He was gone, and so was their childhood.
As I struggled to get pregnant, my husband and I decided we could do something. We didn’t just have to wait. We could get a puppy. That’s how we ended up with Harvey, a Cavapoo rescue we adopted in Ohio. At his foster family’s home, when we first met him, he was 8-weeks-old and running outside, his floppy ears bouncing and his curly peach fur glowing in the sun. He headed straight for me and jumped into my lap. Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
The timing was not ideal. I was exhausted while Harvey was full of endless energy. When he occasionally napped, I was desperate not to wake him up. Finally, a break. For the first few nights, he whined pitifully from his crate until, eventually, he got his way. We put him in the bed. Not another peep. He slept there, with us, for almost 16 years.
We moved to California when I was six-months pregnant, determined to be closer to family as our family grew. To make that move, I left a job I loved, a job I had worked so hard to get. Everything changed then. I changed. And the changes kept coming when my daughter was born, and, then, two years later, my son.
As soon as I got the hang of one situation, it was on to the next. The kids were talking. They were in school. They were having trouble with math. They were learning with me at home over Zoom. They were transitioning back to school after the pandemic. One of them became a teenager.
I kept trying to find a way to balance their evolving needs with my own. And I constantly had to figure out what those new needs were.
Obviously, it was challenging. Being a mother always is, right? But I had one big advantage. Through it all, I had Harvey. And Harvey was a part of the very best moments, the source of some of my kids’ biggest laughs—when he attacked the vacuum cleaner, begged for popcorn, or zoomed around the house after a bath. He was also the very best comfort during the worst moments, by my side with his soulful eyes and soft ears when I was dealing with a particularly tough writing rejection, regretting a parenting decision, or recovering after spinal surgery. His warmth was an anchor when I was drowning.
When he died, all of that was gone.
As soon as Harvey turned 10, friends started commenting on his age, as if he would drop dead at any moment. I began to think about how hard losing him would be and even said out loud, in all seriousness, that I would probably never recover. I did the one thing I could do: I didn’t take him for granted. He got extra treats, all the pets he could ask for (and he did ask, tapping my arm with his paw), and endless cuddles. I got them, too.
Right before he turned 16, it happened. Our dog, so full of love, had an enlarged heart. We tried medicine and considered surgery. But the vet said that it was too late. He had stopped eating and wouldn’t come inside. The vet came to our house and helped him pass after explaining to us that he was in pain and struggling to breathe.
Losing him was as terrible as I thought it would be. But missing him had combined with other types of grief—a side effect I had not expected. Looking back at old photos of him, I saw him grow up alongside my kids. His passing marked the end of a larger phase in my kids’ life and my own. The period of starting a family, having kids, and raising small children, was over.
I’m currently mourning my dog along with the many firsts I will never get to do again. My babies are now in junior high and high school. I’ve changed from a mom of young kids to a mother facing college talks and boyfriends. And it all has me reeling—excited for them but also confused and a little afraid with so many big unknowns in the future. I’m thinking about who I’ll be in an empty house. My kids will probably still need me but not in the same way. I’m no longer balancing. I’m redefining.
I know the pain of Harvey’s passing will soften. I’m not saying “time heals all wounds” because I don’t believe the wounds will ever disappear. But I know it will hurt less when I think I see Harvey sitting in one of his usual spots only to remember, once again, that he’s not here. Maybe I’ll even enjoy those moments, happy that I get to see him at all.
Hopefully, the absence of my kids as young kids will become something like that as well. Happy memories. I was lucky to have them. I was lucky to have him. And it won’t hurt as much each time they change and I’m forced to change along with them.
The worst thing about kids and dogs is that there is nothing permanent about either. There is the constant threat of heartbreak and, then, of course, actual heartbreak. Your daughter wants to be carried everywhere, close to you. And she tells you all her stories. Then she starts to pull away. One day, she doesn’t want a hug. And she shares her stories with someone else. But that’s the only way to have everything in between.
In one old video, my son, almost 2, and my daughter, almost 4, sit on top of my husband, as he pretends to be a horse. At the same time, Harvey runs towards them, happy to be a part of the action. He makes a little puppy growl that no one could possibly take seriously. He wants to play. They all do.
It’s just 20 seconds in almost 16 years of memories, each one richly layered and filled with love. And I got to have them. I got to have him.
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by Lily Hirsch
Lily Hirsch is a pop culture and humor writer. Since her first book about music during the Nazi era, she has published a fun one about Angela Lansbury and another one about Weird Al. Clearly, she has a consistent voice and knows who she is as a person. A friend set up a Hotmail account for her in college which she still uses.
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