position. Jennifer noticed it immediately and went directly to him. We assumed it was another seizure and, like the prior three, that he’d ride it out. As we sat with him, held him and waited, he threw up. I cleaned it up while Jennifer carried him about. We took turns holding him while doing parallel research. I told him I loved him. As I pet him, I asked him to hang on for a couple more months. "Let’s make it into 2026, Scottie-pup, and see how things are going then.”
We discussed taking him to “Sage”, a 24/7 Animal Hospital in Campbell. I questioned the need, fretted the likely high cost, and wondered whether they would need or be able to do anything. Still assuming he would recover shortly, as he had three times before, we set our sights on taking him for tests and evaluations the following morning to understand his episodes and how to manage them going forward.
We could not have assumed more wrong. I didn't understand that there was to be no forward for him, no following morning.
As time passed, it began to sink in that this was worse than any of the prior instances. At two or three points that night, he seemed to briefly snap out of it and attempt to stand up, only to collapse in the same motion, back into unconsciousness. Still breathing, his body had gone completely limp. Lifting him and moving him between us meant supporting his head in parallel. As I realized this, an awful feeling rose in my gut and my heart that I’d gravely underestimated the severity. Only at this point did I realize medical attention was needed.
We took turns sitting with Scottie while the other quickly put on their shoes. As I sat beside him, petting him and talking to him gently. I noticed his breathing had become shallow. We'd also heard an unusual sound in his breathing. It was not until the next morning that I was able to place it as the sound Linda made in her own final minutes - a guttural utterance caused by the buildup of fluids in the throat as the body shuts down and stops being able to swallow, known as the ‘death rattle’. Had I made that connection then, I’d have known these would be our last moments together.
Jennifer gently lifted him from his prone position on the couch and into her loving arms, his head falling and resting upon her shoulder. I opened the passenger door so she could enter without having to let go of him. Once seated, I looked at him, dimly lit by the garage’s exterior lights, resting against her chest, his head turned toward me, tucked beneath her chin. At that very moment, I witnessed his face gently soften. His jaw slowly opened as his pink tongue slid out, hanging motionless in place.
I rested my hand on his torso above her arm, seeking any indication of a breath. “I think he’s just died, hon,” I whispered, in shock and disbelief at the actual possibility of that being true.
Jen replied with an anguished voice, “Just drive!”, and as those words left her mouth, Scottie twitched, just as he’d done the first time this all had happened 3 weeks ago.
I drove. He twitched a second time as I rested my hand on him again while at a stoplight. Not feeling any breathing didn’t mean anything at that point, given how shallow it had been moments prior.. Yet what I observed in the driveway was still fresh in my mind as an undeniable indication that this was not going to end well.
A wave of dread flooded over us as we arrived at the seemingly dark and shuttered Sage building. “Oh shit, are they closed?” I said, but then we saw people were inside and that the windows were merely tinted. I dropped Jennifer at the front steps as she got out with Scottie, and I parked the car.
By the time I walked through the door, they’d taken him to the back room and quickly checked his vitals. Jennifer stood trembling on the other side of their reception desk, struggling to repeat to me the words that had just been spoken to her as I entered. “He’s gone.”
Turning back to the nurse, seeking any possible thread of escape from this unbearable conclusion, she asked as her voice quivered, “Are you sure?”.
“Yes. I’m so sorry”, they replied. “He has no heartbeat. I'm so sorry," she empathatically repeated, likely a common reassurance uttered far too often in such an emotionally vulnerable environment. “Let me get you a room so you two can spend some time with him”. Standing in a veterinary hospital reception area, occupied only by a couple who seemed to be waiting peacefully to retrieve their pet and return it home, Jennifer and I silently embraced, struggling to absorb the finality of the moment and all that had led up to it.
After being guided to a private room, a compassionate nurse brought in Scottie’s body, wrapped in a warm, heavy blanket. Jennifer took him first, cradling him in her arms once more. When I held him next, cradled in the same way I would frequently carry him at the end of the day to pee before we all went to bed. I could not believe I would have to walk out without him, and that he wouldn't be waking up with us tomorrow.
When I was finally ready, even though I would never truly be, Jen recalled the nurse. They coordinated our options regarding his remains, then gently took him from my arms. As we exited the room, the nurse turned right as we turned left. I glanced over my right shoulder as she opened a door. Scottie disappeared from my sight and from our lives. Once outside the building, I paused on the landing above the steps leading to the parking lot and broke down sobbing. We drove home in disbelief, the numbing reality of the past two hours hanging heavy over our heads, as the first seeds of second-guessing began to take root in the fertile soil of posthumous guilt.
DESPAIR
When that first episode occurred in October, I honestly did think he had died. I noticed him listlessly stumbling, unable to walk, so we put him on our bed, believing this was due to his arthritis or joints. I sat with him ritualistically pressing against me. When his bowels suddenly emptied without any obvious movement or effort on his part, we realized something significant was happening. His breathing seemed to have stopped. It struck me as being perhaps the most peaceful way for him to go: no trauma, no pain, no strangers, just a slight wobble leading into a gentle, quiet demise. His subsequent recovery and the two following episodes made me wholly unprepared for him not to recover this fourth and final time.
I never anticipated how intense the grief would be while trying to navigate his sudden absence. The hollowness within the house during the first few days was overwhelming and excruciating. To not only feel my own loss but to practically hear the shattering sounds of Jennifer’s breaking heart, an anguish emitting from the woman I love almost as much as Scottie did, still echoes as a testament to the intensity of her attachment to him. I felt helpless. Lucky, too, has shown a change in behavior from the sudden loss of his constant partner in canine crime and dog debauchery. He seems far more subdued, if not outright lonely, without his adoptive brother. It turns out that Scottie was likely the instigator of many of their parallel barking campaigns against UPS and Amazon. (We’re actually in alignment with the distress caused by the sight of an Amazon truck.)
Along with the grief, I also did not expect to feel the crushing guilt. Guilt for not recognizing, realizing, and reacting in a way that might have kept him with us. That I failed him. This is apparently quite common in a loss of this nature. Like so many others, I struggle with the idea that, in a parallel universe, he would have been taken to the doctor sooner, received a shot, woken up, wagged his tail, licked our faces, and walked out on his own. That we would have been that other couple at Sage waiting patiently to return home with their healthy pet, perhaps even with some miraculous improvements to his joints, sight and hearing as a bonus reward for my quick action and diligence in attending to his well-being.
In reality, though, everything I find suggests that any action to address this might have led to traumatic, invasive procedures and likely an extended stay in a medical facility, assuming that anything could have been done at all. While Jennifer and I worked to triage and assess our subsequent actions while he was unconscious, I voiced my distress at the idea of taking him into a sterile medical environment, his being briefly resuscitated if at all, only to have the result be an in-the-moment need for euthanasia. Either would have been unbearable. He couldn’t even function for 30 minutes at a groomer's without an anxiety attack so bad that it necessitated aborting the grooming midway, leaving him looking like a lion.
I take great solace in the fact that this didn’t happen while we were away or asleep, and that we were able to be with him. His last moments were spent surrounded by love, empathy, and tenderness in his home, where he felt safe with the people he loved —the people who loved him in return. His family. His pack.
EPILOGUE
As of this writing, I continue to follow a ritual inclusive of his memory. That of sitting on the bed and resting my hand where he would routinely be each morning. Praising him for going potty, even though it’s only Lucky actually doing so anymore. Holding out my hand to signal to sit and wait while dishing out breakfast. Keeping his first and favorite toy, “Bear-smells-your-butt”, on our headboard or between our pillows helps fill the void and retain his presence in our daily lives.
I started this journey not being a pet person. I exit these past six-plus years having completely changed. I have a capacity to love in a way I did not realize I was capable of, and in parallel, experienced a love I never realized I might have received. His presence and passing reinforce my wish to live more aware, grateful, considerate, and conscious of how quickly this will all be over, and the importance of the impact I have on the lives of those I'll leave behind.
Thank you, pup-pup. Good dog. Good boy.
