Stay.

A love letter to Harley.

I come from a line of women who place the love they have for their pets on par with the love that they might have for other human beings. In fact, it often surpasses it.

My mother loved her pets, especially her dogs. “Pet” almost seems like the wrong title, pet being defined as a “tame animal kept in a home for fun and company,” because the love and devotion shared between a human and their dog or cat or any other pet can create such a strong and important bond that it affects you to your very core. It surpasses “fun and company.” I know I feel this way, as does my daughter, who has dedicated her life to caring for animals, especially those who were treated poorly in the first parts of their lives. It runs deep in our blood for sure.

When my mom admitted to me that she’s mourned the loss of her pets harder than she mourned most human deaths she was “supposed to” mourn, almost as if she felt a little guilty about it, I assured her that there is no “supposed to.” No one can tell you who or how to grieve. That falls into the realm of insisting someone absolutely MUST forgive someone who’s wronged them: You can’t decide this for anyone but yourself.

I have had many pets over the years. I grew up with a house that was never without a dog, and once my own chaotic earlier adult life calmed down a bit, I’ve never been without one at my side; usually multiple dogs.

Harley came into our lives in March 2014.

Baby Harley 2014

She was first spotted, frolicking with a gaggle of puppies some guy was selling out of the back of a pickup parked in a vacant lot near the Marysville, WA Costco. My partner and I chose her out of the 4 or 5 others because she was the most rambunctious, hopping about and snatching the piggy-ear treats from her siblings. She seemed a bit like a shit disturber, and I liked her gusto. We scooped her up and named her after the DC Comics character, Harley Quinn.

It was evident pretty quickly that Harley was “my girl.” She had love for everyone she met, and she was my partner’s dog as well, of course - but she was my girl. My sweet girl, which I told her as much every day.

From puppyhood, Harley’s empathy was off the charts. If I’d so much as sniffle on the other side of the house, she would be at my side, wiping the ever-present drool that dangled from her lips on my no longer EVER completely clean clothing - a perk of falling in love with a dog with jowls that just won’t quit—finding drool that had dried on the walls after an enthusiastic head-shake was another perk. You eventually go blind to it.

Sometime back in 2019, while hopping for a treat I had offered, something tweaked in her already aging back, as large breeds, like English Mastiffs, are sadly cursed with much-too-short lifespans. The most horrific scream, one I’d never once heard from Harley before, rang through the kitchen as she collapsed, her back legs useless, her eyes bright with fear and confusion as to what was going on as her body betrayed her.

I panicked, my eyes mirroring hers and the yelp emitting from my own mouth not unlike Harley’s, because all I could think of was, “Oh god…my 135 pound sweet girl can’t lose the use of her legs. She just can’t.”

And as soon as she saw me in distress, my empathetic Harley began to claw her way to me, dragging her body - to comfort ME. She was in pain and paralyzed, but she now had to comfort ME. Which, of course, horrified me, and I threw myself down onto the floor immediately so she wouldn’t injure herself further before we got a hold of the emergency veterinarian.

Fortunately, the diagnosis wasn’t grim - something that had pinched and displaced in her vertebrae, and after a vet visit, a prescription for some pretty hardcore anti-inflammatories, and a few trips to a doggy chiropractor, a thing I did not previously know existed, she was back to her old self, though one of her legs would forever have the slightest drag to it, which you only really noticed when you’d hear the slight scrape of her foot as she’d amble around the house. Always more concerned for me than any “pet” should be.

Notice those quotation marks. The word “pet seems…insufficient, especially for a creature who is still healing but needs to make sure that I’M okay.

“Funny you’re the broken one, but I’m the only one who needed saving...”

Her patience with the foster dogs, even the “problem children” that we brought into the fold over the years, was legendary. She and her brother, Wilson - a sweet “pitbull” we rescued from an abandoned backyard breeding operation, a boy who remains forever a puppy and absolutely oblivious to…well, most things - would occasionally side-eye the interlopers, but accepted them as, “Well, I guess this is our new sibling,” and just went on with their life as the top two of three or more furry familymembers. Harley, who never had puppies of her own, fell into the role of “mom” quite often, even with the kittens.

As she grew older, I would find myself in tears over the very THOUGHT of losing her, the “pre-grief” hitting me so hard sometimes it surprised me.

My mother, who moved in with us, along with her aging wiener dog, Honeybee, for her last few years on the planet, said she understood completely.

“It’s just not fair that we fall in love with these pets and they’re with us for such a short time. It’s not fair,” she’d say, tearing up at the recollection of the pets she’s grieved over the nine decades she had been on the planet at that point.

“Sometimes I would think that I can’t go through it again, but then I’d get another one and, here we go again. It’s a cruelty, really. I don’t know what I’m going to do if Honeybee dies before I do. I just don’t know.”

My mom passed before Honeybee - shattering my heart, but honestly, I was thankful that my mother’s heart wasn’t broken into pieces one last time before her own passing. She had endured enough grief in her life. She had lost multiple human children and countless furry children already. It was a blessing that her little ween-child was there for the duration.

When we brought Honeybee, whose usual place was in my mother’s lap prior to her passing, into the pack, Harley unsurprisingly seemed to know to keep close to her during the transition.

We moved down to Costa Rica in 2022, and honestly, to this day, I still can’t quite fathom how more than one person asked me:

“Oh! What are you going to do with your dogs?”

I’m sorry, but I beg your finest fucking pardon? What do you mean, what am I going to “do with them?”

There were actually people out there who thought that, with the complications of four animals and an international move, that there was ever a chance that I was…what…going to abandon them? Rehome them? Like, I’m still shaking my head over this.

Yes, relocating our dogs to a new country was the most expensive part of the trip - all but the 9,000 year old (slight exaggeration) Honeybee had to be shipped down via a specialized carrier as all three of them were on the “no fly list” due to “squish nose” breed restrictions (though neither Harley nor Wilson are particularly squishnosed - just Belushi, the rescue Frenchie), and Harley was a double-threat due to her size.

But I wouldn’t have moved down the BLOCK, let alone out of the country, without the furriest members of our family.

What am I going to do with them…seriously, I’m still annoyed.

Treat time in their new home in the jungle.

Over the last four years, we’ve lost two of the four. My mother’s toothless, no-eyed, geriatric ween, a silly little dog who I would joke that had died three years prior but no one had bothered to tell her, finally said goodbye in August of 2023. Belushi followed her across the rainbow bridge the following year.

We thought we were going to lose Harley a few years ago after her kidney function plummeted to nearly nothing out of nowhere. We were told to prepare for the worst. She was 9 years old, getting up there for a Mastiff, but maybe a radical, low-protein diet would help, maybe even prolong her life, at least by a bit.

Harley at the vet finding out wtf was going on with her bod.

Within a week, she was back to her old self, and since then, our life has involved setting aside a full day for “Harley food prep,” roasting vegetables, cooking up rice, and then working the assembly line to bag up the next few weeks of food to store in the freezer for her. This was something I always said I might do some day if I had a smaller dog. Well, shit changes when it needs to, and it just became routine.

Harley turned 12 this last Valentine’s Day, and I began to believe she might live forever.

Yes, she was slowing down - aren’t we all? - and in the last few months, it seemed like her back end was a heavier burden, as I’d watch it slowly sink, almost imperceptibly so, to the ground as she’d stand around the house, sometimes just staring off into space. Honestly, some of her quirks in her advanced age this year reminded me of my mother’s last year on the planet - I’d feel bad for possibly insulting my mother’s memory by comparing her to my dog, but a.) dementia is dementia, b.) bodies suck, and c.) my mother saw dogs as human - I’m certain she wouldn’t be offended by the comparison.

Harley wasn’t in pain, not that she let on anyway. She even had days where she’d be loping around like a goofy puppy. Sometimes starting shit with her sweet, simple brother, Wilson, who is getting up there in years himself and, like he is with many things, was completely baffled at the spike in Harley’s energy.

I wrote in a piece earlier this year that, while it would absolutely wreck me, I was also mostly prepared for her to leave us this year. And by “prepared,” I mean it wouldn’t surprise me - mostly because it’s a year that ends in 6, and that’s a whole-ass thing in my family.

But I also ended that piece with, “I intend to follow my 12-year-old Mastiff into 2027. We’ll just have to see what 2026 has to say about that.”

This last Friday, I was woken up by Harley’s new quirk since going completely and totally deaf last year: LOUD sniffing and what can only be described as “whale song” outside any door she’s on the other side of. She can’t HEAR if I’m awake, so she’s going to SMELL if I’m awake, because dammit…it’s time for fucking breakfast.

After being annoyed - I didn’t sleep well at ALL the previous night - I got up, was greeted by a happy mastiff and a prancing pitbull-shaped pony, and we all enjoyed our breakfasts as per usual. They went out, did their normal post-breakfast potty, got their post-breakfast treat(s), and then I dragged one of the dog beds into my office to put by my desk, as Harley’s spot is forever at my side as my snoring coworker.

Occasionally, I’d neglect to drag the bed in right away, and Harley would amble in and look at me like, “Really? You haven’t figured this out yet?”

I’d say, “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweet baby girl,” mostly to myself as she couldn’t hear a goddamn word of it, as I’d rectify my error.

That morning, Harley slowly got up off of her bed and seemed…off. And not steady. More unsteady than usual. I was like, “Oh boy, what’s up, poops?” - admittedly one of her weirder nicknames.

She eventually gathered herself and slowly sauntered off into the main living area, plopped down onto the other dog bed - and then deposited her undigested breakfast on the floor.

And just like that, she was done. She put her head down in a way she didn’t usually rest it.

Harley let me know she was tired. A different kind of tired.

She wasn’t able to stand, to which I began to panic. My partner is in the States handling another family emergency, and it’s just Harley, Wilson, and me in the house.

I knew in my gut what was happening. And as soon as she sensed my alarm, she struggled to lift her head once more and tried to claw her way to me. As I did when she injured her back, I threw myself down on the floor next to her, but immediately shut down as much of my palpable distress as I could - and comforted HER for a change. She had been relentlessly at my bedside during a few semi-serious health issues over the past year, and helped me through the grief when I lost my mother. She was my “pet,” but she was also, in many ways, my caretaker. She was, as a friend explained, my “souldog” in the way some people have soulmates.

One of the too many times she was my nurse.

We’re fortunate to have a vet down here who is nothing short of an angel. He seems to love all pets as if they’re his own, and he’s been here for every need in the last four years; to help with our pets, to help with rescues we’ve taken in, to be angry right along with us when we’ve witnessed animals that aren’t treated well.

Harley with Logan, one of our rescues down here.

When Honeybee needed to say goodbye, he came to the house - when he was on vacation - to help her pass over, and he handled everything that came after.

I spent all of Friday on the kitchen floor with Harley, listening to music, and staying in contact via text with the vet. He gave suggestions on how to keep her comfortable and hoped along with me that we might see a dramatic about-face the next day. That night, I dragged her bed, this time with her on it, into the bedroom with me - she’s lost weight since her healthier weight of 135 lbs, but not that much.

There was no about-face.

The next morning, I dragged her bed back out into the living room and “set up shop” on the floor with her once again. We spent the day listening to music, Harley’s sleepy head on my leg while I worked a bit on my laptop, with a roll of paper towels, a beach towel, and a pre-dampened washcloth all nearby - all of which came in handy during this winding-down phase.

Harley had no desire or ability to stand again after a brief moment the day before, when she wanted to be upright but needed me to hold her up to do so - until she decided…that was enough.

One of my favorite playlists, set on random, seemed eager to provide a fitting, if not cruel, soundtrack. As Harley’s heavy noggin, once I got situated at my station on the floor, plopped down on my thigh as Neko Case vocalized words that felt so eerily appropriate.

“I’m so tired. I wish I was the moon tonight.”

My truck’s battery had decided to completely peter out the day before, so I am thankful for the man who finished up a weekend shift at the veterinary hospital, borrowed a car, as his vehicle had also chosen to inconvenience him, and drove all the way up to our little house on the mountain, my partner 7,000 miles away and distraught that, while there to provide support to one part of the family, he couldnt be there with us at that moment.

Our vet walked in through the front door I had propped open, took one look at her, looked at me, and nodded.

I hadn’t thought I needed assurance that I was making the right decision to let her go before the distress that had worsened over the last day caused undue suffering…but I did. I had reminded myself multiple times, as Harley’s breathing began to become labored and she showed occasional signs of pain or fright that would fade again, that my daughter had shared this wisdom with me:

“It’s better to make the decision a few days “too soon” than a few days “too late.”

He gave Wilson some love where he was sitting nearby on the other dog bed that I had moved closer to us in hopes that he might possibly comprehend he was saying goodbye to his sister.

He sat down on the floor next to Harley and me. She lifted her head from my thigh a bit to greet the man who had taken such good care of her in the past, and then exhaled loudly before resting again.

I fed my sweet girl a couple of small pieces of chicken breast that I had originally cooked for my own dinner but no longer desired. Now that I felt confident there wouldn’t be enough time for her consumption of it to cause her pain, she gently took the pieces from me and swallowed them as her doctor prepared her for her last moments, the treat fully distracting her from the poke of the needle.

Cat Power’s voice called out to her from the speaker.

“Makes me feel like I can’t live without you
It takes me all the way…I want you to stay.
Want you to stay…”

I did my best, mostly failing, to hold anguish that felt like it was bursting through my chest, so that I could tell Harley how good she was, as she slowly slipped away over the next few minutes.

I wanted her to stay. I wanted to change my mind. I knew that I was being selfish, so I said nothing.

I wanted her to stay. But she was gone.

I can’t say I remember too much about the rest of the evening other than my head screaming as I silently threw myself into the indignity of postmortem logistics and clean-up that were now underway. I helped our vet with the dead weight of a 100+ pound Mastiff while trying not to purposely “take in” any of it. I tried like hell to shut my brain off and pretend that the black yard debris bag was no different than the black polyethylene bags afforded to humans as their physical remains are jettisoned away for disposal.

I made sure he hadn’t careened down the eleven treacherous stairs to our equally treacherous driveway, which he also had to stumble down with 100+ pounds of Harley’s limp body over his shoulder; I couldn’t move the truck to facilitate a shorter journey for him.

I went back into the shockingly empty house where Wilson lay snoring. Oblivious.

“Sometimes it’s better when they’re…that way, like he is. It’s just better for him,” the vet had mused earlier while patting Wilson’s skull, which is mostly filled with glitter, butterflies, and static noises.

I don’t remember much about the rest of that Saturday night. Or the next day, for that matter.

“Are you ok?” I’ve had that question posed a couple of times by a few people who know that’s what you’re “supposed to” ask.

I’m not. I will be. But no…not really. Thanks for asking.

My sweet vet contacted me to see how I was (“I’m fine.”) and asked for a photo of Harley for her urn, as she did for the past two he handled their arrangements for.

I chose this one.

There are so many to choose from, but this one? Just…it’s kind of perfectly sums up her joy. Love. Eager to love and be loved. And to deposit her drool on your lap, preferably after she had just drunk a gallon of water from her bowl, storing just enough in her jowls to share with your pantleg.

The pain of losing a “pet,” one that has made an impact on your life in a way that some of the humans you’re “expected” to grieve have failed to, is a pain that’s no different than any other catastrophic loss. The loss of my ‘souldog’ has hobbled me as it hobbled my mother more than once in her life, much in the way my daughter was brought to her knees by the loss of her “my first grandchild,” Oliver, a couple of years ago.

I’ve seen more than a few people in my extended circle go through this in the last few months as well, and I always send the “I’m so sorry, I know how loved they were,” and I leave it at that because there are no words. There are no perfect words to fill the negative space left behind by a soul that had become entwined with yours.

Time will heal as much as it’s possible to for their losses. And for mine.

My partner will be back in the country this coming weekend, coming home to a slightly quieter, slightly less hair-covered home, one that I’ve already rid of the ever-present dried slobber that’s made its way onto walls and cabinets, though I’m sure I’ve missed a few, and I can actually chuckle now at the fact that I KNOW that when I run across one I missed, I’m going to cry. We will grieve our shared loss together at that time, maybe raise a toast to my sweet Harley girl with some yet-to-be-determined spirit.

But until then, I’m just going to try to figure out what it means to not have my sweet caribou (another nickname) greet me every morning, spend her days next to my desk or any other place I am situated, sleeping on my feet, at my bedside when ill. I’ll find myself strangely wistful that I will be sweeping less dog hair, that I will be less likely to slip and break my neck on some strategically deposited, very slimy mastiff drool.

I don’t much feel like writing…well, anything, right now. But I figured I’d get this out of me before I walk away again.

I’m so tired. I wish I was the moon tonight.