On May 4th, one month ago today, I had to say goodbye to Chewie. I’d known this day was coming for a long time, but nothing makes it easier. It was a beautiful day, and I held her outside on the grass while we said goodbye. I wasn’t ready, but I know she was.
I brought Pudgy, Chewie’s son, home first back in 2020 for what I thought would be a week-long foster. A few days later, we learned the whole story—that at age 11, Pudgy had come into the shelter with his 4 siblings AND their approximately 14-year-old mom, Chewie, and that the whole family had lived in cages for most of their lives. We knew we couldn’t leave an elderly mom in the shelter, so a few days later, Michael brought Chewie home, too. I never imagined she’d outlive Pudge and her other babies. I never imagined I’d get 4.5 years with her.
Chewie was my personality twin, my kindred spirit, my tiny soulmate. She liked her independence and didn’t want to be held, but she wasn’t afraid to ask for a back scratch. She wanted company but never to be coddled. She was stoic and calm—the most elegant and dignified lady—but she didn’t take nonsense from anyone. She had to teach a few people stern lessons about personal space. She helped foster other dogs of all shapes and sizes, and they all knew she was the boss.
When I first got Chewie, she didn’t know how to climb stairs or take treats from someone’s hand. My fingers were in constant danger. But she eventually learned how to take treats gently. She gave Pudgy near-daily baths until he died. After he died, she stuck so close to my side, knowing I needed her.
Chewie didn’t have a loud personality. She didn’t demand attention. It took getting to know her to realize how funny she was, how sly and fierce and distinctly herself.
She learned her first trick, how to sit, at 16. She learned how to sprint up and down the stairs. She knew exactly who she was and what she wanted, and what she wanted was to steal all of your toilet paper. She loved car rides more than anyone I’ve ever known. She was an excellent communicator. She patiently taught me what each of her noises meant, and it looked to others like I could read her mind. She’d trick me by telling me she needed to go outside to pee when really she just wanted to go outside to eat bugs in the grass. Her butt was absurd and was proportional to neither her body nor her personality, but it was so uniquely her.
This past year has been very difficult for me, and Chewie was there for every moment of it. In a time when I felt like most things in my life were spiraling, she gave me purpose and taught me resilience and was happy to come along for the ride with such unwavering loyalty. She lived with me in 6 different houses this past year, and she never complained, just said, sure, where are we going next? She took everything in stride, never getting stressed by lack of routine or unfamiliar places. I worried the lack of stability was bad for her, and she assured me that she was unbothered as long as I was there.
As more signs of aging started to show, she got more and more cuddly. The sicker she got, the more cuddly she became. We’d nap together on the couch—something I never dreamed she would allow a few years ago. I think she knew that letting me hold her would bring me comfort, too. If I left the room, she’d quietly look for me until I came back. Since last May, I didn’t spend one night without her.
She taught me so much about strength and accepting help when you need it. As her mobility decreased, she needed more help, so I started bringing her everywhere with me. I wanted to make sure that her world never got too small. And by bringing her everywhere, she got to bring so many people joy. No one could have asked for a better friend.
When we got Pudgy’s cancer diagnosis back in 2021, we knew we had just a few months to keep making memories. We created a bucket-list and filled those months with as much fun as we could. Chewie got to do everything on the bucket-list alongside him. And then she got 3.5 years of bonus memories. There were birthday celebrations and paint parties where all of her friends painted Chewie portraits. There were thousands of car rides, her favorite activity. We had family reunions, and she go to see all 5 of her babies after they each left the shelter. She got to come on my family’s beach trip one year because every girl deserves a beach vacation. She got to ride on an Amtrak train. She came with me to book club events and to my aerial studio and to every bookstore that would allow her. We got to spend 5 Christmases together. She was the mascot of my weekly trivia team, Team One Dog Night. I have a scar on my hand from opening her stroller, and I hope it will always be there to remind me of her.
This year, she experienced her first snowstorm and learned that she loved eating snow. She got to be in her second Barkus parade at Mardi Gras, something I was afraid to even hold out hope for. She ate with me in restaurants, and I snuck her into shops. On her last day, she got to ride on the scooter and feel the wind on her face. Every memory felt like an unexpected gift, and I didn’t take a moment of it for granted.
Just a few weeks before she died, she got to come with me to Ocean Springs and have a perfect weekend trying pooch pops and watching sunsets. I knew we didn’t have long, and the weekend felt like the most beautiful goodbye gift.
If vet estimates were correct, Chewie was between 18 and 19 when she died. What a remarkable life. We sure made the most of it. Losing her has completely gutted me. I know this is a pain I bring on myself by adopting senior dogs, but what an absolute honor to love someone so much that losing them hurts like this. I’d do it again every time.
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