Eight years ago, I wrote a post called “Welcome, Remus Lupin” and today I find myself on the other side of that to say farewell. I’ve grown accustomed to grieving out loud in this space. I’ve had this blog since senior year of undergrad and over that time, I’ve used this space to lament about everything from marriage to miscarriage to moving. And today is no different where I’m chatting with you about pet loss.
After eight years, we said goodbye to Remus Lupin. This past Wednesday, he passed away quietly in our own home with the help of a tender hearted vet from, Lap of Love veterinary hospice. He declined very quickly after our trip to Europe. With all the signs of doggy aging, he just wasn’t the dog we knew him to be and we felt in our hearts that it was time for the next adventure.
From the moment we brought him home, Remus was a strange little dog. Underfed, shy and uncertain of his place in the world and in our family and yet packed from head to tail with joy. He was a dog who made very few waves and was just happy to be with us. I remember how hard I worked when we first brought him home to convince him to sleep on a bed instead of the floor. It felt like such an accomplishment the first time he did it on his own.
Now I find myself stepping over his empty bed and thinking of those times. His bed that I haven’t moved. And maybe won’t move? I’m not so sure. I’ve never quite felt this type of grief before so I’m unsure of the path forward. I was describing the feeling to Marcus yesterday and the word I used was “untethered”; just not grounded. Since, I’ve never owned a pet and certainly never said goodbye to a pet, I had no idea the uncertainty and confusion I would feel as we navigate this process. Because without us knowing and without our consent, Remus had become the heart of our family.
No girl ever loved a dog as much as I loved Remus.
Where Sirius is a whirlwind of demanding and chaotic energy, certain of his doggy birthright, Remus was gentle; loving and easy. Soft to the touch and heavy on your legs. Because if you stood still, that man was leaning on you. Showing you how happy he was that you were there. And I’m so glad he got to spend the last parts of his life leaning on me. He completed our little family and gave us more than I knew a dog ever could.
I’m going to miss him deeply from a corner of my heart that will always have his little paw on it. And if grief is the trade off for him experiencing no pain and the dignity of transitioning on, well then I think that’s a fair trade off. For now, I’m going to revel so hard in all of the best memories of this dog who blew into our worlds, changed it for the better and left just as peacefully as he came in.
