Bug burst onto the scene on April 4, 2023, less than two months after we said goodbye to Flea. I needed convincing - I wasn't ready, certainly not for another Chihuahua so soon. They sent me his picture and said, "...he's fluffier...?". In other words, he at least didn't look like Flea at all. And he was a senior. And he was high on the euthanasia list due to no interest. And he was blind in one eye. And his tongue stuck out the side of his face. I caved. I figured the reality of letting Bug die in the shelter because I was afraid he'd make me miss Flea was MUCH sadder than risking him reminding me of Flea.
I have Bug to thank for introducing me to my friend, Diana. Once we agreed to foster Bug, Diana kindly picked up him from Henry County and brought him to me at work. It turned out he escaped euthanasia by 90 minutes, squeaking out by just a curly white whisker. I heard him before I saw him - that cough. When Diana opened the back of her car, I came face to face with the most cartoon-ish little critter I'd ever met. The tongue, the googly eyes, the ridiculous fluff...be still, my heart! He stared at me through the bars of his crate and then erupted into another coughing fit.
Bug had a terrible upper respiratory infection, as is very common for animals in or coming out of animal control facilities. No big deal, nothing a little time and medication can't fix, right? Sort of. Bug got good and sick and stayed that way for a while, but it became clear at some point that we were dealing with much more than kennel crud. There was underlying chronicity here.
Bug's coughing and wheezing persisted despite several different treatment approaches, so we decided it was time to see a specialist. Bug still needed neuter and dental, but we had to get his respiratory situation under control first. The boarded internist confirmed a two-fold diagnosis: chronic bronchitis and mainstem tracheobronchial collapse (severe collapsing trachea that occurs lower than usual and involves the bronchi). So we were facing a management game. The plan: a heavy duty sedative with good antitussive properties to suppress the cough (coughing just leads to more coughing because it perpetuates the airway irritation, so we had to break this cycle) and an inhaler containing a steroid/bronchodilator drug combination. The steroidal aspect would reduce airway inflammation and the bronchodilator would open up the airway, both working together to facilitate easier breathing. The inhaler had a special adapter for dogs (they make them for cats, too) and the aerosolized medication would be much more effective (and safer long-term) for lower airway issues as opposed to taking an oral steroid.
This multimodal plan carried some pretty hefty ramifications for Bug's adoptability. The plan was to get Bug well and send him on transport to New York for adoption. Hydrocodone is a schedule II controlled drug, which involves quite a few specific hoops to jump through in order to get it. Not to mention the logistics of sending Bug on a road trip across states lines with a bottle of hydrocodone in his tote bag presented nontrivial concerns. There would have to be very careful wording about his condition and extra caution screening adoption applications - the opioid crisis is real and the right kind of people can spot the code from a mile away ("dog with cough who needs special medications" = no brainer). It was going to be a significant balancing act
to exercise heightened scrutiny without creating additional barriers for what was already a tough sell with regard to adoptability. Beyond the controlled drugs, the inhaler medication came from a Canadian pharmacy by way of Mauritius (yes, you read that right) and wasn't cheap. Bug was pretty cooperative using the inhaler, but that would be a learning curve for an adopter as well. Let's just say, he came with strings and conditions.
Once the inhaler/opioid regimen began to make a positive difference in Bug's quality of life, it was time to pursue neuter and dental. Another curveball: he was cryptorchid and there was a high likelihood that the retained testicle was cancerous. It had to go. The internist gave him a green light for surgery, agreeing that the benefits outweighed the risks. We implemented a couple changes to his medications the night before surgery to set him up for success and went ahead with fingers crossed. I was a nervous wreck and spent the day waiting for bad news, thinking how you couldn't pay me enough to be his anesthesia tech. He did well under anesthesia during the neuter, so they continued with the dental. He went in with five teeth and came out with one. He recovered beautifully, one tough cookie.
Bug touched so many lives simply through his infectious charisma. They said he had a lively personality. They weren't kidding. Every day with him was a party! He was just SO much fun - so happy, silly, vocal, energetic, and just full of life. I had my guard up and kept my heart walled off for a while, but no one could possibly be immune to his charms. The way he'd just pop into the perfect "sit" and gaze at you with adoration in those googly eyes of his, it just melted hearts. He won me and all my coworkers over with his ridiculously animated spirit and boisterous enthusiasm for life. He went to work with me every day. I left him home one day only to show up to work and face a squad of deeply offended coworkers. They made me go home on my lunch break and bring him
back with me. The message was clear, "If you aren't bringing bringing Bug, don't bother reporting for duty!" He even made an appearance in the marketing video for our hospital's first grand opening anniversary party. What a ham. He was like one of those old wind-up "happy hamster" toys that zip around in a frenzy of random directions. I figured he might be around 10 years old based on his energy, but who knows - he really honestly could've been a rough 8 or a spry 15. Age is just a number and since Bug couldn't count, he was blissfully unaware of any reason not to party it up 24/7.
Everyone thought we were going to keep him for ourselves, and many asked why we didn't. Remember how I mentioned Bug didn't like men? Bug HATED men. And Drew was no exception - he was so good to him and it just didn't count for anything as far as Bug was concerned. He'd just sit on Drew's lap and holler in his face. The noises he made! It was wild - funny, but not really. I'll never know if it was a lack of exposure thing, a bad experience thing, or just a strong personal preference. Everyone knows I like the spicy chis, but this was an unsustainable level of hatred that wasn't fair to Drew or to Bug long-term. It wasn't just Drew, either - Bug needed a man-free household. If he so much as caught a whiff of beard - heck, even 5 o'clock shadow - nearby, he let it fly. This behavior earned him the nickname, "Thug". Set him in the arms of a lady and he was happy as a clam. This earned him the nickname, "Smug". He was a ladies' man and there was no changing his bug-brained mind. Add that to his list of adoption contingencies. Sigh.
Everyone was invested in this little guy's future, this little guy who was simply turned into animal control over the counter. Who knows what his story was? Maybe his person passed away, or maybe they couldn't afford to figure out his health issues, or maybe a million other maybes. Shoot, maybe they brought a man home and kicked Bug to the curb. It was heartbreaking watching his amazing spirit and knowing how hard it would be to find an adopter despite how ultra worthy of love he was. He couldn't just go to anyone - his medications were expensive and easily overwhelming, he didn't like men, he was in the winter of his life, and I needed to know he would go to someone who wouldn't let him linger if he began to suffer. Everyone loved him, but finding someone truly up for the challenge was another task entirely. Enter Judy.
A friend of mine (Sandy) convinced another friend of mine (Victoria) to Bug-sit while we went out of town to visit family for a week. Victoria fell in love with Bug and knew he would make the perfect match for a friend of hers (Judy). Judy used to live here and was deeply involved in rescue. She knows the folks at the Henry County shelter where Bug came from. She has a soft-spot for seniors. She doesn't have a husband or an adult son or any guy friends who visit! The connection was made and after an hours long phone call, we knew it was kismet. There was only one glitch: Judy lives in Maryland, which is not where Bug's rescue transport was heading.
There was clearly only one solution to this Maryland conundrum: ROAD TRIP! I hung up the phone with Judy and walked downstairs to tell Drew, "She's the one - she's perfect - but she's in Maryland". His response? "Ask her which weekend works best for her and we will bring him to her". And just like that, it was a done deal. Not to mention he got to skip the stress of transport and we got to hand off his medications directly.
So, we threw a big "Bon Voyage, Bug" party at work (complete with bug themed everything and a Polaroid photo string), packed some snacks, and hit the road to Maryland. We covered 1,400 miles (28 hours of driving, there and back), in a 36 hour window to deliver Bug to his forever. I felt nothing but joy as we handed Bug over to Judy. We found his perfect match. There is no one in this world who could have possibly been more right for Bug, and he for her. Chelsea and Henry, Judy's two dogs, and even her kitty welcomed Bug into the Simon Asylum as she lovingly refers to her abode. We spent an hour or so at Judy's
house helping Bug get settled in, going over all of his care points together, slowly introducing Bug to the rest of the crew, and honestly just chatting like the old friends we'd already become. Yet another friendship forged over this crazy little dog.
It was amazing to see him explore his new environment, run through the giant beautiful yard full of birds to watch and squirrels to chase, and immediately fall right into place as though he'd lived there forever. The warm sunlight shone through Judy's kitchen window onto the plants she kept by the sink; she sent me home with a cutting to propagate to remind me of Bug and his new beginning. There were more dog beds and ruggables scattered about than visible floor - a senior dog's dream. It was the coziest place I could've possibly imagined for him. I just felt this tremendous sense of peace as we pulled out of the driveway and hit the road back to Atlanta. Everyone kept checking in on me, asking how I was holding up - I didn't shed a single tear! I couldn't have possibly felt better about the way things turned out for Bug. Of course I'd miss him and all his glorious bugness, but this is why we do it. This was his journey, not mine. I was just his guide, his chaperone, his advocate, his friend. I was there for the adventure alongside him as it played out, but it was never my story. Always his.
I knew one of these days, that story would come to a close. I
got a message from Judy on April 15 that said, "I let Bug fly today". We had kept in touch regularly and I knew that it had been a difficult couple of weeks for Bug. He had broken with pneumonia and spent a couple days hospitalized earlier in the month, then improved for a little bit before taking a sharp decline. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't sleep comfortably, and didn't want to eat. His medications weren't doing enough for him anymore. His doctor felt it was similar to people with end-stage COPD. Judy bravely kept her word to me: she didn't let him linger. Bug can finally breathe easily now.
Bug enjoyed 1 year and 11 days of extra life outside of the shelter and man, it was the GOOD life. He didn't waste a single moment of that second chance. It was almost like he knew he was on borrowed time and chose to pack whatever time he had left full with as much life and joy as he could muster. He was a force, an absolute firecracker of spirit and energy. Bug partied it up until the bitter end. The world is definitely less bright without him and while I feel it poignantly, all I can do is smile. The part that makes me tear up is the beauty of his story, not the sadness. I will forever be more glad for his life than I am sad over his passing. I imagine if he had a funeral, he would've wanted a New Orleans style jazz parade with parasols pumping in the air. A celebration of life, a tremendous send-off.
To everyone who helped Bug along his journey, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Betsy, Bert, Diana, Drew, Sandy, Victoria, Judy, my Remedy Vet family, the team at Dogwood Vet Specialty, PPR, Patty, Conyers Animal Hospital, Kingsbrook Animal Hospital in Maryland, and all of our Atlanta bourbon friends (who did a fundraiser for him and featured his portrait on a bottle - pictured to the left), thank you. You all played a part in giving this little guy the life he deserved. I am so grateful and I know he was, too.
Most of all, I want to thank Bug. He helped my heart begin to heal after Flea. He helped me move forward so we can keep helping others in need. He made my life richer and brought so much joy to everyone he met. He was an incredible inspiration, a wonderful lesson in making the most of what you've got, and a reminder to value quality over quantity. We love you, Bugworth. I will always think of you with a smile.
Rewind to February 2019. It'd been almost a year and a half since Phinneas died and we had about zero interest in fostering since then. I'd fully immersed myself in my new job as a veterinary assistant and had nothing in the way of extra energy outside of work. Drew's travel took a serious uptick and fostering honestly didn't even register as a blip on our radar. Then came Rory.
Rory's story began as a puppy named Ross, when Ruff Dog Rescue found him and his sister abandoned in a metro Atlanta park. Rory got adopted from Ruff Dog at about six months old. His mom loved him dearly and Rory never left her side. Rory received his regular veterinary care from the hospital I worked at, so all my co-workers knew him well. I met Rory in November 2018 under very sad circumstances: his mom had a brain aneurysm and Rory came in to our hospital for emergency boarding while she had surgery. Rory's weekend stay quickly turned into a long-term, indefinite situation; his mom's recovery was not going as planned. After living in our hospital kennel for two weeks, we were able to contact Ruff Dog Rescue and secure a temporary foster home for Rory. He deserved a comfortable home environment for the holidays while waiting for his mom to recover. Not all rescues would have come to Rory's aid like this just because he'd fallen on hard times; there isn't always a space in foster care available or enough resources at hand. Ruff Dog pulled together and made it happen for him - thank you, RDR.
Rory sporting a blue mohawk at an event
Those butt pads though...
Unfortunately, Rory's mom's health took a turn for the worse. Three months after surgery, she still required a ventilator and had only just begun to sit up in her bed. She transferred to an acute care facility and Rory was not allowed to visit. His first foster mom needed a reprieve, so Drew and I tagged in to take Rory for a while. As Rory stayed with us in a state of limbo, we all dedicated ourselves to working on his weight problem. At his heaviest, Rory tipped the scales at a morbidly obese 102 pounds. Proper nutrition and adequate exercise made all the difference. While in boarding, Rory lost the first significant chunk of weight just from having structure: this is what you get to eat, when you get to eat it, and how much of it you get to eat, the end. No more people food, no free grazing, and no Big Gulp sized food cup. His first foster mom, Kristen, brought his weight down from the upper eighties to 76 pounds in the three months she had him. Three more months with us brought him all the way down to a svelte 54 pounds, his goal weight. You read that right: 102 to 54 in six months' time. That's 50% of his body weight - HALF OF RORY - chiseled away. Weight loss like this has to be done carefully, slowly, and in a calculated manner in order to be achieved safely. It's a lot of shock on the body to lose that much, and losing too much too quickly can be dangerous for the heart.
Rory's extreme makeover!
Keeping Rory on a low calorie food and constantly adjusting his food calculations as he continued to lose proved key. It's not like we ran marathons or anything - this is simply the difference appropriate feeding makes. I say all of this without judgment; we live in the South where food equals love in many people's minds. We call them "love feeders". All the veterinary consultation in the world sometimes isn't enough to make folks understand that dogs will almost always try to convince us they're starving - they're not. We had clients come in concerned that their obese family lab wasn't finishing his meals. My boss would tell them that he's "pushing away from the table" (i.e., he's full!) and that's him telling you he's had enough. No, you don't need to add gravy to entice him to finish his kibble. Really, he's good. There truly are only two ways an animal gets fat, excepting medical conditions: too much food and too little exercise. It's a straightforward concept, yet companion animal obesity is a pervasive problem we continue to see. Rory wrote the book and earned lovingly rude nicknames from us such as "house hippo" or "the great white whale" or "roropotamus". We actually had to pen him out of the dining room while we ate dinner to keep him from begging at the table!
I remember the first time Rory solicited a game of fetch. He'd never done this before; I threw the rope and he brought it back, giddy to repeat the process. I realized this meant he finally felt physically GOOD. That was a really rewarding moment as a foster mom. From this point on, there was no stopping him. Rory had arrived - and what he'd lost in body weight, BOY, did he make up for in personality! This boy trucked over everything in his path like the proverbial bull in the china shop. He found his voice, too. I'm still not sure what his breed mix is, but I have to think there may be some husky in there with the way he talks! [For the record, I think he is a pit / wheaten mix]. Rory has something to say about everything that goes on during the day. He is a talker, a lover, a people person, a real mush. During the time he spent with us, Rory became my shadow; he followed me around like a fluffy white cloud. Every time I'd have friends over - particularly girls - Rory plopped himself down right in front of them and shamelessly begged for love. He knows no such thing as personal space or too much affection, but now he knows structure and a healthy lifestyle!
After it became clear that Rory's mom was not going to recover to the extent that she'd be able to take him back, we began to look for a new forever home for our scruffy white ward. Rory came to us with zero leash manners, zero dog social skills, and zero understanding of how to act in group settings. Despite our hard work, he just did not show well at adoption events. People's fascination with his unique looks and the emotional pull of his sad story quickly evaporated into horror if another dog approached. Rory became possessive of his admirers, felt socially pressured, and exploded into high-pitched shrieks and off-putting snarls. Instantly, the endearingly quirky Heinz 57 who looked a mutant Jack Russell terrier morphed into a pit-mix scruff dragon who could convince anyone that he'd in fact eaten a whole family of Jackies. Sigh. All the creative marketing in the world, all the volunteer hours spent at events, and all the meet and greets I could muster would not matter an ounce if it wasn't the right fit for Rory...and then my sister spoke up.
Ashley and Shawn met Rory a handful of times over the spring and summer, both with and without their three dogs: Bubba, Bellatrix LeStrange, and Sirius Black. They both were clearly taken with Rory's goofiness and affectionate nature, but I had no idea how serious they were about him until I'd just about given up hope. They'd fallen hard - and did I mention Rory didn't mind their dogs? Quite the opposite: he actually PLAYED with their dogs and for some reason blended right in like the fourth member of a zany jazz quartet. It hit me: my sister and her pack are exactly Rory's brand of crazy. After a whole lot of real talk and some logistical planning, Drew and I jumped into the car and hand delivered Rory to his new home in Florida. It was a seamless transition and it was right under our noses the whole time. Sometimes when it works, it just works. And that's the conclusion of this former white whale's tale. Happy forever, Rory! You deserve this so much!
Epilogue: We'd never done a foster case quite like this before with regard to the surrounding human element. Rory's former mom transferred to an assisted living facility up north near her family. I don't want anything I've written here to come across as insensitive toward her circumstances or her love for Rory. Rory's - and his mom's - situation absolutely broke my heart. I can't imagine her sadness, her worry, her fears for him. I grappled with the implications of all of this for some time, hating that life dealt her such a terrible hand. All I can hope is that she knows Rory is happy, healthy, and loved forever.
Double Update: Rory's mom passed away in May; we didn't know until September, after he'd been adopted. I didn't know what to make of this at first, but I quickly chalked it up to Rory's serendipitous fate. Heartbreakingly sad as it may be, Rory's story worked out in the end. I'm so glad we worked proactively to give this guy a chance at a new future. Dogspeed to his former mama, and dogspeed to Rory and his future!
We cannot save them all. I know - it's a harsh and depressing first sentence, but it's true. Phinneas's story is different from all my others: it doesn't have a happy ending. Friends keep telling me that it isn't fair [when we lose them] and it never is, but this one really isn't fair. Phinneas got caught in death's boomerang; he stared down ill fate with his tiny determination and then rallied against it only for it to swoop back and claim him in the end anyway. Death's boomerang.
Leonard's fleas
So yeah, it's sad and not the typical feel-good plot, but I'm going to tell his story anyway because otherwise he only exists in my memory and I can't allow that. I promise there are glimmers of happiness that shine through the tragedy; I'll do my best to illuminate them. The beginning of Phin's story as we know it is bleak, naturally, as rescues usually are. Perfect Pets Rescue received a phone call saying five chihuahuas had been found abandoned in the closet of a vacant apartment unit without food or water. Huddled together in a flea infested pile, the "five foundlings" survived their nightmarish neglect for who knows how long. PPR took them in and renamed them Mortimer, Rose, Leonard, Blanche, and Phinneas because they all looked like they should have the most classically geriatric names possible. I saw Phin's photo and offered to foster him, as I'm a sucker for projects and his skin clearly needed the most work.
Top: first photo of Phinneas Bottom: rockin' the PJs
Phinneas came to us completely hairless with lava red skin that was hot and greasy to the touch. I had folks ask if we shaved him this way or if he had mange. The fleas did this to him. It's called flea allergy dermatitis - basically a hyper histamine reaction to flea saliva (read: bites) which in this case irritated Phin's system so much that he "dropped" his coat (severe alopecia). Constant scratching allowed bacteria to penetrate the skin's barrier and cause infection to set in, giving him a nasty odor and open sores. His initial bloodwork looked shockingly clean - I expected much worse given his condition and the stress his tiny little body had endured. He had four teeth, two good looking canines and two horrendous molars in need of extraction. The dental, neuter, and vaccines would have to wait until we got his skin infection and overall inflammation under control. We undertook a heavy duty course of antibiotics for the skin infection and twice weekly medicated baths to knock down the bacteria. I applied some extremely diluted essential oils to topically soothe his inflamed skin and made him wear long-sleeved pajamas to keep from relentlessly scratching. Despite his misery, he craved human affection. He never seemed afraid in our house even with all the other dogs and the foreign surroundings; he just calmly observed everything going on around him and begged for snuggles. I'm mildly ashamed to admit that I donned gloves to touch him and wrapped him in towels as a prerequisite for cuddling for the first week we had him. He was Grade A "yick", but oh so sweet. I lovingly nicknamed him "naked mole rat" and began to get to know the little doggy soul behind the ruined exterior. As time promoted healing, Phin's personality emerged more each day. He quickly appreciated the space to roam and explored each room of the house with great curiosity. We had a lot of fun watching him observe, learn, and mimic our dogs' daily routine. Before long, he blended right in and moved as one of the pack. All of our fosters go through this period of melding, but to watch Phin acclimate gave me a special joy knowing he came from being stuck in the damp darkness of a waste-ridden closet. This little guy had the spirit of a survivor, a certain quiet bravery about him. I called it #tinydetermination.
A couple weeks passed and his skin began to show signs of healing: scabs. Bruises and scabby patches where he'd scratched himself the worst indicated that his body felt it had sufficient resources to designate toward rejuvenation as opposed to inflammation. A white flag from the immune system; a sign of peace instead of war; light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. They say certain things often get worse before they get better. I'd say Phin's skin was a visual example of this sentiment. He looked like he'd been dragged through gravel and kicked around the ribs, but I found myself smiling at his scabs and bruises because I knew their significance. We cut our medicated baths down to once per week as not to overly dry his healing skin.
Scabby and bruised but on the mend!
Sure enough, little patches of white fuzz began to sprout around his ears and along his back. I couldn't have been more thrilled! We'd added Zyrtec and fish oil to our healing regimen and the benefits showed mightily. This little guy regrew his fur like wildfire. Tufts turned into running strips of down which morphed into full blown patches of FUR. My little naked mole rat was no longer naked! He'd become a handsome little white fuzzball and I couldn't possibly be prouder of his transformation.
Things were really looking up. Phin spent his days prancing around the house following the sunshine from one warm spot to another. He had his choice of dog beds scattered throughout the house, which he enjoyed thoroughly on days when the sun wasn't shining brightly enough through the windows for him. He danced on his hind legs for treats and dinner along with the others and snuggled on the couch with us in the evenings for TV time. The good life - finally! He was able to get his vaccines in September, gain a whole pound in October, and have his neuter and dental scheduled for mid-November. Adoption would be right around the corner. Phin was doing GREAT. So great! And then he just wasn't.
My little naked mole rat suddenly had terrible back pain, complete loss of appetite, and total lethargy. He hid in his crate around the clock and wanted absolutely nothing to do with human interaction. His entire demeanor shifted. We took him to the emergency vet Sunday night and confirmed the worst: he was in full-blown kidney failure. Kidneys, I've learned, are funny on paper. They show up fine until they're really really not fine. I'll never have all the answers I want: how "not fine" his kidneys were by the time he was rescued from that closet, how "fine" they were before his abandonment, how much his dental disease may have contributed to the problem, whether the happiness and improvement we saw was simply a "rally" or a "surge" like the trajectory of that Newtonian apple destined to plummet. In any case, Phin's kidneys were utterly shot. His temp was 98.6 and the vet said he maybe had one more day in him without hospitalization. Dogs have a very poor chance of bouncing back from kidney failure. Even had we hospitalized Phin for dialysis, his chances of meaningful recovery were decidedly poor at best. I knew looking at the little survivor in my arms that he had zero fight left in him. He was just done. I got mad at myself for thinking the phrase, "he's given up", because that little dog did everything except give up. He survived some sort of terrible neglect, socked death in the jaw, and ultimately looked darn good doing it. But the boomerang - it came back for him. We can't save them all. Even if rescue finances weren't a consideration (they always must be - that's just the reality), it wouldn't have been fair to subject Phinny to what likely still would have been his last couple days hooked up to lines and scared in a hospital. And for what? Only to have to make the call at some point down the road anyway, whether that be two days or two months ahead. No. This is part of the gig: making the painful decisions to avoid suffering. I held Phin in my arms and sang the simplest song I've ever sung as he drifted off, "Night night, Phinny. Night night, Phinny. We love you, Phinny. Night night, Phinny." He went peacefully and quickly, as they usually do when they're already that close to death. Not even a ragged breath. But it wasn't fair. It's just not. And it never is. But we can't save them all.
The happiest photos
My last photo with Phin
I wanted so much more for Phin. He deserved the world's kindest little old lady who would've
loved nothing more than to snuggle him in her rocking chair until the end of their days together. He had so many snuggles in his imaginary future in my mind. I would've snuggled him more if I'd known I was all he'd ever get. I know how this goes; I know he had three months of "good life" here with us and that I must focus on remembering that. But instead, what kills me is that he only had maybe two weeks of true "feel good" during those three months. Just as everything was looking up, it all came crashing down around us. That's just like life, isn't it? That's 100% why we must find and cherish the happiness in the now. Savor life moment by moment. Remember the details. The "now" is fleeting and is never to be repeated. I've never had a foster dog die on me before, not one that was mine from start to finish. Peppercorn, Brooks, Niko, and Meiko are not forgotten but they weren't mine. I'm always the person holding the hand of the grieving foster parents. I guess it's my turn. I sat at the vet's office with Phin in my arms and tears streaming down my face while thinking, "it's not that it's really any different, it's just that I have to hold my own hand this time". So I held Phin's little hand and I let him go. "Night night, Phinny. We love you, Phinny."
Bug burst onto the scene on April 4, 2023, less than two months after we said goodbye to Flea. I needed convincing - I wasn't ready, certainly not for another Chihuahua so soon. They sent me his picture and said, "...he's fluffier...?". In other words, he at least didn't look like Flea at all. And he was a senior. And he was high on the euthanasia list due to no interest. And he was blind in one eye. And his tongue stuck out the side of his face. I caved. I figured the reality of letting Bug die in the shelter because I was afraid he'd make me miss Flea was MUCH sadder than risking him reminding me of Flea.
