My dog passed away on Tuesday, October 25 at around 2:30 PM. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Addie Bundren was so right when talking about the emptiness of words; I don’t think any string of words can fully encapsulate the pain I feel at the moment. The worst part of this pain is how inconsistent it is. At times, I can process her passing almost entirely, allowing me to comprehend what occurred and how I’m going to move on. But at other times, like right now, I can’t. I can’t imagine that she’s not here, I can’t think beyond the past, and I can’t comprehend what it means for her to die. It all seems so unreal. It’s when I think about how she would always look into my eyes with so much adoration, how she would closely follow me around the house, her face full of joy, how her small nails would clack against the wooden floor, how her bursts of energy would come out of nowhere, I feel that deep sense of pain. Like right now. My feelings are going to change a hundred times while writing this, and maybe this is not the most appropriate thing to write about in my AP Lit Blog; however, I can’t allow myself to write about anything else.
We got Elsa the summer before my 5th grade. I had been begging my parents for a dog for a long time, making presentations and writing persuasive essays to convince them. My mom was hesitant, knowing how much work it was to take care of a dog and knowing how painful it was to lose one, but I was persistent. On my last day of park district soccer, we went to a frozen yogurt place with a pet store next door. Some of my friends from the team proposed going into the store to look at some animals, so I excitedly agreed and made sure my family came in with me. I was on the other side of the store when I heard my mom say, “Aww, she’s so cute.” I looked over and it was love at first sight. I loved everything about her. The way she would drink water, the way she would tug on my dad’s shoelaces, the way she was getting distracted by every little thing. My sister and I successfully convinced my parents that evening, and we all immediately started preparing for her arrival. I remember going there with four members of our family, and coming back with five.
I’ve loved her every day since.
I have so many joyful memories with her, but it’s her everyday behaviors and our everyday routines that will stick with me forever. She would constantly roam 
around the house, scavenging for any food on the ground and socks she could tear apart, even though she had multiple toys of her own. Whenever she would chew on her chew toys, I’d congratulate her and shower her with even more love and affection, encouraging her to keep going. Every day when I’d come home from school, she would walk over to me with her toy to show me how obedient she was. I could never play fetch with her. Whenever I’d throw a stick, she would start running but get distracted along the way. When I’d try to motivate her to pick up the stick, she would get possessive, thinking I was trying to steal the stick from her, causing her to take the stick and run away. She couldn’t walk in a straight line. Our walks would consist of her
sprinting, sneezing repeatedly because her harness held her back, walking from side to side, wrapping my family’s legs with her leash, getting extremely distracted by a single leaf, and staring at anyone walking by. She adored everyone and absolutely loved getting attention, always ready to be pet by anyone who was around.
The house is so silent now. She would always be panting, walking around, growling at a shadow, but now all of her little sounds are gone. Her death was sudden. She was behaving completely normal on Saturday but began walking around slowly and looking at us for long periods of time on Sunday. After her passing, vets believed she had an undetected blood clot, causing her to go into cardiac arrest. I still can’t believe it, and I don’t think I ever fully will, but I’m glad she wasn’t in pain for too long, glad she lived her life with so much joy, glad I told her I loved her almost every day, glad she will forever live in my memories, reminding me how I came to be who I am today. I’ll love you forever, Elsa.
Hi Ria, your remembrance of Elsa was heart breaking. I’m so sorry for your loss, and I can’t imagine how devastating it must feel to have her taken away from you so suddenly. I remember when you first got Elsa as well, she was very cute and spunky. I can feel your love for her through your writing, and she was very lucky to have you as a caretaker. I was in the same position as you when I was in 5th grade, desperately begging my parents for a pet. I can tell that Elsa was a blessing for you, and I can tell that you loved her deeply.
Your post this week genuinely made me tear up. I remember how energetic she was, and how she reminded me of a little diva.
I could feel the emptiness of your loss when you wrote about how silent your house is now. It made me appreciate the regular little noises Toasty makes all the more. I can’t believe how suddenly she left us, and the shock you must feel. It’s really been a horrible few weeks, but I know we can make it through it.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Ria. I hope you take all the time you need to process.
Hey Ria, I’m very sorry to hear that your dog passed away. Even though I have never met her, through your descriptions of her funny behavior and the photos you included of her, I can tell she truly is one of the greats. I think when my dog Kimball died I was like seven years old maximum, so I was more of a Vardaman. I really didn’t understand what was going on, just that it was different. It’s crazy how things can change so quickly, but it’s very obvious Elsa was well-loved and every day you and her were together, both of your lives’ were improved. You and Elsa will be in my heart and I hope writing this blog and putting your thoughts together helped you in one way or another. <3
Ria,
In the short time that I knew Elsa, her presence made me an exponentially happier person. I used to have this dog named Kiylo in fifth grade who I adored, but we had to rehome due to behavioral issues. I know our situations are in no way similar, but I understand the silence. The silence of a presence that was once so engulfing, gone. But I don’t believe Elsa is truly gone. This might sound cheesy, but the way she has impacted you and your family is her legacy. The way she impacted me, always panting, always wagging her tail ready to play, always putting me in a dog mood, is her legacy. The way she has impacted the lives of each person who got to know her is how she lives on. Now I am not religious in any way, but I genuinely believe there is a dog utopia for dogs that have passed away. I think somewhere – perhaps in the multiverse – every good dog is getting all of the treats, toys and attention they could ever ask for. I believe in the small moments in your life, you’ll find her presence with you. If you ever want to talk about Elsa or I will always be here for you. Know that your grieving, your processing, your moving on is all valid and in your time. Elsa had the best life a dog could ask for thanks to you.