Emma, Sadie


July 30

Emma died this morning. She was 14 years old, hewn from steel and fueled by piss and vinegar. She'd beaten death twice already: once when she was 7 and accidentally overdosed on medicine for her early-onset arthritis, and again when she was 12 and had a neural sheath rumor removed from her left rear leg. Nothing stopped her. She experienced a rapid decline in the past few days, and tests showed advanced lymphoma, the treatment for which would be more torturous than she deserved in her state. Every living being has its time, though anyone who's ever been in that room can tell you that knowing something and living in it are different things.

She was fiercely protective, loving to her family, the definition of loyal. She was stubborn and strong and happy and goofy. Her head was strong as a rock. She would fart in her sleep and wake up confused. She'd been abused as a puppy, before Tracy ever got her, and she didn't like people touching her head or feet, the psychic wounds from her earlier life never quite disappearing. But she loved us and knew we loved her. If we accidentally bumped her foot, she'd yip out of habit, but then immediately wag her tail and kiss us, apologizing for her overreaction. She knew us and knew our life. She saved my wife's life and taught me how to care for an animal. (She viewed my arrival seven years ago as a personal boon; she gained an employee, and never let me forget it. I loved it.) She growled at the cats and loved broccoli stalks. She hated the vacuum cleaner and loved to sit by our feet and work on a bone. She loved ear rubs and would groan and dig her head into my hand, then shake her head and pant and kiss my hand and bump her nose into me: again, again.

Emma, Emma Louise, Emmaline Emma Mine, Deedees, Deeds, a dozen more. All those names and songs you use for your pets that exist only within the walls of your home, that become the language that defines your particular life. Ems. No other dog like her. Never has been or will be. She was my pup.

August 25

I miss my dog. Most days I try not to think about it, or at any rate, I don't go looking for ways to think about it. Her absence is most noticeable when I come home from work: instead of being greeted by her, tail wagging, barking for dinner or a treat, I open the door to silence. The first few days after she died, I kept thinking that the pillows on the couch were her head, and I realized I was so accustomed to knowing where she was that my brain was still trying to make the connection with whatever object was nearby. Mornings are probably when I think about her most. I used to get up and feed her before work, along with the cats, and I was accustomed to the routine: let her out to pee, feed her, let her out again to poop, pet her for a bit, hop in the shower, and start my day. On my way out the door, I'd pet her again and tell her: "You stay here, be a good dog, watch the house." None of that happens now, and even though she's been gone almost four weeks, my mornings still feel scattered and shortened in ways I can't really process. I know we'll eventually get another dog, and it'll probably (hopefully) be another square-headed goofball with a strong personality. This is the first time I've had to do this, though — say goodbye to a pet like this — so I'm still feeling my way uncertainly down the path. I just miss my dog.

September 16

Nothing ever replaces a pet after they’re gone. This is something I might have been able to abstractly guess in a different life, but since I’m actually dealing with such losses firsthand, I’m able to appreciate what the idea really means. Specifically, that there’s both joy and sorrow in that recognition. Joy because you know that every animal has its own personality, and that no other pet will ever be quite like it; your memories with them can’t be duplicated. And sorrow because it’s only when you bring a new animal into your life that you realize that the new happiness you feel, the new love, doesn’t close the wound made by the loss of the one that came before. You might think it would, or that it would work as a kind of linear continuum — love a pet, mourn its loss, begin the cycle anew — but the truth is more complicated. Think of each pet’s time as a different story, all of them existing next to each other, like books on a shelf. The happy memories you have of one of them, or the sadness you feel after they’re gone, are separate from the new creature’s experience of you and your life together.

This isn’t a bad thing, either, this bloodied web of feelings we have for the lives we bring into our own. This is what life is. It’s a rich, weird, overwhelming thing. I will never stop loving Emma — my Deeds, my Goofus T. Rufus, my guard dog and alarm clock, my sweet girl — and, though I know the pain will dull with time, I’ll never stop missing her, either. How could I? How could any of us cut loose from ourselves the connections we’d made with a living being? I don’t have to give up that love to love something else. I don’t have to stop talking about her, or thinking of the good and bad times we went through, to care for a new animal. Any attempt to do so would be self-deceptive at best and self-destructive at worst. We are built for relationships, even after they’re over.


About a month after Emma died, Tracy learned about a dog living at the Humane Society. She was, of all things, the same mix of breeds as our Emma — part bull terrier, part blue heeler — but in different proportions. She was shorter, lighter, more squat. We went out to meet the dog one afternoon and were struck by the ghost of Emma. This new dog wasn’t the same of course — she had no compunctions about letting us touch her feet or tail, and her personality was less domineering — but she had a kindness and physical compatibility that reminded us of Ems. We also knew that her chances for adoption were low: she was four years old, where most people wanted puppies or younger dogs; she was heartworm-positive, where most people wanted a dog with a clean bill of health. Having heartworms isn’t a death sentence, but it’s a condition that the Humane Society isn’t equipped to treat: the medication requires the dog to keep a calmer schedule than a shelter, even one as caring and resourceful as the Humane Society, can reasonably provide. Without a home, she would continue living at the shelter, her veins pumping sickness invisibly through her body, until her options had run out. We decided to bring her home for a two-week trial run, which would let us see if she’d acclimate to our house (and cats) and would also let us start to treat her heartworms. And so, six days later, after buying toys and supplies, we went back to the shelter to get her.


Tomorrow marks two weeks since we rescued her, but we knew within a day of bringing her home that we had, indeed, brought her home. She’s ours, in every way. It feels like a restoration to have a dog in the house again, and this one is wonderful. She’s smart and strong, inquisitive and playful. (Probably — well, definitely — more playful than the cats would like.) I see in her the shadow of Emma, and I remember all those experiences even as we make new ones. I feel that fullness. Her first day at the house, she tentatively walked through our backyard, still uncertain of her surroundings. Now she prances from one end to the other, patrolling what has unmistakably become her territory. She’ll clock the mailman through the living room window when he’s still across the street, letting out a low growl and sniffing imperially.

She’s so loving and affectionate, happiest when she’s in physical contact with me or Tracy. Our first night with her, we tried to get her to sleep in her crate, but she didn’t like that at all. We dragged her pillow to the ground next to my side of the bed, and she curled up and went to sleep. In the mornings, when I leave for work, she hops up onto the bed and naps next to Tracy. We learned when we first visited her that she’d been kept outside by a previous owner, who returned her for being “destructive,” not realizing that the dog was lonely and bored. She never has to go through something like that again. She has so much love to give, and she just wants a place to call home. We love her already.

This is Sadie.