In Memoriam

Pets come into our hearts, burrow in, and make warm and fluffy spaces for themselves. And when they are gone, the space where they used to be aches terribly.

Earlier this month I lost my beloved German Shepherd, Rosie. I first saw her as a puppy, a fuzzy, floppy-eared little creature who curiously trotted across the room and, after some sniffs and pets, allowed me to pick her up. I was immediately smitten. Cuteness in canine form has always been the death knell of my resolve.


I’d lived with dogs before, and loved them, but Rosie was the first one I could call my own. She soon became not only a pet, but a presence. I loved watching her curl into a tiny ball for naps. She was adorable romping in snow. Eventually, she started learning to sit and play fetch. As she grew a little older, I took her to the local dog park. Rosie was shy at first, but soon gained enough size, speed, and confidence to join the other dogs in a frenzied circle of collective zoomies until they all collapsed in a panting heap. She made doggie friends, a Newfoundland of about the same age named Chewy, and neighborhood pups named Zoe and Sparky. Later, in Pittsburgh, she cougared it up with the much-younger Goliath, who lived next door, for rambunctious backyard playdates.

We went on adventures. Hikes, parks, city walks, doggie dips, visits to pup-friendly restaurants and businesses. As a breed with a certain reputation, some people drew away. But the majority of folks stopped, petted her, complimented her looks and good behavior. She was unfailingly patient and affectionate with kids and made fast friends in the under-five crowd. I heard many stories of smart, loyal, beloved German Shepherds during these spontaneous encounters. It seems that most people who experience a German Shepherd become superfans of the breed. I was no different. 

I came to know her mannerisms and personality. The head tilt, as if she were contemplating her next move. Her masterful use of puppy dog eyes – usually deployed when she rolled onto her back and then stared you down for a belly rub. The lopsided way of sitting that she never really outgrew. And my favorite, which I dubbed “the exasperated sigh.” This behavior was pretty much the dog equivalent of a disgruntled teenager: Rosie would take a deep breath in, flop onto her bed, and exhale with an audible huff. It got me every time.

She could be very dramatic.

And Rosie needed to be close to her humans. She participated in holidays and vacations. One year she made a fantastic Batman for Halloween. When she turned 10, we had a birthday party for her – which included human and canine guests – at a pup-friendly brewery. She attended our wedding, where she insisted on sitting at Peter’s feet for the duration of the ceremony.

The heartbreaking thing, though, about living alongside a dog is that your timelines are different. You watch them get old. Your rationale mind knows that they are mortal. Your heart does not. You are never ready.

Rosie aged. Health issues arose. Contrary to a popular assumption about the breed, it was never her hips. She got allergies and developed food sensitivities. These conditions required multiple daily medications and a special diet, plus regular visits to a veterinary dermatologist. I applied topical treatments for her finicky skin. But with effort and medications, they could be managed. Later came periodic tummy issues and a propensity for ear infections; I’m sure she enjoyed her frequent ear cleanings as I much as I enjoyed giving them.

Was she hard to care for sometimes? Yes. Did I often wish it was less hard? Yes. Did I do it anyway? Yes.

Rosie was my constant. Through a move, a pandemic, a divorce, two layoffs. She kept me grounded. She kept me engaged with the world, much as I sometimes wanted to shut myself inside the house and bolt the doors.

The kicker was cancer. She had surgery to remove the tumors and then spent the next 10 days in a sort of dog onesie to keep her from licking the incision. Naturally, the onesie had to be removed and then replaced every time she needed a bathroom break. Sometimes this occurred in the predawn dark. After she was out of the onesie she started chemotherapy and ancillary medications. The treatment wouldn’t cure her. But it might buy us some time.

And it did, for awhile. For a few months, Rosie seemed normal-ish. But one week in the middle of January she became lethargic. She wasn’t much interested in food, toys, or walks. Her breathing sounded irregular, leading us to rush her to a 24-hour veterinary clinic one night. After some tests she was released with medications, and we scheduled a follow-up appointment with her primary vet.

For a few days, Rosie seemed a little better. But by the third day, as a winter storm blew in during the wee hours, her condition rapidly worsened. When morning came we carried her from the house and drove to the vet as soon as we could. We watched as she was carried into treatment on a gurney. We were at her side when, moments later, she slipped away.

Through the bone-chillingly cold days that followed, we grieved. Eventually the weather broke. On the first mild day after her death, we scattered her ashes in a stream alongside one of her favorite trails. She loved the water and had been happy there. In the winter twilight, the setting sun lit the clouds with glowing orange and pink light. It was gorgeous. It was peaceful.

As we walked back to the car, it occurred to me that the dead do not know what we do for them after they’ve departed. The ritual of laying to rest may, in reality, be only for the living. We alone can take comfort in this last act of love.

I carried the box that had contained her ashes in my hands. It felt lighter. And my heart felt a tiny bit lighter, too.