I’ve known for a while now, due to Rigby’s age and deteriorating health, that it was only a matter of time before I had to write my third pet eulogy in under two years. What I didn’t expect was that I would have to question my decision to let him go.

Just a warning that while this eulogy certainly contains some of the sweet reminiscences of my years with Rigby, there is some deeply personal, sad word vomit as well – about the difficult decision to let him go, his health issues, and a brief mention of suicide.

You could say that I’ve been “lucky” in the past. I’ve taken four beloved pets to the vet for the last time, and with each one of them, there was no question or doubt – on my part or that of the vet – that it was their time to go. If I hadn’t made the decision to relieve their very acute suffering, I would have lost them naturally, and it would have happened soon, and it would have been very painful for them. I’ve never had to watch a pet slowly deteriorate and finally had to ask myself, “This animal could stick around for another six months, maybe even a year, but is there any quality to this life they’re living, anymore? Am I keeping them alive for them, or for myself?”

And maybe because I’ve never had that experience, and never had to ask myself that question…maybe that’s why I couldn’t make this decision sooner. That’s probably why I still don’t know for sure if it was the right one. Because Rigby couldn’t tell me, “Mom, I’m hurting, I’m tired, please let me go.”

I could hear it, sometimes, in the way he cried at night when he couldn’t get comfortable and fall asleep, or in the increasing number of periods when he would seeming to be gasping for breath for ten or twenty or thirty minutes.

I could see it, sometimes, when he pooped in his sleep, or when he was awake, and then struggled to get up and ended up with his own excrement smeared all over his butt and/or legs (or more). Or on bad days when he could barely keep his back legs under him (even while just standing) for more than 30 seconds at a time. And in the sad look in his eyes as he stared at me from the bottom of the porch steps, waiting for me to pick him up and bring him inside, which clearly bothered him in the physical sense (he growled at me basically every time, and even snapped at me a couple of times as well), but I believe made him feel shame, as well…which is somehow even worse than the discomfort it clearly caused.

So yes, even with all that…I will still always wonder if I actually made the right decision in letting him go. It doesn’t help that he still had good moments – never for more than a couple/few hours at a time, and almost always involving him wanting his dinner – but they did exist.

And also because while Wendy was the one who taught me what it was to love again, and Stitch was the one who took care of me…Rigby was the one who saved my life.

Rigby saved my life, so being a part of taking his is going to haunt me for the rest of mine.

I write all of this because it’s all a part of his story, but there was so much good in that story, as well – so much sweetness and strength and love.

Rigby was an owner surrender to Greenville County Animal Care Services in early 2010 – and at the time, being surrendered by your owner immediately landed you on the ‘put to sleep’ list. I had been doing some work with a local animal rescue at the time, so I was on Animal Care’s list of people to email about ‘last chance’ dogs. To be honest, I often didn’t read through their emails – I would just get upset about all the pups I couldn’t help, most days – but as fate would have it, the day Rigby was listed was one of the few times that I did skim the list that was sent to me.

He was technically originally a foster due to the fact that he wasn’t neutered, and at that time couldn’t be due to the fact that he was having seizures…but Animal Care really needed to free up the kennel space. It took over two months to regulate his medication to the point where he went long enough without a seizure for the vet to feel comfortable putting him under anesthesia to get fixed, and by that time he was solidly a part of our little family…not to mention absolute BFF’s with Wendy.

From the beginning, it was clear that Rigby – who was ‘about 5 or 6 years old’ when I adopted him – was smart, eager to please, and insistent on being by my side 24/7 (seriously, I couldn’t get up and move more than 10 feet without him following me). While he loved most people (exceptions were few and far between and included a guy who stole from Steve and I, small children if they were too obnoxious, and an ex of mine who ‘wasn’t a dog person’), he was a momma’s boy through and through…which was just a little bit amusing, considering that when Steve and I adopted him, he was technically supposed to be Steve’s dog 😉

He was also very much a one-pup dog – Wendy was his beloved sister, and while he would generally put up with other dogs if they were well-behaved and didn’t bother him, he was still quite the grumbly old man around them (even when he was young), especially if Wendy was right there with him. He was insanely protective of her, and to be honest, probably a bit jealous of her paying attention to or playing with other dogs. Weirdly enough, though, after Wendy passed he never really acted like that again. He became far more friendly with my roommate Bekah’s dog Splendid than he had when Wendy was still around, and later was good with Ellie and even crazy young Sokka…but I guess he never really bonded with any of them enough to be bothered by the idea of other dogs coming around. (He was even surprisingly tolerant of the foster pups who came and went in 2019.)

There are quite a few lovely little tidbits about Rigby that I will share, but what better time to drop one last not-so-lovely – but very important – story than sandwiched in the middle of all the good stuff? I mentioned that Rigby saved my life, and to be honest, him doing so is also probably the reason I could never take a bath without him checking on me several times throughout.

Trigger warning for talk of suicide.

In September 2014 I had just returned from my absolute worst Dragon Con ever. I don’t see any point in getting into all of that other than saying that it was almost entirely thanks to the aforementioned ‘not a dog person’ ex. I’m sure it didn’t help that at the time I was also trying to wean myself off a particular medication, and while I’d been in some dark places before, those couple of days after Labor Day weekend 2014 truly were my darkest timeline. Needless to say, I ran myself a bath and had every intention of it being my last one. Only…I apparently didn’t take the time to make sure the bathroom door was shut all the way, and Rigby – who of course must have sensed my distress even long after I reached a point where I had no more tears left to cry – nosed his way in. He was so worried that he was acting like he wanted to get into the bathtub with me, and despite him never being a licky dog, he wouldn’t stop trying to kiss me. In the end, I did break down crying, and got out of the tub, and laid on the floor with him until someone showed up to take care of me for a while.

Yes, there’s a chance I wouldn’t have actually gone through with it even if Rigby hadn’t insisted upon himself…but from that day on, any time I’ve felt myself spiraling into a dark place like that, he was there, reminding me that he loved me and that I had him and my other babies to take care of, and (more times than I can count) letting me cuddle him and cry into his fur.

Rigby and Stitch and Wendy were my holy trinity of love and safety. Of course I’m not alone now – I still have Ducky, Marmalade, Ellie, and Sokka – but the idea of facing the most difficult parts of my future without the three who got me through the most difficult parts of my past is, well, more than a little bit scary.

But hey, for now, it’s past time to remember all the good things about Rigby, a.k.a. Rigaby Bumsley III, Esq., of the Hartford Bumsleys, a.k.a. Mr. Bum, a.k.a. Bum, a.k.a. probably a dozen other nicknames that came and went throughout the years.

Rigby didn’t care for car rides, but was happy to get to wherever we were going as long as I was there too.

He loved, loved, loved food and treats, even just blah ones, but was never big on bones or toys.

One time, a nasty little dog got loose when I was walking him and Wendy, and when the dog went after Wendy, Rigby jumped into the fray and literally clamped down on the dog’s tail and did everything he could to pull it off her.

He was very soft, and very cozy, and I often fell asleep spooning him.

Rigby loved my friends, but he definitely had his favorites. If I had to name his top two people (other than me, of course) I would say Bekah, who he always went to for head scratches, and Arthur, who he took to the moment they met. Still, just about anyone who gave him attention was his forever friend, and in the 10 years and five and a half months he was with me, he met a lot of friends.

Until he started having disc problems (and then apparently arthritis as well) a couple years ago or so, he was a spry little boy who would pop up on the couch or bed at his leisure, sit pretty for a treat, play with Wendy, tease the cats, and go for long walk or even jogs. And even after he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) really do most of those things, he still had his own little spark – and he kept that spark right up until the end.

And yes, that little spark – though it showed up less and less in recent months – is, along with him being part of my holy trinity, why it was so difficult to let him go. Deep down, I know it was time. I know that it was never going to be easy. But I also know – no matter how much I might have questioned myself, might still question myself – that I did right by my boy.

Rigby saved me, and then he loved me extra hard after Wendy was gone, and helped care for me more than ever before after I lost Stitch. When I adopted him in February 2010, the vet told me that because of his epilepsy meds, I would be lucky if he lived to be 12 years old. When I lost Wendy in March 2019, he was about 14-15, and I asked him to give me a year. When I lost Stitch in November 2019, I asked Rigby to give me a little longer – six months, in fact, which would have been May of this year. He might have stuck around longer than even this, but at somewhere between 15 and a half and 16 and a half years old, it was time for him to rest.

And it was time for him to be with Wendy again.

Lilo is on the other side
She’s with Stitch on the other side
Wendy is watching from the other side
They taught me how to say goodbye.
My mom and I were both by his side when he died.

And I’ll take my time. Rigby saved me once, and I have things to do, more pups to care for. Someday I’ll see him on the other side, too.