This is a post I wasn’t sure I could write three days after the death of someone I loved. But Suki made me feel safe when it felt like survival was all the world had to offer. I couldn’t think of a better way to honor her legacy than to share parts of her story because it is a story of joy, love, and protection. And the world desperately needs more of that right now.

Truthfully, I keep replaying the details of the last few days and weeks in my head. But I think it’s normal, in grief, to look for reasons; even when we know the reasons. My AuDHD proclivity for finding patterns, and the meaning in them, is firing on all cylinders. I’ve lost loved ones before and there’s just something about death my deeply analytic brain can’t quite compute, no matter how many times I witness it. But there is meaning to be found, if you look closely enough at the stories.

The Beginning of the End

My partner, Rich, and I were told that my dog Suki, aged 14 at the time, might not be with us for much longer. We were told by a veterinarian who sounded more concerned with stacking on useless exams than she did about sounding authentic. The news came out sounding like a cheap facsimile of care, but it didn’t change the impact. This was about a year and a half ago.

At the time, Suki had a small cough, and was starting to struggle on walks. She was throwing up a little more but nothing too out of the ordinary. She had some visible slow-growing benign tumors on her skin and apparently inside her body too. We were, of course, disheartened when we found out her days were numbered. We could have paid for more expensive tests and cancer treatments but Suki had already been through a health scare with surgical interventions a few years ago, just after she protected us from a neighborhood dog that had escaped its confines. We didn’t want to put her through all of that again, especially at her age. 

A few weeks prior to the hard news, we had been looking into getting a new puppy. We had lost a couple of other dogs (Daigo and Pollyanna) within the last few years, and we didn’t like the idea of being in a house with no dogs whenever Suki passed away. No dog to excitedly greet you when you get home, no one to curl up at the foot of the bed, or lick your face when you least expect it, pulling a smile out of you, no matter your mood. No one to make you feel just a little safer.

And, we wanted Suki to lead. Show the new dog the ropes and be a friend; a friend who spoke the same language. Maybe because I grew up a child of two languages, two worlds, I knew the importance of having at least one friend who just got you. So, I’ve always had a thing about having at least two of any kind of pet because everyone needs a buddy.

We eventually took home Pippin, a 10-week old smudge of a puppy in October 2024. Suki tolerated him well enough, the same way my old dog Daigo had once tolerated Suki when I first brought her home as a spry young pup — eager and messy and delightfully untamed. 

Suki had a shadow, Pollyanna, many years ago. A small Maltese-Pomeranian mix that had been neglected and had never quite recovered enough to trust humans. I never blamed her for that, I only understood. Polly followed Suki everywhere, slept on top of her, or near her, all the way until the day she died from an autoimmune disorder. The first of many deaths that Suki would experience along with me. I think, some part of me thought, the familiarity of a small dog like Polly might brighten Suki’s lonely days without any other dogs in the home. We had mixed results with that line of thinking, but in the end, I’m glad she had a friend that spoke her language too.

Sly like a Dog

Suki was this interesting blend of kind, perceptive, sly, and deeply protective.

But her slyness was legendary among friends and family. Early on, I didn’t know what to expect with her. Daigo was so mild-mannered and polite I developed a false sense of security. One day, I set a cupcake down on a chair to look something up on my phone, freeing up one hand momentarily. I typed in whatever I was searching for and felt the familiar warmth of a dog sliding into my orbit. Suki was shoving her head under my now free hand, inching closer to me for what I thought was a nice head scratch. What a sweetie. When I looked back down to grab my cupcake, only seconds later, it was gone and so was Suki.

The treat had been swiftly swiped by a streetwise scavenger. My jaw dropped as I looked at the evidence of an empty wrapper across the room. She tried to make herself look guilty for all of about, three seconds, and then promptly slinked off before I could say anything. I could only laugh to myself and shake my head. I swear I could hear her say, voice trailing off, “I have no regrets”.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

I adopted Suki out of a no-kill shelter in Texas when she was around 1.5 to 2 years old. The shelter had no birthdate for her as she had been picked up as a stray, and had been in the shelter almost a year or longer. To their knowledge. she had never lived in a house or had a family to look after her. I suppose no one wanted this goofy-looking mix of a cattle-dog and whatever else (turns out, it was mostly Rottweiler).

But I found her adoption photos stunning. Beautiful coat with large patches of black, speckled caramel, and cream, one ear flopped down, and a long fluffy tail. Leggy, but broad chested. And on that chest, a little heart-shaped caramel patch in a sea of cream. Suki means “love” or “like”, in Japanese; I didn’t pick her name, but it always made sense to me.

In the photos online, I had thought she was a lot smaller than she actually was when I met her in person. She was 65 lbs. on the thinner side as a shelter dog. She would be around 75-80 lbs. at her beefiest. And she was strong; surprisingly so. 

Years after adopting Suki, I was back at the shelter to adopt Pollyanna, who would eventually become her tiny, shy, yes-woman. Polly completed my pet syndicate. That cabal of three dogs and two cats committed many heists, of which, Suki was always the muscle. At the shelter, the receptionist offered to take care of Suki while I went back to see Polly. I gave the receptionist Suki’s lead and said, “Are you sure? She can pull…”. The receptionist said, “no problem”, with that casual, I-can-handle anything-I-work-here, look. I nodded and started walking away towards the kennel area.

Before I knew it, I heard a yelp from a woman behind me. The receptionist, who was not a small woman, had been sitting in a rolling chair, and Suki was literally dragging her, in the chair, across the floor after me. The receptionist almost fell out of her temporary chariot, but I turned around just in time to tell Suki to stop, I would be right back. The woman collected herself. Her eyes wide, “You weren’t kidding!”

No, I was not.

Suki didn’t look like any kind of aggressive or overly muscled breed, but she had this quiet, almost, explosive strength that would come out of nowhere. When you think about it, that makes sense for a cattle dog/rotty mix. You just couldn’t tell by looking at her. There was so much hidden under the surface with Suki, and that’s what made her so special.

The Sentry

We spent the first half of her life living in hot, sunny, Texas. I had a friend who would come and walk my dogs while I was at work. One day she was walking Suki in the middle of the afternoon in my suburban neighborhood. My friend was a thin, athletic, young woman. A car pulled up to the sidewalk as she was walking by with Suki. My friend thought nothing of it, maybe he lived there. The man got out of his car, walked onto the sidewalk, and started trailing behind her. Still, she thought, maybe he’s going into one of these houses, but he seemed to be getting closer. Suddenly, the dog leash went taut, and Suki whipped around and lunged at the man. She didn’t bite him, but she took a chunk out of his t-shirt. My friend was shocked, frazzled, and apologetic. Suki had never done that before, and after all, it wasn’t even her dog, she explained anxiously. The man said it was not a big deal and he got back in his car and drove off. As I was listening to this story, I asked, “Wait? He didn’t go into one of the houses?” She said no, that he just left without another word. 

That story always gave me chills. Up until that point, I had never seen or heard of any aggression out of Suki, so it was hard to believe. But it was as if she knew something was wrong in that mystical way that dogs just seem to know things before we do. And she acted to protect because that is who she was.

A Different Breed

I also had a male friend offer to walk Suki as well. He had a confidence with dogs he claimed was earned through years of owning Rottweilers, a notoriously intense breed. With my lower leg issues, I have trouble keeping up with most dogs on walks, but especially with young Suki. We started an evening walk outside and my friend took her leash, and then started walking quickly to keep up with her, eventually jogging a little. Suki, in her excitement, took it as an invitation and started moving quicker, and then without warning, sprinting full-speed. My friend struggled to keep a grip on be leash, eventually tripping on the sidewalk, going down, and skinning his knee. Suki continued running deeper into the neighborhood, leash flailing behind her, joy on her face — she was the wind.

Suki escaped or got off leash often, too much spirit for any restraint or fence to hold. But I still remember my friend’s confidence in being able to handle her because of his experience with Rottweilers. And while she was ironically half Rotty, Suki was definitely a different breed altogether. 

I know some people prefer purebred dogs for their predictability in traits or temperament, and that makes sense for certain situations. And yes, a dog has its own unique personality no matter the breed, but you generally know what you’re going to get outside of that. For example, I got Pippin because I wanted a companion dog; and got a velcro dog indeed. But, I think random dog mixes are magical in their own right and it’s not appreciated enough. Their personality, their temperament, their shape, color, and size, it’s all random or unpredictable. There’s a chance involved, a risk, a kind of vulnerability to getting a dog that could literally be anything, for better or worse. From that lens, it costs more to get to know them, so when it lands, when there’s a match, it means more too. Mixes like Suki, are unequivocally a unique and joyful concoction, one-of-a-kind and irreplaceable.

Gently, She Went.

Rich’s brother had been struggling with heart issues for years when he came to stay at our house for about three weeks. We didn’t know at the time, that he wouldn’t last the year. But that makes the time he spent relaxing and caring for our pets, and our pets caring for him, even more special.

When we had originally asked him to pet sit for nearly a month, we worried about it being too much of a burden on him. But he told us that he felt honored to do it because he hadn’t gotten to be around pets in a long time. And we were grateful he was able to stay in our home and that he was genuinely looking forward to enjoying their company.

When we got back from our trip, he told us he had some favorites among our current pet syndicate. Of course, Sagan, another mystical creature from the otherworldly beyond (a story for another time) and Suki. Rich’s brother struggled with going up and down the stairs on most days, but he told us that Suki would remarkably walk next to him, one step at a time; as if to catch him, if he fell. 

I never saw her do this, but Rich told me later, that when his elderly father temporarily stayed with us at our house in Texas, Suki did the same thing with him.

Gently, they went.

I often wondered how many more acts of kindness and empathy she performed, when I wasn’t looking.

A Return to the Start

The day I brought Suki home, I was grinning and excited to introduce her to her new home. It was all trimmed in white walls, carpet, furniture, and it matched my American Eskimo dog, Daigo, a puffball of snow-colored fur. Suki and I had just pulled into my parking space and I was unbuckling my seatbelt when I heard a squishy splash behind me. “Oh, no.” I thought, as the grin on my face faded into the reality of pet ownership. Suki had puked all over the back seat. She had not spent much time in vehicles and I had been warned about this at the shelter. Later, I would come to realize this big girl wasn’t potty trained either, goodbye white carpet. The first weeks I had her, my pristine little apartment ended up looking like a cattle pasture when I came back from work, patties everywhere. 

Daigo was older, stoic, and clean. He was definitely side-eying my decision to adopt her based on the mess she brought with her; his huffs said everything. But, Suki learned fast.

After a couple of weeks there were no messes in the main area, but she did have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the day. So instead, she pooped in the bathtub. How considerate, I mused.

And that’s also who she was too; she learned fast and she just understood what was needed even with little guidance from me. In a lot of ways, her ability to read people, rivaled my own and I often wondered if it came from the same place — survival.

One Last Time Around the Block

The week before my cat Falco passed away, which was about four years ago, he had escaped and roamed the neighborhood for several hours as we frantically tried to locate him. It was something he had never done in all the years we let him hang out in the backyard unsupervised. I always wondered about that; about whether Falco knew what was coming and wanted one last jaunt around the neighborhood. 

It was only a week ago today, that we think the wind blew the backyard gate open, we don’t actually know. But, Suki escaped, something she too hadn’t done in years. Rich found her around one street over milling around in someone’s yard. I was searching the area myself not too far from home when I saw Rich driving towards the house with Suki’s smiling face in the backseat window; no shame, only pride. 

“She jumped right in!” he said happily. She knew our car. It’s the same one she had always ridden in, the same one she puked in when I first adopted her, but it was a taller car. We were always surprised by her spryness at her age, it honestly didn’t make any sense because at times she moved slowly and gingerly, with great effort like she was 500 years old (in dog years). And at other times, it was like she was back to being a puppy again. I think it was that hidden strength she carried everywhere with her. As if she kept it in reserve, just in case she needed to use it.

When she came back inside from her adventure, tail wagging, I wondered about it. I remembered Falco; but I dismissed the pattern-seeking whisper in my mind.

Suki had been more playful recently too. Pippin frequently dragged several dog toys out of an old cardboard box we kept on the stairs landing. Suki recognized a play session when she saw one, her attention perking up, but she didn’t always participate. The last two weeks, she too began tossing toys in the air and catching them, playing light tug-of-war, or fetch, as I tossed toys onto her favorite sofa. She jumped after them, and back down, and pushed toys into my palm inviting me to play. She chased Pippin around to his delight and stole toys from him teasingly just because she could. It was so joyful to see her like that; but a part of me wondered where this burst of energy had come from. I didn’t want to question it, so I just enjoyed it instead. 

The Portrait She Protected

Rich left for Dallas on a Thursday. The last time Rich took a trip out of town, I noticed a behavior change in Suki. She would sleep nearer to the front-door, as if she was waiting for him to come back. She did the same this time and in reflection, it kind of breaks my heart. 

I let her outside on Thursday around 11pm, her usual late evening potty break. I was tired, and it was cold, so I stepped inside with Pippin and just watched her through the window. She took much longer than usual, and several times she just sniffed around the yard, then would stop, and stare at what seemed like nothing. It almost looked like her body was gently waving in the breeze. For a moment, I thought she might tip over.

Then, she turned and looked at the house, right where I was standing. I was framed in the window like a portrait and she was staring into me as if looking at some profound piece of art. I stared back, quizzically, because the behavior stood out to me. I was unsettled by her head down, focused gaze, because I couldn’t read her normally soft and expressive eyes. They looked lost, like she was searching for something or trying to remember something. Or maybe, she was trying not to forget.

Eventually, she came back in as always and I gave her a treat, as always. 

Broken Rituals

The next day, Friday, I was out for quite a while running different errands. When I got home, she excitedly hopped off her sofa and greeted me. It was around 8pm and I was exhausted from the week and a tough therapy session earlier that day. I gave her meds and then went upstairs to crash. I ended up falling asleep with all the lights on from 9pm until about 1:30am. I was disoriented when I woke up. Something about the past few weeks had left me exhausted. 

As I lay there trying to will my body to wake up, I wondered why Suki hadn’t barked to go out at her normal time. I got up to get some water and check on her. She didn’t hear me coming down the stairs but she was awake, and staring at the front door as if she was waiting for someone to burst through. She was hard of hearing in general at her age; but when she saw me walk by, she got up immediately, tail-wagging, and followed me towards the kitchen and back door. I let her out, which was quick this time. I gave her a gentle pat on the head and shared a favorite late-night snack, a few pieces of popcorn. She was happy. 

That was the last time I saw her alive. 

When I woke up the next morning it was 8:45am, much later than she typically goes out. Normally, she’d bark at the back door around 7:45am if we weren’t awake yet. There was no bark that morning. I came downstairs, rounded the corner landing she frequently slept on, and saw her laying at the bottom of the stairs. She sometimes laid there too, snoozing the day away. 

I quickly noticed that something was wrong. Her tongue lay limp and blue on the floor and her eyes were open and fixed. I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want to believe it. I shook her body, her name squeaking out of me, desperately. She was completely still. I stood back knowing rationally what had happened, but emotionally, I was sprinting away, leaving my body behind.

I stepped into the dining room, hyperventilating into my sweatshirt, and sat down at a bench. My other pets quickly surrounded me in my distress, Pippin licking my face frantically. None of us knew how to make this better.

Eventually, I came back to Suki’s stillness. I leaned over her to stroke her face lovingly, tears streaming down my own. I was startled, as I saw her eyelid twitch, the last stored reaction to my touch. In the moment, I was confused, it was the first time being this close to a natural death, and I had no expectations. Everything looked surreal and felt amplified.

I was alone, shaken, and unsure how, but I felt compelled to take care of my girl, my Suki-bear, one last time. I looked around and noticed there were several messes. She had apparently walked around, emptying her body, as bodies do in death. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had to clean the place where someone died. There were two vomit patches and a small amount smeared feces near the body. She had entered my life leaving messes everywhere, and I had cleaned them up, because she was mine and because even before I knew it, I loved her. This moment, was no different.

After I finished cleaning, I gently wrapped her in her favorite throw blankets, the ones she always slept on, and did my best to move her heavy body with care. But her body was stiff, she had passed hours ago. I wouldn’t be able to move her as-is so I looked around and found the biggest container near me. The dog toy box sat on the landing, usually so full, it was mostly empty today. My stomach churned slightly, but it was all I had nearby. I removed the last couple of toys and situated it nearby her body. I managed to get most of her 70lb frame inside of it and use it as leverage to carry her out to the car. The setup felt disturbingly makeshift for the gravity of the situation, but I couldn’t let the discomfort stop me, it was too important to keep going.

As I painfully lifted her into the backseat of my car, I heard air escaping from her lungs, and I gasped too. It was her final breath leaving her body. I cradled her as best as I could against my small frame and I placed her in the backseat. Something, felt off and it wasn’t just that she was gone.

This is not the car she was familiar with her whole life. We had only had it less than a year. In fact, she’d never been in this car at all. And I thought it strange, that it was her first and last ride in it. She had only ever ridden in my white crossover SUV, and this car was black and low to the ground, like a hearse. It was an unsettling thought, but I couldn’t let that stop me either.

I drove carefully and slowly to our local emergency vet. I had spoken to a brand new receptionist earlier that day whose ignorance only added more weight to the experience. But, I made it. I managed to drop her off, leaving her with a couple of compassionate vet techs. I filled out the paperwork for her cremation and it was done. 

Greener Pastures

Before I gave her body to the vet techs, I grasped her fur, I wanted to imprint the texture into my memory. It was still thick and soft, like always. In the spring, she would have shed it all, tufts of white fur all over the house. 

With every pet loss, the house has changed. This time felt different.

Suki had been there for every pet and people loss over the past five or six years; but she was the one that endured. That safe and familiar rhythm I’ve lived with for thirteen years was suddenly gone. The spot where she slept is empty, we no longer need her meds, the food bowl is dry, and all that’s left is what still needed to be cleaned up from the act of her dying and the remaining marks of her existence.

We had an old balloon decoration that spun in the wind over our porch and had hung there since the day we moved into this house. The day Suki died, it finally fell off, and was laying lifeless and broken on the ground. It had been spinning for years; but death touches all things. 

Thirteen years is a long time to spend with someone, creature or human. It was longer than my first long-term relationship which was over a decade. Her time spans the length of my relationship with Rich, my current partner, because we started dating just before I adopted her. We later married, with our girl in attendance, of course. Suki lived through Daigo’s death, Polly’s death, both cats Fox and Falco, my brother, aunt, uncle, Rich’s brother too — she was the last one left from and old but long chapter of my life. The last of the original pet syndicate I had crafted. The last one who remembers who I once was, and who I was changing into. In many ways, she saw both my past and my future and she protected it all.

She protected me.

I struggle with sleep for various reasons, but at night, I never worried that anyone would break into our home because Suki was there with her fearless spirit and her larger-than-life bark that sounded like it came from a dog twice her size. No burglars would stand a chance. I knew with absolute certainty she would protect me with everything she had, even if it meant her own safety. In a life marred by traumatic experiences, I often feel unsafe and vulnerable; so her constancy and reliability meant everything. I have so much love for all of my pets, past and present, but she was the one who made me feel truly safe and for that I am eternally grateful. Suki, offered us every ounce of love and protection she could and it filled our home to the brim.

It’s finally springtime and the days have been warm and breezy. Looking at the fresh fluffy grass outside, I know she would have enjoyed rolling around in it and chewing on it; a true cattle dog. I know she would have loved to sit on the porch and watch the world go by, barking at dogs getting too close to the house on their daily walks — ever vigilant.

Our beloved protector.

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