Juno: Remembering a Good Dog, and Reflecting on Pet Death and Grief

I made a video a while back where I discussed normalizing grief over the death of pets. At this point, I would like to believe that everyone can look at pets and see them as part of the family, but we have people in positions of power who either do not have pets or who just kill their pets. I know there are people who would love to have a pet, who simply cannot have one, whether it is because of allergies, finances, or abilities. Yet, our society has people who not only neglect their furry family members but also go out of their way to harm them. I have had a variety of pets in my life, but primarily I have been a dog person. Before Big Kitty comes after me, I love cats, but I have just had more dogs than cats. I have an affinity for black cats, especially, and I guess if my recent dog companions are any indication, dogs who are primarily black in fur color as well. For the sake of brevity (I can already run pretty long when I talk about pets, or really anything I love), I will keep my focus on just one pet, my dog Juno. I have thousands of stories and memories I could share, and even then, I don’t think I could quite capture her spirit.  Before we go any further, if it was not apparent by the title, we are going to discuss pet death here, and that is sad in the best of circumstances. Proceed with care and caution if this weighs on you or you are struggling, especially with your own grief.

I got Juno when she was still a tiny puppy. As a Boston Terrier, that means she was not that big when she came home with us in August of 2008. I will be honest, at first I was concerned, because her ears were not standing up, and I worried I had picked a floppy-eared Boston (if such a thing actually exists). To my relief, her ears perked up, it was just part of the development of Bostons. Juno was picked to be MY dog. See, I had been gifted a dog by my girlfriend at the time that wound up super attached to her after I got out of college. In fairness, I think if someone rescued me from the pound, I would probably be joined to them on a deeper level than some guy she presented me to with a bow on my collar. So, to balance the scales, so to speak, Juno was my pick, and we bonded pretty quickly. She traveled with me in grad school as a puppy and seemed to carry herself with an attitude far exceeding her size, but never showed that attitude to me. As she grew up, she was a blur. Running around and always on the go, and looking adorable (if you like smushy-faced dogs).

Unlike dogs I had known and had before her, Juno did not seem at all interested in toys. The only “toy” she ever got herself truly attached to was an old hockey sock of mine from when I had played hockey, more than a decade before she was born. One day, she found the pair of socks in the guest bedroom, and selected just one single sock of the pair, which became hers. She loved to play tug-of-war with it, and would proudly bring it to you before grabbing it, whipping her head back and forth while snarling, and “killing” that sock. Over the years, she would wear that sock out, and when it all but disintegrated, I pulled out the other one and presented it to her. I felt like I would be doing her a kindness, and she would be excited to have another one. But she looked at that sock and walked away. She was never interested in it the way she had been with the other half of the pair. She was always particular about things in her own way, which, looking back, makes sense, but at the time, I don’t think I understood fully. Her relationship to people and even other dogs was rooted firmly in whether they were family. She was territorial and had no fear; no matter how big whatever else was in her realm, she was going to be the boss. Except with me. She always seemed to defer, and sometimes when she was barking aggressively at someone she could see outside, I would just yell her name across the room. She would turn and see me, and her ears would lay down the way they would when she came for pets sometimes, and she would approach me almost sheepishly like she was sorry for having caused a ruckus.

When my kids were born, I was worried about how Juno would respond to them. Bringing my daughter (my firstborn) home, I got down on the floor with her in her car seat, and let Juno come over and sniff her, while I monitored how she would respond. She had already had a couple of days to become accustomed to the smell as I brought a blanket home from the hospital on the day she was born, which she had been in for most of the day. Juno got really close, sniffing, and then seemed a little nervous, but did not do anything else. As it turns out, Juno showed me I didn’t need to worry because as my daughter and subsequently my son grew up, Juno showed incredible patience with them both. By which I mean even when they were unholy terrors near her, or maybe pet her a little harder than she liked (all while being watched closely), she never bit them or did anything more than snarl and move away. I always took that as her way of saying, “I know these are yours and they are important to you, so I won’t treat them the way I treat literally any other creature that catches my ire”. Sadly, it was my daughter who would also notice Juno’s first signs of decline.

Shortly before she would turn twelve, I came out of the shower, and my daughter told me, “Juno peed”. She was not a dog who had accidents in the house, so I was astonished to hear that. I cleaned it up, took her outside, and carried on with my day. My daughter mentioned later that she saw Juno shaking before she peed, so I wondered what had scared her so badly. Later that day, when I got home, Juno came from her crate, that she liked to sleep in, to greet me as I came upstairs. As I got near the top of the steps, she fell down and had a seizure in front of me. That was when everything my daughter said at the time clicked. I took her to the vet, and they ran a ton of tests and ultimately suggested an antiseizure med for her. I started her on that and, other than a little bit of a lessened appetite, she seemed to be doing well. About ten days after the day she had her seizures, a new puppy was coming home to be with us. Baloo (briefly Barley), an eight-week old Australian Shepherd, joined us, and even at that young age was almost the same size as Juno. She tolerated him, but also had no problem telling him to get away from her. I was hopeful that having another dog would help her recapture some of the spring in her step, although this puppy was in the works before she had seizures.

Over the next two months, I was navigating, taking two dogs out at all times of the day and night, because I figured the old girl would probably like some extra trips while I worked to help Baloo learn to use the outside rather than the inside. He caught on pretty quickly, but sadly, Juno started to decline even more. She went from being on no medications to being on four, as she had some thyroid issues as well. Suddenly, one more about two and a half months after she had the seizures, she seemed disoriented. While she was outside, she walked into a closed garage door and seemed oblivious. It was heartwrenching to watch, and I was so scared for her and also selfishly for myself. I rushed her to the vet, and as this was peak COVID, I had to wait in my car, which added to the helpless feeling. Fortunately, she had been going to this vet for twelve years, and my family had been going there for around 25. After running extensive tests, the vet came outside to speak to me. I can picture it like yesterday, as he crouched down outside the passenger side window of my car. He told me her liver was in really bad shape, and that while there was an intervention that might help with that, there were no guarantees, and that her quality of life was not going to be what it was even a week earlier. I sat there feeling utterly alone and lost for words, not knowing what to do, so I asked him what he would do in my shoes. He took a deep breath and very solemnly said that if he were in my shoes, he would let her go. I agreed with that, and they made an exception to their COVID policy, allowing me to come inside to be with her in her final moments. I held her and talked to her until they came in, and as I sobbed, she died. Walking out of there, the world had changed, and I felt hollow and numb. Even today, as I type this, I find the tears rise quickly to my eyes, and it has been almost five years now.

Juno was with me from being recently married, to finishing grad school and starting my new career, through having kids, and getting a divorce. When I felt most alone in the world, she was right there with me. I remember her lying on my chest as I cried on one of my first days in my new house, when my kids were with their mom and I felt isolated. She was with me that first Christmas morning when it was painfully still, but also with me that afternoon when the kids tore into their gifts. She was with me through my abusive relationship that followed my divorce, and was a constant source of comfort and peace, just by being present. I can still hear her snores and snorts, and for the longest time, my house felt wrong without them in it. I still live for those sounds, but now that enough time has passed, I don’t come home expecting them anymore. Part of me feels guilty about that as I write it, but that seems to be how grief goes. But, not a single day goes by without me thinking about her and missing her. The grief I have and continue to feel over her loss is more than that of anyone or anything else to this point in my life. I firmly believe that pets can be the heaviest grief for some because they are our constant companions who we are with for their lifespan, brief as it may be. There are certainly other relationships I fear may be heavier in time, but I don’t want grief to become a competition. Just know that a pet dying can hurt a lot, and they are just as much a family member as anyone else. They deserve to be remembered and talked about the same way any other family member does.

Lastly, Juno is forever with me. Not just in spirit, and not just her ashes or her picture. But on me. Earlier this week, I had a picture of her tattooed on my leg (adjoining my two biggest tattoos, one for my daughter after she was born and one for my son after he was born). I will never forget her, and I hope that if you read this, you won’t either.