It’s taken me a long time to sit down and write this, and a lot of you are probably tired of hearing about me losing my dog...but I think she deserves to have her story told.
In January 2002, my dad, brother and I drove back to Santa Clarita for my brothers Spring baseball tryouts at William S Hart. We got into town a little early (my dad lived in the San Fernando Valley at the time). We decided to stop by a card store so my brother and dad could look at Pokémon or Yugio or baseball cards. Whatever it was, I begged to go into the pet store while they looked around. I still remember it clear as day. Just inside the door was a two level puppy display. The top level was a little of dachshund puppies. I was barely tall enough to see in. The bottom level was a group of small white fluffy puppies. They looked like someone had spread out slightly browned cotton balls and assembled them into the shape of a puppy. Shihpoos. Most of the puppies for up and scratched at the glass. One small one stayed asleep in the back. Her ears were just slightly darker than the rest. It was quite literally love at first sight. I went next door and begged and pleaded for my dad to come look at them. Just a few years earlier, our childhood spaniel Dink had been put down and our family was lacking the love of a dog. He told me to ask my mom, probably thinking she’d say no. I called and called and called. Finally she answered and said she had to shower but she would think about it. I don’t recall much else other than when they handed me that perfect little puppy with the dirty tan ears. My Princess Bella Rose Sparkle. (Don’t worry. We’ll get to that later.) That afternoon I spent sitting in my dads car playing with her while my brother had his try out. We went to Baja Fresh after and sat around admiring the newest addition to our family. Apparently Princess Bella Rose Sparkle isn’t an acceptable name for a dog, so Brock suggested Roxy. And that was that.
That night we went to my dads apartment, which didn’t allow pets and tried to put her to sleep in a cage. She screamed and screamed and screamed. In order to quiet her, we took her out and cuddled on the floor with her. This was the start of her knowing she could essentially get anything she wanted out of us. She was so tiny. And so soft. She didn’t even look real. My brother and I would lay on the floor and she would lick our ears just lightly biting them. She was perfect. As she grew up, her tan ears faded, leaving little trace of the dark eared puppy I fell in love with. She would run around and play horse in the backyard with me. Jumping my makeshift courses, some up to 1.0M. She let me put toy horse tack on her. She was the star of my “Puppy Bleach” commercial for school where I put our black and white shihtzu Summer in the washing machine and pulled a clean white Roxy out of the dryer. We went on the trampoline together. Played dolls together. She was my best friend.
My parents divorce was pretty hard on me. Although it had been a few years earlier, as my brother and I got older, we, and our classmates, realized our family was different. We didn’t have a mom and dad that lived together like our friends. Our parents didn’t get along like other kids parents. Our mom had to work while other parents could come to every field trip and lunch without missing a beat. It’s hard to be different at that age. It’s hard for kids to understand and ended up being something I was looked down on for by classmates. I was a daddy’s girl through and through. I couldn’t see the things he was doing clearly through the rose colored glasses I wore thinking he could do no wrong. I didn’t understand why or how he could pick this new woman and her son over his own family and kids. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t come home. Why he didn’t want me. Why he liked them more. At a young age I spiraled. Hard. I grew up believing you shouldn’t be sad. You should pray it away. That being sad meant I wasn’t thankful for what I had. But my young mind couldn’t process it all and I developed depression and anxiety symptoms. I will never forget sitting in my room crying I wanting to end my life so badly. I thought if I took enough ibuprofen I would die and finally be free of all the pain. All before I even hit my teens. When my plan didn’t pan out, I held my dog and cried. I held Roxy as tight as I could and promised her I would stay here for her. I wouldn’t ever leave her.
Roxy was with me as I entered my teens, started Jr High, started High School, got my first boyfriend, has my first heartbreak, got my license, graduated High School, got my first job, got my first horse, started college, moved schools, moved out, lost both my grandparents, graduated college, moved cross country, had my first big heartbreak, was fired from a job, got engaged... you name it. She was there for it. Every good. Every bad. Everything. If she heard me crying she would curl up in my lap and let me squeeze her as tight as I could. The nights I went to sleep crying she cuddled just a little bit closer. She waited outside my shower while I got ready. Greeted me with a wagging tale and a bark anytime I came home from school or work or wherever I had been. We went to look at Christmas lights together every year after I got my license. She’d drive to Starbucks or to go get dinner with me. She’d be the honorary mascot for my brothers baseball teams. Would come to games with me. She learned how to ride in purses and eventually learned anytime I set a bag or purse down, to jump in it. She had more clothes than I did. She was so much more than a dog to me.
College was pretty rough for me. The classes were fun and I loved the campus and San Diego etc...but my anxiety kept me from being able to make friends. I had suppressed my anxiety and depression and just had it written off as being sad and being an introvert for years. My first semester of school I crashed hard. I burned out just a month or so into the semester. I had sold my first horse, stopped riding while I was at school, moved to a new area with no friends and no Roxy and away from my boyfriend and life came down hard on me. It stopped me in my tracks and forced me to get help. Throughout it all, whenever I would come home for doctors appointments, Roxy was there. A few years later, I lost my grandpa. He was the closest thing I had to a real father figure in my life. He and my grandma had stepped in to help raise us since my mom had to work to support us. Losing him was hard. It was really hard. My grandpa and I had a special bond. He was the only member of my family that grew up with horses and would talk horses to me. I was a chatterbox as a kid and he would love it when I would call him and just talk and talk and talk. But I had Roxy. I had pictures of Roxy laying on his lap and them loving on each other. Same went for just recently when I lost my grandma. They both loved Roxy. I would drive Roxy over to them so they could spend time with her.
Packing up and moving across the country to a place you’ve never been sounds crazy. And it is. But I did it. I followed my parents and we drove from Santa Clarita, CA to Osage Beach, MO. Roxy made almost the whole drive with me. Stayed in my rooms in the hotels when we’d stop. Moving to Missouri was a big life change and took some adjusting. I lost touch with people I loved. I lost my best human friend shortly after moving here. My first really big heartbreak. And I didn’t think I was going to get through it. Losing him was like getting shot in the chest. I once again found myself slipping further into the darkness. I self harmed in the quiet darkness. Covered my body in scars trying to ease the pain. But everytime I wanted to give up, I would throw the zebra pillow in the front seat of my car and take Roxy for a drive. People that know me know I drive fast and aggressively. But not ever with Roxy in the car. Bringing Roxy along I knew I’d never do anything stupid. She was my life vest, my safety net. Having her in the car I knew I would fight the voices in my head screaming at me to crash the car. Each of those times I made it home safely without a scratch on my car. (Okay. One scratch. I hit a deer one time.) Roxy survived a lot of her own too. According to dog food studies, the garbage we fed her should have shortened her life by a lot. We never “transitioned” her food. We never measured how much she ate. She ate whatever was cheapest and that we got that month. She got into chocolate and candy more times than I can count. She probably ate triple her weight in chocolate. Heck she ate anything she could get in her mouth. Foods that were super poisonous to dogs. She never really went to the vet. Was never spayed. Never really stayed up to date on her shots. She was never licensed anywhere we lived. (Rebel, I know.) She got a little sick back in 2017 and at the age of 15, she had surgery to remove a stone and ended up getting spayed. It was a risky surgery due to her age and her collapsing trachea, but she miraculously pulled through.
She never really acted her age. She honestly never really slowed down until a few weeks before her passing. Age didn’t touch her till the end. She jumped up on my high bed. Jumped down on her own. Would go for walks (and still try to run away). She would “scoot” around the house everytime she would poop. Sat at the table and begged to be held and fed. Even tried to play fetch. She was truly a miracle dog.
Vets, groomers, dog experts all couldn’t believe her age.
But I think that’s what spoiled us. We never thought she’d get old. Never though she was aging. Never thought we would really lose her.
Earlier this year she started slowing down. She liked to sleep all day. She would sleep in closets and couldn’t hear us calling her anymore. Wouldn’t get up until we were right next to her and would wake her up. She’d startle easily. Her joints got stiffer. Her vision started going. She would get confused and cry. She’d walk into walls and wouldn’t know where she was. She had essentially developed Alzheimer’s. But it didn’t break her spirit. She would still let me hold her and cry. She would still curl up in my lap when I was doing my make up. Would still cuddle close to me every night.
I didn’t want to believe it. She had gotten sick and bounced back before. She’d do it again. Surely.
The last few weeks I tried to take her everywhere with me I could. Took her through the car wash, took her to the park a handful of times, took her to get custard and Starbucks and dinner. Got her chicken nuggets. Got her a new collar. Got her food that is probably made of the grossest stuff but she loved. I held her extra tight every time I had the chance. I thought I could love her back to health.
I took work off to spend time with her. Finally when nothing else was working, we tried to see if the vet could do anything else to at least make her comfortable. She wasn’t eating, wasn’t drinking and was having trouble walking. We had heard of people doing IV treatments for their dogs and they would bounce back for a little while. So we tried it. We got medicine for her congestion and to help her get an appetite and did the IVs. I was so hopeful.
Just a few hours later it was clear our time was coming to an end.
It hurt so bad seeing her finally showing signs of pain and discomfort and I was terrified that I was going to have to take her to vet and put her down. I didn’t want her to have to go somewhere cold and unfamiliar. We tried to keep her comfortable and I made clay impressions of her paw print.
I stayed up with her all night. She slept a little. But close to 3 she woke up and I picked her up and held her in my bed. I held her close and talked to her.
Over the years I’ve thanked her so many times for all that she’s done for me. But that morning I told her how much I really truly was thankful for everything. I talked to her about our best memories. At the beach, the pumpkin patch, getting puppaccinos. I told her how my grandma and grandpa missed her. How her two sisters Summer and Boo would be waiting for her.
And I told her it was okay.
I told her she was a good girl. The best girl.
I know everyone thinks they had the best dog but I really truly know for a fact I did.
I told her it was okay.
Around 4am I tried giving her the medication for the last time. It was clear it was too late.
At 5am she breathed her last breath in my arms. I held her for quite a while after that. Let my family know she was gone.
I flew out of the house and drove to the park and cried and cried and cried. I didn’t think there was any possible way I would ever get through losing her. I returned home and laid in the floor next to her bed and screamed and cried.
I never knew something could hurt so bad.
But I realized I told her it was okay. I told her she could go. I couldn’t be mad or upset when I told her it was okay.
Does knowing that or thinking about that make it all better? No. I still cry almost every single day thinking about her. I still have to stop and remember she’s not here when I notice a part of my routines that was based on her being here.
Heck, I just spent the last hour and a half squeezing a white stuffed dog I have crying about her.
I don’t know when it gets easier. I don’t know it it ever really will. She knew all my secrets and all my pain. Things I’ve never told anyone and will probably take to my grave. Secret pain that no one will ever know about but her and I. Things I cant and won’t ever be able to bring myself to write or talk about.
I hate that my children won’t get to meet her. I hate that she won’t be in my wedding pictures.
But at the end of the day, she was a good girl. The best girl. And I was the luckiest girl in the world to have been chosen by her. I was the luckiest person in the world to have gotten the love and sacrifice I did from that dog. No matter what ridiculous outfit or costume I put on her. No matter how stupid or high I asked her to jump. No matter how tight I squeezed her. No matter how broken my heart was. No matter how badly I was physically hurt. No matter how sick I got. She was there.
And there won’t ever be another one quite like her.
