Behind the realization that you love someone – that your soul has connected with another – lurks the unthinkable fear of losing them and having to go on living. I’m a pessimist with anxiety, depression, and OCD. Intrusive thoughts have been a thing for me for a while, so I’ve gotten used to them. I knew Luigi was going to die one day, and I knew that day would destroy me. I imagined the (there’s no word for the size and intensity I’m going for here) pain I would feel, but I couldn’t picture my life afterwards. Part of me just didn’t believe I would go on. It’s hard to explain. But here I am on the other side, writing my way through the grief.
Whenever one of my Facebook friends posted about losing their pet, I’d fixate on their words, try to understand how they were coping. I wondered what I would write when Luigi’s time came. I never planned out what I would say, but I knew I would want to record and honor what he meant to me. I also knew that whatever I did write could never, ever do justice to his memory. I’m not even sure what would; I know I’m not alone in thinking that, though. What could we do or say or create that would be enough – that would leave us satisfied in our efforts to memorialize someone?
I get that fretting over a social media post is stupid. But I knew it’s where I would share my tribute to him, and it’s the act of sharing that really matters. I think that’s all we really want in the end – to tell stories that are memorable to us, to preserve their memory through writing, art, photos, and conversations as a way of saying
Thank you.
You mattered to me.
There’s no way I’ll ever forget you.
I don’t have an outline for this. I anticipate at times it will sound less like a carefully planned epitaph and more like a therapist-ordered brain dump. I just thought I would start at the beginning and see where it takes me.
___
On February 22, 2011, my friend Lydia shared a post on Facebook from someone looking to rehome their 5-month-old puppy. He was white with brown markings, large ears, and a black “pirate eye” (think Wishbone). The photo was taken by someone sitting behind him, and he was sort of looking back toward the camera. As soon as the picture appeared on my feed, I knew. I had to have that dog. He was meant to be mine. My soul recognized him like a familiar face, as if from a previous life.
I was sitting on the couch at our apartment in Tampa. James and I had been living together for a few years and had casually discussed adopting a pet. He was in the kitchen. I called him over, showed my screen. He paused long enough to suggest that he, too, just knew.
I messaged Lydia, who gathered information about the dog from his owners, her friends. His name was Peluche, which in Spanish means “stuffed animal.” He was born in Puerto Rico on a beach. We would later learn that his exact birthday was September 24, 2010, he had a diabetic brother named Bruno, and that he was likely a Jack Russell-beagle mix. His current owners were moving and couldn’t take him with them. James and I agreed that there was little to deliberate except when to pick him up – and a name.
We wanted to rename him, so I made a list. Most of the suggestions were James’, including the one we chose, Luigi. Back then, we drove to Lakeland and stayed there over the weekend pretty often. We decided we would get him that Sunday, February 27, and take him with us back to Tampa.
I remember driving into the apartment complex and approaching his building. There was someone outside with a little dog, but it didn’t occur to me yet that this was Luigi. It was dusk. Streetlights were on. That’s how I saw him for the first time, quickly walking with his owner in front of the building with the light shining above.
I remember a lot about that first meeting – how excited he was, him jumping up toward us, his owners (a couple around our age with a young kid) handing me his belongings. She mentioned what a good dog he was and how he would absolutely not go potty indoors. And that was that; we led him outside and walked to the truck.
I had imagined that it would take some coaxing to get him to leave with us, that he’d whine or resist when we left his owners, but I was wrong. Luigi jumped in immediately when we opened the door and didn’t look back, as if following an old routine. He then discovered James’ cup of Mountain Dew and partook unabashedly, beginning the joy and hilarity that would define his life with us.
Other than helping take care of my family dogs, Lucy and Ranger, I had no experience raising a puppy. I wondered aloud as we got to our apartment, “Can he climb stairs?” James laughed, and Luigi bounded up to the third floor. We spent that evening taking pictures and videos of him while he explored his new home. At one point, I don’t remember why, we took his collar off. That’s when we heard him bark for the first time – he was clearly offended and wanted it back.
We took him out to potty before settling in for the night. I didn’t know how often puppies needed to pee, and I anticipated waking up every few hours to let him do his business. He jumped into bed with us, and I eventually fell asleep. I remember waking up some time later and looking in his direction. His little head popped up, and we stared at each other for a second. I could only see his silhouette, formed mostly of his large, alert ears.
I can’t articulate exactly what it was, but we exchanged something in that moment. I assumed he needed to pee, so we went outside again, but just as I had woken up to check on him, it seemed like he could have been checking on me. We were both saying
Do you need anything?
I’m here for you
I’ll take care of you
—
The next morning, I had a job interview in Tarpon Springs. James had left for work, so Luigi would be alone. I hadn’t thought much about this. He’d be fed, have water and toys, and I would take him out right before I needed to leave. I would only be gone a few hours. He’s a dog, he’ll be fine, right? (And he was.) But when I was halfway down the stairs or so, I heard the most sorrowful and panicked crying, and I got down all the way before realizing it was Luigi. I rushed back, found him at the door, gave him lots of pets and reassurance, and steeled myself for leaving again. The wailing was more than I could handle; I had never felt so guilty. I started to cry as soon as I was in the car, and I don’t mean sniffling, I mean full on bawling my eyes out. The most unexpected wave of anguish came from knowing that I had left him alone and scared in this new place. Part of me still can’t believe I didn’t cancel my interview.
I’ve been ridiculed for this, and I know how dramatic it sounds, but every time I went anywhere afterwards, I’d plug my ears until I got in my car. If James and I were going somewhere together, I always walked down first (Luigi wouldn’t start to howl until the apartment was empty). Logically, I knew he was okay and that we couldn’t stay home with him around the clock, but the animal part of my brain that just didn’t want to ever hear those sounds again – that wanted nothing more than to comfort him and pretend the outside world didn’t exist – was so completely unprepared for those feelings that it turned the whole ordeal into a kind of trauma.
I must have already loved him then.
Luigi loved his Daddy of course. They were each other’s designated napping buddy. And Luigi would check the window constantly while James was at work. He knew the sound of his truck locking; he would wake up from the deepest sleeps at the sound of those beeps – ears up, running to the window. I liked walking him when James was getting home. He recognized his truck and just got so dang excited and happy. Making Luigi excited and happy brought me absolute joy and fulfillment. I would do anything for the hyper squeals and tail spinning at lightning speed, and showing him his Daddy’s truck pulling in did the trick every time.
Beyond James and me, Luigi grew immensely attached to DD. His excitement and energy when she visited were off the charts. At the words “Aunt DD,” his ears instantly shot up, head tilted, tail wagging furiously. Shrill barks and high-pitched whining filled the room for a good 10 minutes any time she walked in. DD often accompanied us on adventures, including our first trip to a dog park.
I know the subject of dog parks is divisive. I take Rocky and Shadow every few weeks, and we haven’t had a bad experience. But one trip with Luigi ended in disaster, and I never took him there again. Shortly after we arrived, a large dog attacked him. I could barely see him; the other dog was completely on top. Without thinking, I ran over and shoved myself between them. I grabbed Luigi as his attacker’s owner appeared and glared at me, as if my dog were the aggressor. She steered hers away without apologizing, but I didn’t care in the moment. I held Luigi until we got to the car. Both of us had scratches and bite marks – nothing very serious, though. More than anything, we were shaken up. Luigi’s demeanor toward other dogs changed after that; he wasn’t aggressive or looking to start fights, just wary and uncertain.
I realize much of this tribute sounds serious/depressing, but how can I describe the joy, friendship, and sense of comfort Luigi brought to my life? It wasn’t a single incident, but a constant warmth and fulfillment built into my state of mind that I now miss so intensely. What’s a word for the underlying happiness you feel when someone you love is always nearby? A word for the security in knowing that this love is always waiting to catch you when life knocks you on your ass? A pause, a sigh, and lying down next to him. How can I convey the power of his fluffy white fur and big brown eyes to remind me that everything is figureoutable? He flops onto his side, rubs his back playfully on the carpet and makes low, goofy growls. I scratch his belly and am calmed. He really was like a stuffed animal sometimes, and snuggling him was all I needed.
Like most dogs, Luigi loved walks and was especially attuned to the whereabouts of his leash while at home. The slightest jingle as I got it ready would bring him sprinting toward the front door. When his hearing went, he would still watch me closely if I went near it and could recognize the thing from a mile away. When he was nearly blind, I’d attach the leash to his collar and, even when he could hardly stand anymore without a struggle, he stood and made for the door.
James and I moved an absurd number of times over the past 15 years. Luigi didn’t exactly appreciate this, but he did love exploring new places. In his younger years, we took long, leisurely walks around the many apartment complexes I lived at. He was terrified of cars driving by at speeds of greater than 8 mph, so no sidewalks along open roads for us. We chose familiar paths behind certain buildings, sometimes to the front gates or a little beyond, and around the small retention ponds that are supposed to make you appreciate nature, I guess. There was a long, circular trail around one of these ponds at our first apartment that could only be reached by crossing the street into the adjoining complex, so discovering it was particularly exciting.
Luigi preferred sticking to his usual routes, though.
The most recent walks I took him on – I knew they were the last ones. I could tell he was uncomfortable, but he wanted to be outside nonetheless. He couldn’t see or hear anymore, so he wasn’t particularly interested in anything except the closest blades of grass. (This is in stark contrast to his brothers, Rocky and Shadow, who practically break down the door and prowl around the neighborhood, straining against their harnesses like gang leaders hunting the dogs who peed on their turf.) Luigi just dawdles, nose to the ground or up in the air, sniffing all he can out of life, and I let him. We don’t go far…just to the stop sign at the end of our street, and always at sunset.
Over the years, Luigi met five dogs in our families: Lucy, Ranger, and Beta from mine, and Maggie and Molly from James’s. I thought Ranger was the cutest dog ever, and part of why I wanted Luigi is because that first picture reminded me of him. Two weeks or so after adopting Luigi, I brought him to my mom’s house in Lakeland to meet my dogs. Lucy, my first dog, cared about one thing and one thing only in life: chasing balls (or sticks). So she wasn’t very interested in Luigi. In addition to being the cutest dog (in my eyes, anyway), Ranger was also one of the meanest. It wasn’t all his fault; poor baby couldn’t produce tears, had to receive eyedrops several times a day, and was very angry about it. He didn’t take too kindly to Luigi originally…or…ever.
The meet & greets went a little better at James’s house. He brought Maggie into the front yard on a leash. She was cool with Luigi and allowed him to come inside. (Maggie was cool with just about anything except someone approaching the bed when her mom was on it.) He met Molly a few years later, when James’s mom decided to add another dog. That did not go well, maybe because Luigi and Molly disagreed on who (after Maggie) had more rights to the territory. It took several visits for them to get along. After Lucy died, my mom adopted Beta, a goofy golden retriever who liked to bop things with her nose (mostly people’s feet and her water bowl) and seemed completely oblivious to the possibility of interacting with other dogs. Ultimately, none of our dogs proved to be a good playmate for Luigi, who was honestly just as ambivalent about them. He still loved visiting his grandmas, though, and having access to a fenced backyard.
He may not have liked other dogs much, but in 2014 we decided to get him a sister anyway. Between work and grad school, James and I were away from the apartment more often, and I couldn’t bear the idea of Luigi alone, bored, and lonely for those long hours (though only the first was likely true). Plus, we just wanted another dog to love. We had started looking through shelters online when we came across Ruby (then Rosie). Ruby was a (mix) about Luigi’s age and the 97x shelter dog of the week. Seeing her picture filled me with a similar knowing as when I first saw Luigi. Something told me they would be the best of friends, and I had to have her. I called the shelter that day to see if she was available (she was) and showed up the next morning before they opened. My anxiety had braced me for a mass gathering of 97x listeners hoping to adopt Rosie, but James and I were joined only by a little boy and his parent, who, if I remember correctly, left with a new cat.
I had a plan in place for introducing Ruby to her brother. We were living in an apartment in Westchase, so no backyard, but they did have a dog park. James dropped me off to fetch Luigi while he took Ruby to the park area. On opposite sides of the fence, the two of them sniffed each other and immediately got feisty. Luigi had his say, and once he calmed down, we brought him into the park. He and Ruby then became friends. Once inside our apartment, they chased, played, and barked the afternoon away.
We lost Ruby to cancer just (5) years later. I couldn’t have chosen a better sister for Luigi, and I’m thankful for the companionship they were able to give each other.
When I got pregnant in 2016, I came across information on social media for pet owners about bringing a new baby home. Some of it was alarming – stories of once-docile and affectionate dogs turning downright vicious; babies being mauled by the family dog seemingly out of nowhere. Parents were encouraged to surrender their dogs if they so much as growled around the baby. I understood the concerns, but I wasn’t too worried. I just believed Luigi would accept his human brother without making a fuss, and I was right. From snuggling my bump to letting Elliott play with his fur and hanging out together on the floor, Luigi welcomed my firstborn into the family and seemed to enjoy his company. I never once feared for Elliott’s safety. Luigi was such a good boy. Elliott and Madeline adored him, and I’m so glad he will be part of their childhood memories.
I’m writing this memorial with the vague and unreachable goal of capturing Luigi’s life for posterity. When I started, I thought I would offer highlights that readers would find interesting. And now, a week or so later, I keep realizing that I am trying to include everything…I can’t choose just a few photos when all of them are important to understanding who he was. I can’t describe bits and pieces and leave out his quirks, his goofy poses, all the nuances that make Luigi Luigi…my best friend, my baby dog of 15 years. Sharing is saving, and I want to share
how he loved shredding paper towel tubes
how quickly he mastered certain tricks (shake paw) but refused to learn others (roll over)
his enthusiasm for car rides, no matter how short
his affinity for blankets (and how quickly he claimed the new ones)
his profound hostility toward blow dryers
how he tried to bury bones in the couch or under blankets
that he could bark “I love you”
I can’t cover everything. Covering everything would mean writing forever.
—
Then there was Rocky – a 1 or 2 year-old Husky/GSD/Pit Bull mix with puppy energy who (looking back) might not have been the best addition to territory owned by a crotchety old dog set in his ways. (Blame the piercing blue eyes in his shelter ad that drew me in.) Luigi was…not thrilled by our latest attempt to give him a brother. They had to be fed separately, and for a few weeks, Luigi would not allow Rocky to come near the table while we were eating. Any food that went overboard was his and his alone. Rocky’s zoomies took no prisoners; he would often flip over whole sections of our couch to Luigi’s great dismay. But they did tolerate each other eventually, once Luigi established their pack order. Rocky would bow, inviting to Luigi to play, and sometimes, he even accepted. I don’t recall them ever frolicking or whooping ass like Rocky and Shadow do now, but Luigi would put in some effort with the occasional tug-of-war game from his spot on the rug. By the time we got Shadow, who made Rocky’s antics look tame by comparison, Luigi was in his last year of life and had no interest in befriending yet another dog. He got especially fed up when Rocky and Shadow engaged in horseplay, which I frequently recorded. His rhythmic barking can be heard in the background of most of the videos, protesting at the bigger dogs in a vein not unlike “get off my lawn.”
I rarely missed a chance to dress Luigi up for festivities. He tolerated the Halloween costumes long enough to be photographed a few times. Then, he’d start pawing at them and rubbing himself on the carpet. While we lived in apartments, trick-or-treaters weren’t really a thing. So we were mostly unprepared for the total chaos of our first Halloween as homeowners. James’s neighborhood was among the most popular in our part of Lakeland, mainly due to the haunted house constructed each year next door. Neighbors would block off their yards from the vehicles driving through looking for a place to park. Once the first doorbell rang, the stream of kids was nonstop for about three hours. No amount of candy we could feasibly buy was enough.
Now Luigi had many talents, but barking was his specialty. His bark, a classic beagle-howl but more high pitched and ‘sing-song,’ if I had to describe it, was amusing and endearing the first few times you heard it, but after four identical arooooo’s, you wished it would stop, and by the twelfth, you wished you were deaf. Luigi’s stamina for barking was unmatched, even in his older years. And, like most dogs, he was particularly triggered by the doorbell. He also barked at people walking down the street and was suspicious of strange costumes. Halloween, then, created the perfect trifecta for a night filled with incessant, maddening howls and growls. That scene on TV with the admiring mom opening the door while holding a bowl of KitKats – that never happened here. At first, it was me hoisting the barrel of candy and trying to get outside while blocking the (four) dogs from escaping. Then, we realized it was easier to just sit outside with the candy. (I never trusted adolescents enough to leave a bowl unattended with a Just take one sign.) The barking was less-shrill that way, too.
But what I wouldn’t give to hear that bark again…
I roped Luigi into our Christmas traditions every way I could (literally – I wrapped him in some battery-powered Christmas lights once). He put up with jingle collars, wore Santa hats (for a few minutes), and posed for the camera out of his dedication to the Christmas spirit; he also knew he would get presents. He sniffed out his stocking on the fireplace once we’d filled it. Christmas morning, he watched expectantly as we opened gifts, waiting somewhat patiently for his. He loved hanging out under the tree on the skirt, which made for great photos. I’m sure I captioned several over the years with “the best gifts,” or something along those lines.
Working on this memorial has taken me back through years and years of photos and videos. It was strange to watch Luigi as a puppy and a young dog again, doing things he hadn’t done in quite a while, like jump up, play with toys, and romp around with other dogs. It’s sad, comparing that energetic and outgoing pup to the Luigi I’ve known most recently, but it’s normal. He aged into a grumpy old man-dog, but he still enjoyed walks, car rides, and eating. Even during the last few months, he was sometimes excited enough to run to his bowl at feeding times. His days consisted mostly of lying around and going out into the backyard to sniff stuff and relieve himself. He had two favorite spots: a certain corner of the rug where he could lay his head between the entertainment center and a side table, and behind the barstools. I suspect he chose the latter because it separated him from his two larger brothers, who liked to wrestle and knock things over.
I began reading about euthanasia a year ago or so, after noticing how hard it was becoming for Luigi to get up. I hoped with everything I had that he would go like Ruby and Molly, who simply went out into the backyard one day and died. We found both of them the same way (years apart) – lying peacefully in the grass, as if they’d just gone to sleep. But I always intended on having Luigi put down if I believed he was suffering with no chance of long-term improvement. It’s a horrible decision that no one wants to make, but as caretakers we are required to prevent misery and pain. Based on everything I had read, the most difficult part is choosing the “right time.” Many companies offer a quality of life survey that can help owners determine whether or not their pet is suffering. These surveys ask if your pet is still able to do things they enjoy. Do they have enough to look forward to in spite of any pain and discomfort? Do they indicate that they are happy? Not calm or napping–but genuinely happy to be alive? I used these criteria for months to monitor Luigi’s quality of life. His disposition didn’t really change, and as long as he was still mobile and eating, I saw no reason to make the call. But I also frequently thought about one piece of advice I’d come across – to not wait until they’re suffering. To not let your pet’s last days be filled with agony. To not have to remember them this way. “Better two weeks too early than one day too late,” someone said.
So, when I saw one evening that Luigi couldn’t stand up at all – his back legs weren’t working – I was prepared to do the unthinkable.
Twelve years ago, a veterinarian confirmed for my mom that Lucy was likely experiencing constant pain and stress that, in her old age, could not be treated effectively. We had her euthanized at home. I can vividly remember how she looked when her heart was stopped. It was jarring and traumatic. But I also remember the moments that followed. Somewhere, underneath the sobbing and the feeling that our hearts had been ripped in two, was relief. Lucy was still and peaceful. No longer hurting. Through her tears, my mom said Lucy was chasing balls, running like she could as a puppy (which just made her cry harder).
Dogs are good at hiding pain, but Luigi’s distress was undeniable. He hadn’t been able to hear or see much for months, and now he could no longer walk to his food bowl or go outside to potty. Watching him attempt these things felt like torture, and he made it very clear that he did not want me helping.
The day before I made the call, Luigi was sitting on his cushion near the sliding door; I hadn’t taken any pictures with him recently. On a whim, I handed my phone to Maddie and laid down next to him. He did what he always did when he knew I wanted pictures – he posed by looking at the camera. He was panting, but I like to think he was also smiling. I scratched behind his ears and he leaned in to let himself enjoy it.
I thought I would write about the next day, but I’ve relived it enough. Suffice it to say it was peaceful. They administer a medication now that makes the pet fall asleep prior to stopping their heart. There was no abrupt transition or jarring final moment, just gentle, quiet last breaths while I curled up around him like I’d done so many times before. Maybe he was then a little puppy again, off running and jumping and playing, somehow knowing I’ll be there when I can.
I understand how readily one could fall into the abyss of grief and stay there. I have stared into that dark, barren expanse. I am staring into it right now. Despair can harden our hearts, make us afraid to love something that we might lose again. I don’t blame my dad for his objection to getting a dog; maybe that was the best route through his anguish. And I certainly don’t want to feel like this again.
But I know I will.
With Rocky. With Shadow. With all the dogs I’ll love after them because I can’t imagine my life without them. Grief is just evidence of profound love. When the abyss encircles us, we have a choice. I can dwell on Luigi’s death and get lost in the hole left by his absence. I can allow myself that time for processing, mourning, and learning how to exist in a world without him. And then I can choose to remember his life and how happy he made me. This is all easier said than done for an irreverent cynic like myself, but I’m making the choice to try. I’m choosing to hold on to how I felt when a 5 month-old puppy jumped into our truck and helped himself to some Mountain Dew. Luigi gave us immeasurable, pure joy and mirth just by being himself. The way I loved that dog had the power to vanquish all obstacles and ease all worries, if only temporarily. And I know it is powerful enough to pull me from the abyss.
In the spirit of emphasizing the delight, laughter, and love I was blessed with over the past 15 years, I want to end this tribute with photos of Luigi that showcase his goofy personality, feisty attitude, warm affection, and other traits unique to him that brought us such joy. These are just some of the moments I will remember and hold close to my chest when the grief gets too heavy to bear, much as a child holds their stuffie for comfort in the night.
I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have loved him.
haili alcorn, Ph.D. 