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.

Just before 9 AM yesterday – Monday November 18, 2019 – I had to say goodbye to my sweet old kitty, Stitch.

I can’t really describe how it feels to have to write what is essentially another pet eulogy in 2019, despite the fact that he was with me for 17 years, 5 months, and [about?] 4 days.

I suppose I could start by saying that at least this time, I was much more prepared for this loss than I was with Wendy. Stitch has been sickly more often than not for several years now, to the point where I long ago lost count of the number of times I took him to the vet thinking, “This time, it might really be time”.

But somehow he just kept hanging on.

I know it might be silly, but part of me can’t help but wonder if he stuck around so darn long because he was just set on staying by my side. Because while Wendy might have been the pet who showed me what it was to love again, Stitch was the one who took care of me – from on or around (hey, it’s been a long ass time) June 14, 2003, until yesterday morning.

After all, this is the cat who could sense that I was about to cry before I even knew I was going to do so.

I actually adopted Stitch and his sister Lilo at the same time, but he outlived her by five and a half years. They were, of course, named for the Disney movie, and I was always surprised at how perfectly the two of them embodied the characters they were named after: Lilo being a pudgy, adorable, attention- and affection-seeking little girl, and Stitch being, well, a loyal, brave little hellion.

Lilo and Stitch saw me through college, where they both whined about being apartment cats and often curled up on the small of my back when I would lay on my bed studying. They moved from Farmville, Virginia, to Lynchburg, Virginia, to Ellington, Connecticut…then on to Orlando, back to Lynchburg, eventually Greenville, and then to Connecticut again (though Enfield, this time). We returned to Greenville eventually, which is where Lilo was laid to rest, but Stitch continued on with me, ending up in Lake Mary, Florida, then Altamonte Springs, Florida, for a couple years before finally returning to our true home in Greenville in the summer of 2018.

Throughout those many many years – more than half of my life, in fact – Stitch was my stalwart companion. He was the sweetest boy, always friendly with people and other cats and dogs. He was king of the house – he was definitely head of my cat pack, and he would literally break up…let’s say ‘arguments’ between the other cats. As for the dogs, while he and Wendy got into it over food from time to time, for the most part she – and any other pups – knew better than to mess with him. One withering stare and any dog thinking about bothering him would back down, generally…and often soon after that he would be curling up right next to said dog.

He was warm and cozy and soft and handsome, and very, very smart.

But he was also the type of cat that would trip you up in the kitchen (yes, I’m fairly certain it was at least partially on purpose), and also constantly try to get into your food. Some of my funniest Stitch stories involve just that…like the time he jumped up onto the stove, pulled the tinfoil off a pan that had a ham in it (and trust me, the tinfoil had been FITTED around the sides), tore a whole hock off said ham, dropped onto the kitchen floor with this huge chunk of ham, and proceeded to fight Wendy for it.

Then there was the time we were having a Lord of the Rings marathon and I made a taters-and-onions casserole. After we ate, I covered it in foil and left it in the oven, but I cracked the door so that it could cool down. SOMEHOW, Stitch squirmed his way through the barely-open oven door, clawed the foil off the casserole dish, and we found him INSIDE THE STILL VERY WARM OVEN, spooning onions and taters into his mouth with his paw.

He also loved chips and similar snacks. He would literally crawl into a bag of any of the above, but the funniest was his obsession with Cheetos, which he would literally try to smack out of your hand.

Oh, and he EXPECTED you to give him the leftover milk from your cereal bowl. Sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) he wouldn’t even wait until you were done to try to get into it.

So yeah, he had his quirks, and many of them weren’t the endearing kind. But I wouldn’t trade any of those for all of the good things about him, and there were a lot. It wasn’t just me who he knew to comfort; any friend who came to my house who was sad would end up with a Sticky Bear on their chest. Also, even people who were allergic to cats were somehow not allergic to him.

Speaking of people, Stitch was with me so long that he has met a higher percentage of my friends than any other pet I’ve ever had. College friends, Disney friends, Virginia friends, Greenville friends, hometown friends, Orlando friends, convention friends. Shoot, he literally met people from around the world – mainly Europe, but two from Australia, as well 😉

For those who met him…well, I know that at times his extreme drive for food was frustrating, but he was also still the friendliest cat, always up for a head scratch or a gentle cuddle, and I know so many of my friends loved him, too.

I’m glad that his last day was spent almost entirely in mine or Steve’s lap, and that his last night was spent sleeping right next to my shoulder on the bed. I understand that it was time for him to go, but there will never be another cat quite like him, and I’m going to go on missing him terribly for a very long time.

In June of 2008 I was 25 years old and at the tail end of a not-so-great long-term relationship. Just over two months prior, my childhood dog Callie had passed away from heart failure, and when I saw Wendy’s picture in a dog adoption book at Camp Bow Wow (where I worked at the time), the first thing I thought was, “She has Callie’s eyes”…and I had to have her.

I brought her home ten years, seven months, and thirty days ago. She was a playful, silly two-ish years old at the time, and she, above anyone or anything else, showed me what it was to love again.

She’s met so many of my friends – too many to count. She’s gone on hikes, hung out in Falls Park in Greenville where she swam in the river and chased ducks, and chilled at quite a few downtown Greenville happy hours (no wine for her, of course).

And it has been a beautiful ten-and-a-half-plus years with her. Even when things with my life were at their worst, she was always there, with a whole lot of kisses and wags and cuddles. She’s seen relationships end and begin and end. She’s moved from South Carolina, to Connecticut, back to South Carolina, from one Greenville house to another, to Florida, from one Florida house to another, and then back to South Carolina.

She’s vacationed to Lake Mascoma in New Hampshire and Lake Lure and Maggie Valley in North Carolina. (Unfortunately she doesn’t actually LOVE going on vacation, or trust me, I would have brought her along a LOT more.)

Just under nine years ago, I adopted a brother for her. She and Rigby have been the absolute best of friends since; I’m not sure I’ve ever seen two dogs love each other the way these two do.

She loves everyone and every thing, other dogs and children especially (though she’s been known to try VERY hard – and sometimes succeed – at befriending cats).

(She also especially loves squirrels as things to chase and lizards as things to kill and turtles a.k.a. coldblood artillery units as things to bark madly at.)

She loved running, for a long time. And though she’s acted a bit too regal to run the past couple of years, she still loves her walks. In fact, she loves walks in the rain…despite the fact that she won’t go outside in the rain unless she knows it’s for a walk. She still loves cuddling with my cat Ducky and teasing my cat Marmalade, but her newfound regality has given her a lot more courage with Stitch, who she used to be quite afraid of.

These are just the most basic facts about my beautiful, wonderful, perfect dog. I don’t have the words to describe her happiness, her energy, her insanely positive attitude, her absolute zest for life.

But Wendy is, if not more than 13 years old, certainly close to that…and on Monday of this week – about ten years, seven months, and fifteen days after I brought her home – I found out that she has cancer.

A lot happened to lead up to that. She wasn’t feeling well for about a week and a half. I’d taken her to the vet once, but they thought she was just having some back pain. And then on Monday February 4th – about ten years, seven months, and nineteen days after I brought her home – she literally collapsed right in front of me.

I rushed her to the vet. They did blood tests and x-rays and determined that she needed an ultrasound. I rushed her to the emergency vet. They did the ultrasound and determined that she had a ruptured tumor in her spleen. My ‘choice’ wasn’t really a choice: a $4,000-ish surgery to remove her spleen and biopsy the tumor, which had a 50% chance of being malignant, or put her to sleep right then. Did I have the money? Absolutely fucking not. But I couldn’t let her go right then, not with the surgery itself being fairly safe and there only being a 50% chance she had cancer, anyway.

No matter what, I would get more time with her. Maybe a couple months, maybe more, but I would get more time. 

So I talked to Steve, who was with her from 2008 until 2014. I talked to Brian, who has been the love of her live since 2015. I talked to my mom, because I knew that she, more than most people, would understand what I was going through. And between those three people and every. fucking. AMAZING. person. who donated to Wendy’s GoFundMe, nearly half of her vet bills were covered. Seriously – I will never be able to properly thank everyone who helped Wendy and I in this time of need. I hate that the prognosis is a bad one, but every single one of you helped me buy more time with…well, to be honest, the love of my life.

I could still choose to get chemo for her. Unfortunately, the only type that would help with her cancer – which is a cancer of the blood cells that starts in the spleen, and in her case has already spread to her liver – cost $500 every 2-3 weeks and would likely get me 4-6 months with her rather than 3 or fewer. While bad side effects are rare, this is an intravenous treatment that would mean me bringing her to the vet every. single. time. So while it is a monetary decision, I also don’t want to spend two or more months of the last 4-6 months of her life dragging her to the vet so they can stick needles in her.

And so here I am, not even recovered from the stress and worry of last week and now facing the last days or weeks or IF I AM LUCKY, months, of my beautiful girl’s life. I do not regret choosing the surgery, because now I can make the last months of her life as happy as possible. She won’t have gone to the vet feeling extremely ill – after at least a week and a half of not feeling herself, as it was – and never gotten to come home.

And now she will have and do all of the things. I already kicked off her bucket list by feeding her a double baconator with cheese from Wendy’s on the way home from her oncology appointment today, and I have so many plans – gatherings with other pups, all the freakin’ children I know coming to see her so she can lick their faces, friends visiting from near and far, steak dinners and whole ham hocks and trips to Falls Park and maybe even a professional photoshoot.

One of the things I can’t give her, though, is snow. Because she loved that too, and she hasn’t seen it in years, and now it’s probably too late in the season for that to happen in South Carolina.

Of course, even if I could give her that, it would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough. I will always have regrets, though I refuse to voice them now. Because now is for the good memories we’ve had, and the ones we will make in the coming weeks and hopefully months.

Now is the time for all of the kisses and wags and cuddles…and a whole shit ton of food that I wouldn’t normally feed her.

Wendy spent her last few weeks practically acting like a puppy again. She played with Rigby and Spendid, had many visits with local friends, and tried all the special treats that so many amazing people in my life sent her. She chewed bones and carried around stuffed toys new and old. She ate special food and went on walks and hung out in the backyard, just laying in the sun like she always loved doing.

Ten years, eight months, and nine days after I brought her home – at 4:15 PM on Thursday, March 7th – Wendy collapsed again. I rushed her to the vet and she was bleeding internally. Around 5:50 PM I had to let her go. My mom and best friend Bekah were with us at the end.

She gave me the best ten years, eight months, and nineteen days that I ever could have asked for, and while I know that things WILL get easier, they will never be quite the same without her in my life.