The year our writer decided to stop trying for a child, she adopted a dog. Eleven years later, it was not the goodbye she expected.
It was a gorgeous August day, and we were sitting on a patio enjoying a beer. My husband, Andy, and I had just done an impossible thing. Our sweet Gilly was gone. Yet, here we were, mere minutes later, pouring one out (metaphorically, of course) for our old gal. The constant crying and overwhelming grief had all but disappeared. Saying goodbye to our first dog brought us a relief I never thought was possible.
Gilly came to us when we needed her the most. It was 2014, and Andy and I had recently stopped trying to be parents. After years of failed IVF, adoptions, and embryo transfers, we’d decided to remain child-free
—but we had talked about getting a dog for a few years. This was the time.
We scoured the Internet, and Andy came across a shelter in Kalamazoo, Michigan, about an hour and a half drive from where we lived. We settled on a Shih Tzu, due to the breed’s hypoallergenic and chilled-out nature. There was a boy we had our eyes on, so we got in contact with the shelter and off we drove.
When we arrived, that boy was spoken for, but a few others not on the website remained. One of those was a gray Shih-Tzu, a mess of bald patches from a previous bout with fleas, and as delightful as can be. She wouldn’t move from my lap as we went over the logistics of adopting a dog. We knew this was our calm girl.
The woman who ran the shelter had named her Precious. We could not in good conscience keep that name—we would have constantly referred to her as “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire.” We christened her Gilly during the car ride home; the namesake of Kristen Wiig’s murderous 3rd grade character in the famed Saturday Night Live sketch.
We fell in love with Gilly instantly. Sure, she had some accidents, but who among us hasn’t? When other dogs wanted to sniff her nether regions, she gave a face as if to say, sir, that is RUDE. Also, she burped like a burly frat boy after every single meal.
We had 11 wonderful years with her. Gilly complemented our little family seamlessly. To know Gilly was to be obsessed with her. People with pets will understand. It’s a pure love, one that’s unconditional, and goes both ways. Okay, maybe more from our end, but we like to think Gilly had a great life and very much appreciated it.
We were so smitten with Gilly that in 2023, we got another Shih Tzu. Jolene is tiny and brindled in all shades of brown. She was so sweet and cuddly. Gilly hated her. All Jolene wanted to do from moment one was play with Gilly, but Gilly just wanted to spend her twilight years lying around in peace. We realized we had inadvertently created a more stressful environment for Gilly, but Jolene deserved love like Gil did, even if she was an instigating terrorist upon our home.
Not long after Jolene joined our family, Gilly started acting differently. Using stairs and going on walks seemed difficult for her, the grouchiness was more evident on her face, and she just seemed off.
At this time we were living in a suburban house in East Lansing, Michigan. It was great for two dogs, but very monotonous for us. Andy and I felt trapped, and bored out of our skulls. We had previously lived in NYC, but my recent MS diagnosis brought us closer to family and a more calm life. One blustery winter night, where we were probably talking about having to shovel snow or some dumb shit, and after throwing this idea around for years, Andy turned to me and said, “let’s move to Chicago.”
Chicago has the city life we so desperately missed, but it’s much closer to our families than NYC. We sold our home, and by June we were city-bound once more. We knew Jolene would adapt just fine, but Gil was almost 12 at this point and not as limber as she used to be. But we pushed on, because the alternative was never-ending lawn mowing and constantly worrying about having to shell out thousands of dollars for anything that breaks.
Jolene adapted flawlessly. Gilly, on the other hand, seemed to be faring worse than before. We live in a third floor walk-up, and an aging dog means lots of pee breaks. Whatever, we thought. We’ll get more exercise!
In July of 2025, we went to get Gilly’s vitals tested. It turned out she was not doing well. The doctor informed us her kidneys were in rough shape and recommended we take her to the ER. She ended up staying there a few nights for observance and rehydration, and on the second day, the doctor told us they found a large mass on her adrenal gland.
I was half expecting something like this, and I thought she would die at that hospital. I immediately started crying non-stop; the grief took over. But, they said she was rehydrated, her kidney levels were back in the normal range, and we could pick her up from the ER.
Once home, Gilly continued to deteriorate. She stopped sleeping during the night, and would pace until morning. We took turns staying with her in the spare bedroom, trying in vain to sleep while she walked in circle after circle. I was beginning to wonder what kind of life this was, for any of us.
The next step was to take her to a surgeon. She told us that with her kidney levels as bad as they were, surgery was extremely risky. We opted not to go through with it, and went home deflated but vowing to make her as comfortable as possible.
She had lost so much weight and was so far from the Gilly we adored. I didn’t know how much longer I could do this. We had tried everything and I was not a good version of myself.
All I wanted was for this to be over—for her to no longer suffer, and for us to selfishly go back to the life we were trying to cultivate in Chicago. We relayed Gilly’s status to the vet, and she confirmed what was feeling inevitable. We made Gilly’s final appointment for the next day.
I was gutted and so stressed. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that we were going to lose our sweet girl, yet strangely, I could see relief on the horizon. There would be no more medicine administration, loss of sleep, vet appointments, insurance claims, anxiety, or immense pain for Gilly.
The day we had her euthanized was so strange. I kept reminding myself to go and spend time with her before we took her in. But that scrawny sick girl wasn’t the Gilly I wanted to remember. I had started to let go a while ago.
We wrapped her in a travel bag and started our walk to the vet. I tried to be present, knowing these were my last moments with her. When we got there, the doctor was so lovely about it all. She told us to do something nice for ourselves that day.
Gilly died with her little tongue sticking out. You can prepare yourself the best you can, but we weren’t prepared for that. Andy and I discussed this afterward, and strangely, that was the saddest part to us both.
But, like a snap of the fingers, most of the pain and suffering of the last month was gone. On that restaurant patio, passersby were none the wiser. I wanted to yell out, “We just kind of killed our dog!” because I am always looking for the joke, no matter how dark, but I held back. We took Jolene to play in a park shortly after. These were the most normal things we had done together in over a month.
It was like a great weight had been lifted from me. I will always love Gilly, and will thoroughly miss her Frito-smelling feet, her version of the zoomies (just sort of growling a little bit and then going back to sleep), and her being the chillest dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of being around.
But I no longer felt this extreme anxiety and sadness. Do you know the “girl who is ‘going to be okay’” meme? That was unironically me, I could feel it.
As I was obsessively Googling “signs it’s time to put down your dog”—my algorithm is absolutely fucked—I came across a quote that said dogs don’t worry or even think about death. That was very comforting to me. Gilly isn’t sad, or in pain. I like to think she is snidely judging other dogs somewhere while they are trying to sniff her privates. That’s my girl.
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