The Weight of Letting Go

Despite anticipatory grief, whether prompted by legitimate reasons or not, being a very real thing, no amount of preparation ever truly prepares you for the ache you feel on your pet’s last day. It’s an ache so deep in your soul, it screams louder than your own inner voice. It pleads for more time while simultaneously trying to reassure you that you’ve made the right decision, that the time has inevitably come.

I never expected to come undone from the loss of one dog. Then I lost both of my dogs, just 53 days apart.

2025 threw me the ultimate curve ball by forcing me to say good-bye to both of my soul dogs so closely together. If I remove myself from the emotional aspect of it and dive into the poetic nature of it all, both of my dogs came to me so close together so it makes sense they'd leave me in the same manner. The shock came when I had to say good-bye to George first, jolting me into an unexpected weight of grief.

I had been grieving Sam for years since she was quite old for her breed and frail. She had been declining physically for a while so I had been preparing my soul for her departure for some time. But every time we'd think we'd arrived to that point, we'd be reassured that she was still spunky and healthy --no major ailments to note. So when George started to significantly slow down over the holidays of 2024, to the point of concern, I was thrown for a loop. George was my energetic, puppy at heart dog. In spite of two knee surgeries and a wonky heart, he was always ready for a game of catch and a long walk around the neighborhood. But he turned, quickly. He started to refuse to eat, not want to go on walks, sleep more (and deeply), and then the bloody stools came.

Within days, we had learned he had a bleed somewhere internally. We could've run all the tests, all the ultrasounds, etc., but the conclusion was the same: he was internally bleeding and we had a tough decision to make. Would we be willing to put him through chemo if it were cancer or put him through difficult surgery that may just put a band-aid on the issue and not fully fix? We kept going back to the answer: no. He was 14, had a heart condition from when he was a puppy, and had become anemic. Putting him through more would be selfish and I just kept reminding myself that it may just delay the inevitable.

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I adopted George in February of 2011. I had already adopted my girl, Sam, the previous November and felt she needed a companion. But without meaning to (wink, wink), I found myself at the shelter on that February day. I loved walking through the kennels, seeing all the dogs, and imagining a life where I could save them all.

As I made my way to the outdoor kennels, I saw him. A copper-headed mutt pressing his entire face against the metal bars when I approached. I looked at him and whispered, “He’s beautiful.”

Most kennels have information about each animal posted outside. At the time, George was sharing his space with two other dogs, and while there were details about them, there was nothing about him. I quickly found a volunteer and asked about him. She returned a moment later to tell me he had just been dropped off that morning and hadn’t had his intake paperwork posted yet.

I told her I wanted to meet him, and I did. He was wild, to say the least. Completely fixated on the tennis balls we tossed his way. During our short meet and greet, I learned that George had already been returned twice in his short six months of life.

I wanted him. He was mine.

The adjustment period after bringing George home was rough. I had gone from having just Sam, a fully trained, well-mannered sweetheart, to adding George into the mix. Then, on top of that, came a divorce. It all felt overwhelming. But George brought the “crazy” and spunk I didn’t know I needed to survive that season. He was the balance between Sam and me.

I waited for years for George to finally slow down and not even tearing his ACLs could stop him. With a full cast on, he still chased after things, dragging it behind like it was nothing. I always knew that when the day came where he slowed down or stopped being motivated by food, that would be the time.

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That day inevitably came on January 3rd of 2025. I remember sitting in the vet’s office, the day prior, desperately hoping for different news. Bravely and through a puddle of tears, I asked her, “If this were your dog, what would you do?” She handed me tissues, sat on the floor beside George and as she stroked his little head, said gently, “I would give him the best last day.”

I sobbed uncontrollably. How could it be time to say goodbye to my baby boy? But deep down, I knew, if I truly loved him, I had to let him go.

So we gave him the best last day and did all his favorite things, with Sam by his side. It would be their last full day together, too. I documented everything I could, determined never to forget a moment of it. And on the following day, the 3rd, with family by his side, we helped him cross the rainbow bridge. I desperately held on to his fur, listened as he took his final breath, smelling his fur and paws for the last time. I wanted to hold on to those seconds for as long as I could.

His absence was immense. I could see him in every turn, and yet he was nowhere at all. Sam and I would search for him, only to find what remained: his bed, his food bowl with crumbs from his last meal, and his favorite toys, scattered around the house. All of them waiting for their turn, but that turn would never come again.

The following month, I spent in and out of tears, sharing with friends the weight of the loss, not knowing I was about to experience it all over again. Sam had a growth on her leg that we all believed was just another fatty lump --she’d had two before. But this one was growing rapidly. When we asked the vet, they seemed hesitant to do a biopsy. At one of her final wellness checkups, the vet sat down beside me. I asked her the question that had been sitting heavy on my heart: How much time?

I’ll never forget what she said:

“Dogs are incredibly resilient creatures, but they also want to serve and make their owners happy. Sam knows you lost George, and she’s showing up for you. She’s eating well and has her zoomies, because she sees that you need that. But her body is frail. It is slowly fading. She will tell you when it’s time, but you also need to reassure her that you’ll be okay. It’s better too soon than too late.”

A week later, the growth ruptured and began to bleed, forcing us to act quickly. We got a second opinion, and that’s when we found out it was an aggressive form of cancer. Sam had only a couple of months, at best.

I wrestled with the decision of whether to wait. Waiting would involve daily gauze changes, bandages, and constant monitoring. Her leg had already doubled in size because the tumor was affecting her lymphatic system. I didn’t want to let her go. She was my girl.

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I made the decision to go to the shelter one afternoon in November 2011 because of a creepy maintenance man who worked at the apartment complex I lived in. The complex had a strict "No Dogs" policy, but I didn’t care. I knew I’d be moving by February, and my safety felt far more important.

I walked the kennels over and over until I stumbled upon one lone kennel at the back of the shelter. There she was: sprite, ears pointed, sitting like a good girl against the wall. Sam had already been at the shelter for several months. When I met her, she didn’t seem interested in me at all. But two things were true: she was large, and she was a black dog. Two things I hoped would intimidate any maintenance guy.

For months, I coordinated intricate drop-offs and pick-ups. Every morning before work, I’d take her somewhere safe. Every afternoon, I’d pick her up. On the rare occasions I left her at the apartment, she barked and clawed at the doors. She cost me my entire deposit and then some. But I didn’t care. I’d never felt safer.

Sam and I took a long time to bond. She didn’t trust me, and frankly, I didn’t trust her either. She’d run away every chance she got, and I felt hopeless that we’d ever truly connect. But then, we did. She learned I would never abandon her. And I learned she just needed time.

When I brought George home, it all felt complete. I trusted her to be my sweet, sassy girl, the one who would teach her wild little brother the way.

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In her final days, Sam, in so many ways, still seemed happy, still herself. But she was so frail, 17 pounds lighter than when I first adopted her. I laid with her, hoping she'd tell me it was time, but I didn't need her to tell me. I could see it on her physical body. Sam had held on for me and I need to be brave enough to let her go, so a few days later after getting her prognosis, we made the decision for February 25.

Because we had done so much of her favorite things on George's last day, Sam's last day was a little different. We invited everyone to come see her and say their good-bye's. She loved people and we gave her just that. And not to mention, every treat we could think of. She went on several walks and she was allowed to smell everything and anything for however long she wanted.

The loss of Sam was profoundly different than George. My connection to both of them was vastly different. Sam and I communicated with just one look. She knew me inside and out and I knew her like the back of my hand. She was familiar whereas George made me feel joy in the hardest of situations. I needed Sam's stability to get me through George's loss so that I could know what to expect when I lost her.

The loss of Sam and George rewired my brain, whether scientific of not, I know I am different. For 15 years, my life was shaped through them and their DNA is woven in every season of my life. They saw me through my chaotic 20s and saw me settle into true adulthood in my 30's. They inspired me to advocate for shelter pets and open my own coffee shop that did just that. They were my gentle reminders that life is short, so stop and enjoy things more. I am forever changed because they were mine and I am forever changed now that they are gone.

There will be others because I know Sam and George would like to know that I rescued a few more dogs. But it'll be different. I will love them, no doubt, but it'll be different.

One year later, and I still ache for just one more second with them. I heard someone say recently, "If only heaven had visiting hours..." and oof, if only. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them, or cry for them. I know this to be true of this season: grief this deep only exists because love ran even deeper. I carry them with me now, not on leash or collar, but in every quiet moment and every act of kindness they taught me.