TW: Pet loss, grief. As with my post for Luke, due to the difficult and personal nature of this content, This post will only be sent to blog subscribers and not my newsletter mailing list.

“I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly.”

Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë

In which I warn you this is not going to be an easy read

I don’t know how to write this blog post and make it useful, but I am compelled to write it all the same, just like all the others, because quite frankly this is my blog and I do what I want/need to. Feel free to skip around if you choose to read it (I have tried to label the parts that are nice and the parts that are hard).

The truth is, as I write this, I am not doing well. I wish I was, and that I could share wisdom and strength from my grief that might help others who are in a similar place. But I don’t think that’s what this blog post is going to be. Or maybe the wisdom and strength is in admitting that I am not okay? Or maybe the wisdom is in embracing I am not strong right now? I really don’t know. 

All I know is that I am in a lot of pain right now. So, if you would like to bear with me and bear witness (again) to my grief, then read on. Maybe there will be something useful, or at least beautiful, in the text to follow. I can’t guarantee it. But if you’re not in the mood for reading what is sure to be a very emotional post, I will not be offended if you click away now (or after this next section, which is pretty emotionally safe).

The story of Rusty, Boof, Rusticus, Lord Boofington, The Beast of Boofington Hill, Rustopher Boofington Franklin: My Perfect Baby Angel Cake, so hopeful and true (Fall 2011 — September 3, 2025)

(This section is nice; you could just read this if you wanted and then click away.)

Some of you may recall I was briefly married from 2010 to 2013. In 2011 “we” (I) bought a house, and in 2012 we decided to get a dog. I wanted a Jack Russel Terrier—I can’t remember why that breed exactly, but it’s what I wanted. So I was on Petfinder one day, looking for a specific breed of dog, when I saw a blurry picture of an orange dog listed as a “terrier mix” that was pretty clearly not a Jack Russel, but dang cute regardless. 

Late in April 2012, we went out to Jamestown, about an hour and a half away, to a small shelter that ran out of a woman’s home. There we met “Rusty,” who turned out not to be a terrier at all but the child of a love affair between the neighbor’s Pomeranian and someone else’s Sheltie. Affectionately known as a “Poshie,” or as I prefer a “Pom-shel”, Rusty looked more like a fox than anything else. He was all good vibes when we met him, a little mischievous, and did a little dance up on his back paws when he first saw us.

I immediately clicked with him, which does not always happen, believe it or not! I get along well with all animals, even the “mean” ones, but that doesn’t mean I form strong bonds with them. Rusty was an exception though. We decided to take him almost on the spot, but before we could he had to get neutered, so we arranged to pick him up in a few weeks, just after my 27th birthday, on the 19th of May.

From then on, Rusty was a part of me unlike any other animal I have ever loved. He and I had a connection that was as profound as any relationship I’ve ever had with a human being—maybe moreso. (Readers of His Dark Materials will understand when I say he was the closest thing to my dæmon I could imagine in this world—and his loss feels like being a “severed child”.) Anyone who had ever seen us together knew it. Even our vet at Cornell told me she could tell Rusty was devoted to me, to the point that he would do everything he could to hide his pain from me. I felt it right from the start, when we brought him home in May 2012: the way he gazed at me, even when he didn’t want to cuddle (he was a boy with boundaries, and I respected that). How he always looked to me for confirmation, guidance, permission, reassurance. How when he and I walked in the park in the winter, he always checked on me when we walked across ice. How he loved some (but very few) other people, but while he let them pet him he was always looking at me as if to make sure I knew I was still his favorite. How the only time he ever “ran away” was when my now-ex-husband and his friend took Rusty for a walk without me and let him off leash at the park—something we’d done dozens of times—and Rusty took off… only to end up back home within the hour because he’d run home to me.

When I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder that same spring we brought Rusty home, he comforted me through late night panic attacks. When my ex moved out, Rusty and I went on lots of adventures, just the two of us. He kept me company while I shoveled snow in the driveway of a house it hadn’t been my idea to buy, but that was in my name because my ex had bad credit. He comforted me when the life built for two was too much responsibility for just me. When I went to my first 10 day residency for grad school, I brought a framed picture of him with me (and every residency after that, too). He sat with me every morning as I put in the hours for my MFA, from 5:30 to 8:45 AM, and then again after work (and his walk). He helped me ground myself and find joy when life was too much. He reminded me to stop and have fun now and then. And when my chronic fatigue syndrome worsened, he was always there to keep me company when all I could do was lie around with heating pads on my head and various body parts.

He was the goodest boy. And he was not just an emotional support—he was a source of profound love and joy. All I had to do was look at him and I would be flooded with heart clenching love. I got immense joy from seeing him happy: prancing at the park, or swimming in the creek at “Boofington Beach,” or stealthily snagging a goose poop from the grass and then bolting away like a maniac (his only “bad” behavior). Seeing him razzed and digging in the blankets on the couch was one of my favorite things. Watching the bliss on his face as he chomped away at a bully stick or a dental treat. How he trotted into the kitchen for an ice cube any time he heard the freezer open, a hopeful, expectant look on his face. Giving him butt scratches that made him wiggle his floofy little booty. Slipping him a bit of food from my plate, or a crunchy snack, or vegetable bits while I was making dinner, or letting him clean up the cat dishes when they were done. Nothing made me happier than making Rusty happy. He was the most hopeful boy, and what greater pleasure can there be than to give a hopeful creature the things he dreams of?

And it’s not just what he brought to my life that made me love him. I can’t explain how quickly and deeply that love formed, all-encompassing and unconditional. When we first brought Rusty home, he developed a skin condition that caused his skin to turn hot and black and itchy, that made him scratch until he bled. At points he had massive bald, scabby patches of mottled skin. He was not such a handsome boy those days! But I took care of him with nothing but love (and a healthy amount of concern) in my heart. I took him to the holistic vet that had saved my childhood cat, Cozmos. I put salves on him, bathed him in special oils and shampoos, and watched to make sure he didn’t chew or scratch (when I could). I gave him expensive herbs and got him acupuncture and fed him the best food I could afford. 

Gradually, over a few years, his fur grew back thick and glorious and floofy (though it was always a little thin on his back, since that’s where he’d scratched the most). And the itching was a bit of a problem his whole life, right up until this past year. I would get it under control, and then he would anxiety-chew when I left town for a few days, and I’d have to treat it again—but that was okay. I’m also an itchy person. It didn’t make me love him any less, even for an instant—even when the vet bills meant pulling money out of savings. Mostly he was a happy, healthy boy his whole life, but I would have gladly taken him bald and crusty and scabby if that was the only way to have him.

I loved him, purely, simply, and unconditionally. In my eyes, he was always, always perfect.

2025: An emotional overview of the year so far

(Not nice, but not too rough yet)

2025 has been a very complicated year for me and for my partner: we have been experiencing a relentless stream of loss, illness, mechanical crises, and disappointments—but also some windfalls, healing, and for me at least, a return to my spiritual roots. I thought the stars were finally aligning at the beginning of June when another disappointment led to unexpected relief, and a chance to reset my nervous system, which in turn finally resulted in some significant healing from my stress-induced chronic illnesses. June was an oasis for me in many ways (though marked by another difficult and unexpected loss for my partner). I was sleeping well for the first time in over a decade. My memory, energy, and pain levels had started to improve, and my overall feeling of well being had skyrocketed. I felt like things were finally turning around for me in regards to my health. My partner and I even went on a wonderful, restorative vacation (not cursed this time!) in our favorite place, Salem, MA, where we swam in freezing cold saltwater and enjoyed blissfully hot days on the streets of a town we could imagine some day calling home.

But when we got back, as you may know, things took a turn. Early in July, Rusty was diagnosed with cancer, and from there began a torturous dance of bad news, devastation, just enough positive information to give us every reason to hope, followed eventually by more bad news and devastation. Extremely unfairly in the midst of it all, we lost our old man Cluckleberry, who normally would have been my cuddle buddy and comforted me as I took care of Rusty, who did not want to cuddle much those days. But somehow I stayed calm. Focused. Yes, I was grieving and worried, but also hopeful, and certain in at least one thing: no matter how things turned out, I would ultimately be okay. I would get through it.

I was proud of myself for how I was handling things: I wasn’t suppressing emotions, as far as I could tell; I wasn’t being delusional. I was listening to my gut. I was being mindful and present, not letting my imagination live in a future I feared would come to pass, but instead focusing on appreciating and loving Rusty in the present moment. I was still deeply sad, and beyond stressed out by the millions of decisions I had to make on behalf of someone I loved, the many small but emotionally brutal care tasks that had to be done, that I gladly did (even as they broke my heart) because they were for my perfect boy. But I was gentle with myself every chance I got, and never once tried to avoid my feelings. For me, that is something to be proud of.

I won’t recount the medical drama we went through after my initial post; suffice it to say that we had every reason to be hopeful at the beginning, and I clung to that hope so long as there was hope to be had. And we continued to have hope right up until September 3rd, Rusty’s final visit to Cornell Animal Hospital, when that hope was finally stripped down to a wish on a dandelion seed, and I watched it drift away.

Last Days

(This is where things get tough, and I probably go into a lot of unnecessary detail because I am a verbal processor.)

I had been told after the first dose of chemo in August that if it was going to work, we would know within 2 weeks. And while we did see definite improvement for about 10 days, in the week before the September 3rd appointment Rusty had begun to decline again: barely eating, more tired than ever, hardly interested in anything but lying on the cold floor. On that final visit to Cornell, the vet told me the chemo had not worked. Instead, it turned out the cancer had unexpectedly and rapidly progressed. Confused, or maybe in denial, I asked her, “but he really did improve after the first dose of chemo. Are you sure it didn’t work at all? Why did he improve if it didn’t work?” 

And she told me something that was meant to be a kindness, but felt more like a punch in the heart: she said the improvements we’d seen earlier had been from “the amazing care you’ve given him.” (She called it “amazing,” but I wouldn’t have done anything less, and I would have done a lot more if I’d known of anything else that might have helped him feel more comfortable.) Toe grips when his mobility started to decline; gentle massage; medications, herbs, electrolytes, and probiotics despite how horrible it was to give them to a dog who now refused pills hidden in food; putting out extra water dishes so he never had to go far to hydrate; driving him to the park for short walks because he didn’t want to walk, but he did seem to perk up after one; attempting to hand feed him pretty much every 45 minutes from a huge selection of canned meats/poultries/fish, dog food, cat food, baby food, human food, any of a million dog treats broken into tiny pieces, and anything non-toxic-to-dogs we were eating for dinner that night, on the off chance one of those things would be appetizing to him in that moment.

The vet then explained that there were still some “hail Mary” options for further treatment, but they came with a greater risk of side effects, and a much lower chance of success than the drug we had already tried. After a tearful phone call with my partner, I knew in my gut that, despite the fact that I would gladly fight to the ends of the earth (and go into massive debt) to try everything possible to save my perfect boy, it wasn’t fair to Rusty to continue to do so. He could not consent to the potential side effects of another treatment. And he was already so miserable. The only way I had been able to accept his discomfort up to that point was because I had hoped, even believed, it was only temporary. I had been wrong.

The vet told me before we left that Rusty might feel better after the small procedure they had done that day (draining some fluid from his abdomen), and we might get a few more good days or weeks with him. But I knew we wouldn’t be that lucky. I knew, realistically, and by every “quality of life” scale I could find, that my perfect, amazing boy hadn’t had a “good” day in a long time.

And I was right. He could barely keep water down that night, and all he was able to do the next morning was lie by the water fountain, occasionally lift his head for a drink, and sometimes just rest his head on the fountain, weakly lapping at the water, breaking my heart. When I asked him to, he could go outside to pee—but I had to carry him back up the porch stairs. 

I would be lying if I said making the choice to schedule euthanasia was clear or easy—that I didn’t argue with myself back and forth about whether or not I should wait to see if he improved in a few hours as the vet said he might, or help him ease his suffering now. But I would also be lying if I said I had not known what to do from the moment I woke up that morning, when Rusty (who I have affectionately sung a revised version of Angel of the Morning to for over a decade) barely raised his head to look at me.

And I feel compelled to include this because so many pet owners experience unnecessary guilt over this part of the journey: my wonderful vet at Cornell said these very, very sage words regarding euthanasia that gave me real comfort as the end neared: You are not choosing to end his life. The cancer has already done that. You are simply choosing to relieve him of his suffering, and that is a kindness.

When I called Lap of Love, an in-home pet hospice service, I had no idea how I would make it through the phone call—I hadn’t stopped crying since the day before when I had left Cornell. But I kept telling myself this is for Rusty. You can do this, because it’s for him. Somehow it worked, and though there was no disguising the fact that I was crying, I was able to get through the call without completely losing the ability to form words.

My parents came over a little later that morning to say goodbye. Rusty had been like a grandchild to them, and they were some of the few people Rusty trusted and loved besides me and my partner. Every time I brought him to my parents’ house, I would say “Grandma Grandpa time!” to let him know where we were going, and he would start whining with joyous anticipation, spinning in circles, doing his little “praise!” dance on his back legs, front paws in the air. When they came in that morning, he didn’t even get up. He just let them pet him where he was lying on the floor.

My partner and I had one last night with him, and one last morning. I tried to take in all that I could, even though it was not the way I wanted to remember him: sad and exhausted, thinner than I had ever seen him. But the love was still there in his eyes: his deep, trusting, soulful love that I always could feel piercing me as surely as any arrow. I continued to attempt not to mentally live in the future where he was gone—instead I sank into the present moment as much as I could and consciously, mindfully loved every tiny bit of him while he was still here.

I tried to tell him everything I needed to say, even though I know dogs don’t understand language like that. But Rusty might have. If you’d known him, you would know, he listened to conversations like he was about to pipe up and add his two cents. He knew how to communicate, and I believe he knew what was in my heart, even if my words were just sounds to him.

September 5, 2025

(This part is a difficult, sad read, but also really kind of beautiful if you have the wherewithal to read it.)

On his last morning, in an unexpected way, I was grateful. 

I was grateful to be able to be there for Rusty—to be present with him every moment. I was grateful to be the one to carry him downstairs to pee in the morning, the first time he couldn’t make it down on his own. And when the time came, I was grateful to be the one who carried him upstairs to his favorite spot. I was grateful to be the one offering him water, and stroking his brow, and making sure he was never alone. I was grateful to be able to fight for him those last two months, and I was grateful to be able to ease his suffering at the end.

I was grateful he looked at me when the vet began her work, and not the vet—a stranger in his home he didn’t have the energy to worry about. He wasn’t scared, though. He was just so tired. And I believe he felt safe: with me and my partner, in his favorite spot, on his favorite blanket, the room a cool 65 degrees, just how he liked it. I think he knew, in some way, what was happening: that we were helping him feel better the only way we could.

Though the vet gave us as much time as we needed at every stage, we did not drag it out. We had been saying goodbye for a long time before that morning. I didn’t want him to linger in a daze post-sedation just so we could grasp for seconds or minutes more, when I knew very well that it would never be enough time—that we would never really be “ready.” We may have been devastated, but he deserved peace. 

Rusty did not like to be held those last few weeks, so I didn’t force him into a cuddle at the end. Instead, I kissed all of his perfect little paws, and his perfect little head, and I held his perfect little face, and held his perfect, loving, beautiful gaze. I told him I loved him and that he was the goodest boy, over and over again, until, finally, the vet let us know he was gone.

And when it was done, every ounce of strength that I had relied on the past two months drained out of me, like I’d severed a spiritual artery. My chest cracked open as I fell over my perfect boy, and I broke down in a way I haven’t done since I was a small child.

I will spare you those details. Instead, I want to tell you about the moments that came after—moments I will cherish for the rest of my life, because they were profoundly meaningful to me.

After I had exhausted myself with sobbing and returned to an upright position, I kissed Rusty’s head and looked into his sleepy little eyes again. And then, from one moment…to the next…I felt that he was gone. Not in the sense that it hit me, or that I finally comprehended the fact of his death. It was something sensory—a change in the air, like someone had just left the room, only I hadn’t realized they’d been in the room to begin with until they left. It was as if Rusty’s spirit had been holding on even after his body was no longer alive, and in that moment—after I finally let myself break down, but while I was looking into his eyes once more, temporarily stilled by the catharsis of gut-wrenching sobs—I felt him let go.

After that, a shaky calm fell over me—relief, I think. My boy was no longer suffering, and I knew his spirit was free and at peace. Which led to another moment that felt almost like a gift, as far as these things can be: I was calm and present enough that I was able to stay and help as the vet took care of his body. I gently removed the little toe grips from his claws. I helped the vet take an impression of his paw, and a few clippings of his fur for us to keep. I helped her move him into the beautiful basket she would use to take him to the crematorium, and arrange the soft blankets around him.

In a limited but, for me, deeply moving way, I was able to “tend to his body” the way families have historically done, and still do in some cultures: preparing the body for funeral rites as part of the ritual for saying goodbye. And in those minutes, finally relieved of the anxiety of my impending loss, it was truly beautiful to care for my beloved friend in this last tender, quiet way: with no more worry. Only love.

I might be a severed child now

(Less sad but also less beautiful than the previous section, but it’s the truth.)

I have loved and lost many pets over my lifetime: Hammy the hamster, Eddie the seven toed cat, my childhood dog Zelda. I even had what I would call a “soul cat” when I was much younger: Eddie’s litter mate, Cozmos (AKA The Bean), who was bonded to me in an uncanny way. My mother said Cozmos would be upstairs all day while I was at school, and no matter what time I was coming home—early or late or even the next day—she would show up 5 minutes before I came home and wait for me at the door. When I was a sophomore in high school, Cozmos developed hepatic lipidosis, something that usually ends up killing most cats—but I nursed her back to health with the help of a vet who practiced TCM. I got six more wonderful years with her—she moved with me into my first apartment, back home, then into a second and third apartment—until a liver tumor swiftly stole her away from me the month I turned 21. 

I was heartbroken after her sudden passing. And I grieved long and hard for my dear friend Lando, though I had always known he would not be mine for long. And while I feel like I haven’t fully and properly had the chance to grieve for Luke, who passed 3 weeks exactly ahead of Rusty, the pain of his absence is still very fresh and real.

But despite the genuine peace and moments of beauty I experienced the day we said goodbye to Rusty, I have never felt true, devastating heartbreak like this before.

While grief has always held some pain and left bruises on my heart, this time it feels like the very center of me has been scooped out, leaving a trench of a wound, gaping, raw, and weeping. Every time I habitually look for Rusty and he is not there, I bleed a little more. All the moments when I normally would have turned to him for the joy and comfort of his presence; all the moments when I think he’d like a little bit of my food, or an ice cube; or when we’re feeding the other animals, or giving them their night time snacks—profuse bleeding. And when we go to bed, and he is not there to follow for our end of day cuddles and perhaps a light snarfle through the blankets; or when I wake up and the foot of the bed holds no gorgeous orange floof, no piercing, dark, hopeful gaze waiting for me to wake and start the day—I am fully exsanguinated.

It is exhausting to lose so much blood.

But also: I am so. Angry. I am furious that this happened to my perfect, goodest, hopeful boy, who only deserved joy and comfort and wonderful things. And I am furious that Luke was taken from us in the middle of it all, making it impossible to separate one grief from another, compounding my grief with guilt because there’s no denying Rusty’s illness and death eclipsed Luke’s passing. And I am furious that there are no well established American social customs for supporting people through pet loss, even though it is a proven fact that losing a pet can be just as painful if not much more painful than losing a human companion. I am furious that part of why I couldn’t reach out to friends for so long was because I was afraid they would judge me for having such a strong reaction to the death of an animal (two animals, actually) when there are so many other horrible things happening in the world. And I’m furious with myself, for reasons I can’t get into because they are far too pathetic to talk about publicly (but rest assured it’s not guilt over anything to do with Rusty. That, at least, I have a handle on: I do not regret a single choice I made in regards to him, even if I’ll be paying off his medical bills for some time).

I am so angry about all of this, and more. But I have no one to be angry at, which makes it even harder to process that anger.

Mostly, though…I am just really, really sad.

And lost.

And hurting.

Lost, but resolute.

(Hard, but maybe a little hopeful.)

I don’t know how, precisely, to move on from a loss like this. Yes, we still have three wonderful animals at home, but the energy is completely different now. Luke was such a big presence, even in his old age: always talking, always following us around, always demanding a cuddle through subtle or not-so-subtle means. And Rusty was my heart outside my body, a constant hopeful shadow, a source of happiness on even the bleakest of days. Losing one I could have handled in time. But both at once?

Please don’t get me wrong: there is so much to love about the pets we have left, and I do love them immensely. But they happen to all be pretty independent and aloof. And I love that for them and about them. I respect my animals as individuals, and I believe they owe me nothing. But it is a fact that Luke and Rusty’s deaths have left two massive holes in our lives and in our home, and I have no idea how to patch those holes, let alone fill them.

The only way I can think of to move on is to focus on creating, but it is all so hard, especially with my health issues flaring up from the stress of it all, including brain fog and fatigue. I have been wanting to paint Luke and Rusty’s portraits, but it feels overwhelming to even think of pulling out my paints right now. Even choosing pictures of them to have printed for our ofrenda this year feels like too heavy a task. True, I have managed to make some bad visual storytelling art, and I have started writing one bad poem. Some part of me knows I need to get back to it all: to writing, and magic, and the year of adventure and exploration I was supposed to be having. But that year already feels lost. Right now, making art feels like peeling off my skin and pressing my viscera to paper. And the world does not want my messy, too large, too long grief.

But…I have a novel to write. A career to tend to. A life that needs to keep moving forward. And I want to create. I want to write books and make things and build a life that brings me joy and satisfaction. I want to live the magical life I promised myself, full of new adventures and synchronicities and beauty and love. 

I fought too hard and for too long to drag myself out of some very dark places to let this grief wreck me now. Rusty was a major part of that healing journey. His love for me helped me learn how to love myself. Losing him has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced, but I refuse to let the pain of his absence be the weight that drags me down again. I would not be honoring him if I let his death be a catalyst for self destruction. 

The best way to honor him right now, I think, is to take care of myself and my heart. To continue to love and uplift myself. To continue to create “bad” art, and be vulnerable, and make imperfect things, and try to find joy in the process. And of course, to continue to tell stories that, hopefully, help and uplift others.

If grief must be a catalyst (and it almost always is), I will make mine a catalyst for good. I don’t know how yet. But I will.

For my perfect, hopeful, beautiful boy.

If you’d like to see more pictures of my perfect baby angel cake, here is a public album.

“I will love you forever; whatever happens. Till I die and after I die, and when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms, till I find you again… I’ll be looking for you, every moment, every single moment. And when we do find each other again, we’ll cling together so tight that nothing and no one’ll ever tear us apart. Every atom of me and every atom of you… We’ll live in birds and flowers and dragonflies and pine trees and in clouds and in those little specks of light you see floating in sunbeams… And when they use our atoms to make new lives, they won’t just be able to take one, they’ll have to take two, one of you and one of me, we’ll be joined so tight… “

The Amber Spyglass, by Philip Pullman