I don’t often share personal stories on this blog. Since I started my website, I’ve generally kept the content focused on food and history. Many writers treat their blogs as online journals where they pour out their thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I never really needed that before now. I preferred to keep my personal life and my website somewhat compartmentalized, at times sharing anecdotes and food-related stories from my home life, but nothing too deep. That changed recently after experiencing the loss of our 9 year-old maltese, Momo. In the midst of my grief, I posted his picture on Facebook and was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support– hundreds of comments from people who understood this pain I was going through. Through this experience, I’ve learned there is comfort in sharing these moments… there is solace in hearing from others who have gone through this difficult transition. The Facebook community really lifted me up during a dark time. I wanted to take a moment here on the blog to express gratitude and pay homage to Momo, this little creature who made such a big impression on our lives.
BTW, if you only come here for food, and you’re not interested in hearing about my personal life, I totally understand. This post starts with a bummer and ends with a smile, so feel free to skip ahead to the happy ending, or just ignore it entirely. I won’t be offended, promise.
The picture above is Momo on Thanksgiving, a few hours before we ate dinner. It was a great day for our little guy. He got to see all of his family celebrating together. He spent lots of quality time playing and snuggling with the people he loved most. He also got to eat lots of his favorite food, unsalted turkey breast. It was a good day.
Things went downhill after that. He’d been battling congestive heart failure for several months, and we knew he was in the end stages– it’s a progressive disease, most dogs only live a year or so after their diagnosis. We knew the end was coming, but you’re never totally prepared for it. The day after Thanksgiving, he couldn’t breathe. I took him straight to the emergency vet, just as I’ve done so many times before as he battled this illness. This episode seemed different than the others– his breathing was very labored, he was obviously in more distress. They tried giving him oxygen and strong diuretics overnight to clear his lungs, which has always worked in the past. This time he wasn’t responding, instead he was getting worse. In the end there was nothing more they could do for him. I held him close, cuddled him and stroked his back, as they put him to sleep. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I was shaking from emotion, trying hard to stay strong and fighting my own urge to sob in his final moments. I know it was the right thing to ease his suffering, but the sorrow I felt was incredibly, surprisingly deep.
I think there is an element of guilt that most people feel when they go through this. Even though it’s the kind and merciful choice, you are making the decision to end a life… your friend’s life, your companion who has stuck by you for so long. The whole experience left a hole in my heart– an emotional hole, but it also strangely felt like something was physically missing from inside my chest. I felt hollow and aching and terribly sad. So did my husband. I think we were both surprised at the strength of sadness we felt.
Momo was such a sweet soul. He loved snacking on turkey and sitting in your lap. Whenever somebody was at the door, he’d bark like an attack dog. I think he believed he was 10 times his size. And yet, whenever he met new people he was as friendly and sweet as could be. He wanted nothing more than to please us. There is something strangely fitting about the fact that he had an enlarged heart… he was the kindest, most gentle little pup I’ve ever known. He followed me around everywhere like my little shadow, looking at me with those big brown eyes. He loved it when I’d make matzo ball soup; I’d tear the chicken from the bones in pieces, always saving the best scraps for him. When I was sick, he stuck to me like glue. When I was sad, he would sense it and snuggle closer. Dogs love unconditionally; they never judge you. They only ask for food, attention and kindness. Perhaps that is why losing them is so incredibly difficult. It’s not a complex relationship, it’s as simple as loving and wanting to be loved. If only human relationships were so pure.
After losing Momo, there was a part of me that thought I’d never get another dog. To go through that pain again, to enter another relationship with a dog knowing that the inevitable end comes far too soon, seemed too great a risk emotionally. We have a Labrador retriever, Marley and a cat, Muffin. I held them closer and let the tears flow. It would hit me in unexpected waves– seeing Momo’s old food dish or his bed would send me into a tailspin again. I didn’t blog much. You probably noticed fewer recipes here. I had to hit pause and be easy on myself. I’m sure you understand.
And then, a funny thing happened. My husband and I noticed our Labrador Marley was depressed. He missed Momo, and we missed having the energy of a little pup– a sidekick for our lab. While at first I felt heartbroken and unable to fathom getting another pet, our hearts slowly opened to the idea of adding another companion to our “mishpucha” (that’s Yiddish for family). A feeling of guilt nagged at me– “maybe it’s too soon,” I thought. I couldn’t replace Momo, he was irreplaceable. Then I remembered how depressed Momo used to get when I was sick or sad. He would lay his head next to mine and look into my eyes, just wanting me to feel better. He never wanted me to be in pain, just as I couldn’t stand to see him hurting. He wouldn’t want there to be an empty place in our home, a hole in our hearts. He would have wanted us to be happy.
And so, a few weeks later, my husband gave me a Hanukkah gift… this little guy, Milo.
Milo is a mixed breed, small like Momo. We’re told that because of his mixed parentage, he may be less prone to the genetic problems that led to our sweet dog’s untimely end (of course, there are never any guarantees in life). He’s 8 1/2 weeks old as of yesterday, a tiny ball of fluff and sweetness and spunk. He’s got a different personality than Momo, who was more shy and retiring. Milo is outgoing and ready to play at a moment’s notice. He also loves to snuggle, when he’s tired he’ll relax in our arms like a little rag doll. Our Labrador has been amazing with him so far; I think he recognizes how young he is. Marley has been remarkably gentle with Milo, even when he’s being an obnoxious little brother. Muffin, our cat, is not too happy at the moment, but she’ll adjust. We’ve been giving her lots of extra snuggles to keep her from getting too jealous.
We are in the midst of potty training, multiple daily feedings, and teaching this little guy the ropes. Every day is a new first for him. Yesterday he barked for the first time. Today he climbed down a couple of stairs, which seemed an enormous challenge for his tiny legs. Where sadness hung heavy like a cloud after Momo passed, Milo has brought new light and energy to our home.
The sadness still hits me in waves from time to time. As we lit the candles for Hanukkah, celebrating the third night of the holiday and Milo’s first night with us, we placed Momo’s pawprint next to our menorah. His memory lives on in all of us. I am so grateful for the years we had with him.
Tori, I know how hard this is.; I’ve loved and lost dogs and cats throughout my adult life and know well the joy they bring to us and how much it hurts when they go. I am now 75 and my dogs (no cats currently, which is a first for many decades, due to a particularly serious and painful case of cat scratch disease [my first — 8 days hospitalization, and a lengthy recovery that’s still only partial and may remain so] are 16 and 10 1/2. Both have been with me since they were babies.
I know that little poodles can live “forever”, but Gracie is indeed pushing the upper limits. She is healthy — always has been — except for the same kinds of old-age issues that affect me as well: hearing loss, incontinence, poor eyesight, arthritis. Even so, I know she’s on borrowed time, and have given a lot of thought to how I might handle her death. I know from past experience that the best recovery for me happens when I can get involved with a new fur child. But now that I’m at an advanced age myself, I’m reluctant to bring a new pup — who could well outlive me — into my little family. Ultimately I think that decision will be up to Annie, my 10+ year old. She adores her big “sister”, and if she is depressed without Gracie, I will probably decide to bring a new sibling home — possibly an older “rescue”. I’ll only know when I get there, which of course I dread. Yet I wouldn’t trade all the unconditional love I’ve received for anything.
Thank you for sharing your story with Momo, zichrono livracha, and your grief. I really DO feel your pain.
Meanwhile, you have Milo to love — and that looks like an easy job!
–Norma
Sweet Norma, do please consider adopting an older animal. They need loving homes the most, and there are so many wonderful small breeds out there. Sending hugs!
So sorry for your loss. I have lost beloved cats through the years, and know the feeling. You have my deepest condolences.
Very sorry, Tori. Been there several times. It’s very difficult to deal with. The animals me & my wife have had over the years are family. It’s never easy. FB Family is truly a wonderful thing!
a wonderfully bittersweet story……thank you
The lost of a beloved pet can hurt the same as the lost of a beloved family member or friend. I am sure there are many of us reading this that say been there did that and it was hard. The good memories will always be with us.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. I lost my cat Midnight this past year. I understand.
Exactly my life after losing my Shi-Tzu Oliver except still not able to get another
My heart aches for you.I have a little doggie that I would be sick to lose.
I am so sorry for your loss.
Tear, hugs, and congratulations on the little cutie. I know just how you feel.
I have said my comments earlier, and have a wonderful new year with your pup!
Tori Avey Fritz lost his battle yesterday and today my world is empty.
Deborah I’ve been there. Sending you a big hug. I know it’s hard to believe it now, but it will get easier with time. My thoughts are with you!
So sorry for your loss. We lost 3 of our four legged babies within 18 months; it was he’ll on earth. Be assured that you gave your baby a marvelous, love-filled life. Your new baby is going to have a charmed life, and you are going to be the prime recipient of his puppy kisses. Get ready!
I’ve scanned all the notes up to now so first let me say ditto, ditto, ditto, etc. I’ve lived through losses of pets and people; oddly the intensity and duration of sadness and longing seem comparable.
A near-miss 2 years ago bred a different aftermath. Max, my boy cat, loves to go out for hours and hours. He has taken “shpatzir” (Yiddish for a stroll around town) since his earliest weeks, always coming home safely. Molly, his brood-mate, is a homebody. She’ll tag after Max for a few minutes but stays within the boundary of our property, and come inside within a half hour. Once inside, Molly either goes to one of her hiding places or finds my lap and snuggles into a deep sleep there.
One night last year both cats went out for what I assumed would be their different routines. Molly did not come to me as quickly as usual; I did not register alarm until Max returned some hours later and I realized I had not seen Molly yet. I waited up all night, using all my familiar methods of luring her out to no avail.
Molly was gone for five weeks. Not a lot of sleep for me throughout those weeks; when I did sleep I left the back door slightly ajar in case she came back then. I posted signs all over my neighborhood and surrounding ones, made daily treks through likely areas, went to see every cat I received calls about.
In the 4th week I found a cat that was emaciated and sick-looking– only faintly resembling Molly. Our vet ascertained that this cat was not Molly but by then my aching heart already felt tugs of pre-love and I decided to keep her, naming her Lizzy. The vet took her back for a checkup and shots. He returned wearing a look I’d seen before–Lizzy was in end-stage cancer, suffering severe pain and beyond help. I’d held Lizzy for the last four hours of her life and through her final moments while meeting death. Short time, big pain.
So a week later at 5 AM when Molly (yes! unmistakably Molly–how could I have thought we might not recognize one another) walked in the open back door finding her way to the room where I sat playing Freecell as I did most nights to anesthetize my instinct for hope, I froze at the sound of Molly’s familiar mewl. So used to disappointment for 5 weeks, more recently working on considering tolerating the nauseating acceptance of the possibility I might never see Molly again–I didn’t know how to be joyous right away. I knew this girl was my own baby but I’d also come to believe i was not worthy to have the pleasure of her return.
It took some time until all felt a new version of normal. Molly had changed since her experiences out there, Max’s relationship with Molly changed both from her absence and some new behaviors Molly showed. She was more assertive about eating first; Max stood back and let her. When they cuddled together to sleep they formed a tighter braid of gold and black.
And I…a year and a half later I still cherish Molly differently and am easily frightened when I don’t see her at times. I know one day Molly and Max will join my past cat-kids, Milo and all of our beloved animals in a soul-place. For now I appreciate that Life has loaned these beings to me to give and get love. I hope I always have the strength to withstand loss and the courage to invite new cats into my home. And my heart.
Wow, fantastic story Sherry! So happy you and Molly found each other again.
Tears are flowing for your loss…..it is so hard to make that decision. Enjoy your new family member and hope you had a happy Hanukkah.
Our pets really are our family. The unconditional love they give is so amazing. I wish you and yours many fun times with Milo and also serenity surrounding your thoughts and feelings about Momo. Momo is irreplaceable, and other pets are equally worthy of our love and time and give as much as the next one. I agree with you – Momo would want you to be happy. Bless you.
Miss Tori,
Thank you for sharing this loss of your beloved Momo with us. I understand loss from the angle of an abusive father who to this day still regards beating anything that is a child, or female, or even an animal. More than three dogs and six cats I carry in my mind and heart because of this man. Your post about Momo brought back my fondest memories of my pets and how they continue to live in my heart through our wonderful times together. Thank you for sharing your love for Momo with us, Miss Tori! Please receive our condolences for the departure of your beloved Momo.
Being one of the folks on the other side of this experience – a vet tech – I’d just like to say that it was a blessing to your baby that he didn’t have to suffer and you could let him drift away quietly and peacefully with no pain, loneliness or fear. And while everyone deals with loss in their own way, it seems to be the ones who are able to fill the huge hole in their hearts with a new loved one (of course, never to replace) seem to cope better. You have so much love to give, and I’m sure that Momo would want you to give as much of that love away as possible to a new baby who needs it. God bless and I hope your memories of Momo and the new experiences with Milo will bring you comfort. <3
So sorry for your loss; we have been there and it’s beyond difficult. Milo will bring you comfort, as will memories of Momo.
Thank you for sharing….love your new pup