The Steep Cost of Love

TW: Pet Loss

This is a departure from my typical topics, yet it deserves — begs even — to be birthed into existence.
I know I’m not the first, and I’ll never be the last, to write about this.

Yesterday, my final act of love was saying goodbye to my big brown best friend of 8 short years: Peter, the chocolate lab. Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. Let’s be real — ANYTHING eater.

8 short years were nowhere near enough.

Though if you’ve experienced the unconditional love of a dog, you already know — 1000 years wouldn’t be enough either.

Up to the very end, it was he who comforted me.

I wish I could bottle up those head nudges and hugs in the car as I lay in the back of my Bronco with him one last time. I will never forget his final acts of service & love he bestowed upon us.

It was my eyes he soulfully looked into in his last earthly moments. I’m certain of that. It was my presence he always sought. I could not let him go to whatever comes next without that final connection.

My sweet husband sang him a Native American spirit-leaving song through tears. The visceral beauty was palpable to everyone in the room.

In the last few weeks, Peter fought. And I fought.

Even though he lost the use of his legs, that sweet soul scooted through the house to find me when his eyes couldn’t.

It’s cliché, but it’s true: they really are here for only a small part of our lives, but we are their entire life.

Yesterday was filled with thanking him endlessly. Going through every fun memory. He ate an entire steak and for a beautiful moment looked like himself again.

We painted pictures of the Rainbow Bridge while we cried — his friends waiting, the rolling hills and streams and treats and belly rubs and balls.

So many balls.

All day yesterday I sat at the precipice — one of us on this side of the veil, the other getting ready to transition to the unseen other side. When life hangs in the balance like that, it is precious. It is sacred.

It is a profound cocktail of sadness and beauty that could never adequately be put into words.

A dog loves unequivocally. Unconditionally.

Peter never cared what I looked like or how much (or little) my bank account held. Peter never deleted me from Facebook. Peter never gossiped about me at work.

Loyalty wasn’t even a word in his vocabulary — he never had to learn it because he never knew what resentment meant.

His entire world was made happy and new when he was with his family. No matter how many times we left the house — for an hour or sometimes for weeks — the happy welcome was always the same.

This dog taught me more about life, about how to love, and about how to “human” than any book, any person, or anything else.

Today — my first day waking up with him at the Rainbow and me here — the waves of grief feel cruel, even though I know they are necessary.

The minutes, hours, days, months, and years will pass. The pain will ease. The tears will stop. And those facts make it all feel more tender this morning.

Because of this unfounded fear: what if I forget him?
Of course, there’s nothing true about that statement.

And maybe — just maybe — when we think too deeply about our own death, maybe that’s what we’re afraid of too. Will we have mattered?
Of course. Just ask any dog you have ever so much as smiled at.

In Loving Memory: Peter
November 9, 2017 — February 17, 2026