My firsts were his lasts: sitting with grief.

Grits Lewis Reginald III

*“The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love as unconditionally as a dog.”*
-M.K. Clinton

Ok, here’s the big one. This was definitely the hardest piece for me to write. It actually took me almost a year to get this one down completely. Even today as I make some final edits, several tears have fallen.

Twelve days before my one-year soberversary, my dog, Grits, passed away at the age of sixteen.

Pups age, and it’s heartbreaking to watch. First, their sweet fur starts to change colors, beginning around the nose and eyes. Then you see the little hitch in their walk. Similar to me when I first get out of bed in the morning.

They slow down. They sleep more. Sometimes they start to isolate themselves. When we bring animals into our families, we know we will most likely outlive them. That’s part of the deal.

But it doesn’t make the end any easier.

My husband, Josh and I, met when I was in college. For my twentieth birthday, I finally convinced him to let us get a dog. I had been begging for months, and he was hesitant. Having a dog is a big responsibility.

I had been passively looking at adoption websites, waiting to find our pup. I knew when I saw him, I’d know. One night, I found him. He was white and brown, a Shih Tzu mix with the signature underbite. He was about eleven months old. My firstborn.

All I had to do was convince Josh.

To my surprise, he didn’t hesitate this time. I immediately submitted an application, and the next day, while Josh was playing in a charity golf tournament, I got the call. We had been selected.

The only problem: he was being fostered two hours away. I texted Josh, preparing myself for him to say we couldn’t go that far that day. Instead, he left the golf tournament early to pick me up.

When I got into his vehicle, I discovered he had already bought a leash, collar, and some other dog necessities. Josh told me later that when he told me to apply, he assumed we’d be denied because we lived in a one-bedroom apartment. But he bought everything anyway… just in case.

When we arrived at the foster home, there was a large fenced-in area full of pups roaming around and playing, but I didn’t see our little guy.

I heard commotion coming from a nearby vehicle. The foster mom explained that she had just given him a bath and put him in the car so he couldn’t get dirty before we arrived.

When she opened the door, the little ball of fluff didn’t jump out. He tumbled out.

The fur monster was like the Tasmanian devil. He was so excited he could barely contain himself. I wanted to pick him up, smell him, kiss him, and tell him he was mine, but it was like wrangling a feral racoon.

Once we finished the paperwork and put him in Josh’s SUV, he jumped from row to row, front to back, over and over again. And with all of my heart, I fell completely in love with him.

When we finally started driving home, it was like he knew. He calmed down, stretched across the center console, and fell asleep—already making sure we understood that he would be setting the rules.

We struggled to pick a name, but after meeting him, there was no question.

He became our Grits.

We learned we were his third home. His first family had a small child, and apparently Grits got mouthy when the child reached for his food. His second home was with an elderly woman who quickly realized she couldn’t handle his high-energy personality.

Personally, I also don’t like sharing food, and the second home sounded pretty boring, so I understood his choices. We were the perfect family for him. And he knew it.

Grits chewed anything he could reach, including Josh’s brand-new prescription glasses and my shoes. No baby gate could contain him. To wake us up, he walked through our vertical blinds so they would rattle. He waited for squirrels to visit our balcony and then pounced at the glass. When we cooked dinner, he found a way onto the counter. He demanded his own chair at the dinner table.

We quickly learned to keep a fresh bottle of hydrogen peroxide around in case we needed to make him vomit after ingesting something he shouldn’t have.

Our lives were never boring with Grits.

He went everywhere with us.

He stood in the Atlantic—stood, not swam; he hated water. He met a one-clawed crab named Tomas and a town-celebrity chicken named Carl in Mississippi. He experienced the views from Pike’s Peak, walked across the highest suspension bridge in the country, watched fireworks at the Lake of the Ozarks, and partied on Broadway in Nashville for Dad’s thirtieth birthday.

A couple of weeks after we adopted him, Grits was there when Josh asked me to marry him. He was with us on our wedding day.

Adopting Grits was the first big decision we made together as a couple. The three of us grew up together.

Over the years, life changed in so many ways. Josh and I grew and changed, our relationship evolved, we moved three times, and we welcomed two furry siblings into our family. No matter what changed around us, our bond and the unconditional love we shared, never wavered.

Grits saw me at my best and my worst. During periods when I couldn’t get out of bed, he was there beside me. He was extremely independent, but fiercely protective of me.

*We grew up together.*

Great Sand Dunes National Park, CO, 2017

Grits turned sixteen about eight months after I got sober.

We celebrated big. We took him for a car ride. He got ice cream and all his favorite snacks. We even sent the younger two to the groomer so he could enjoy a quiet day without being bothered by his siblings.

But we knew the end was near. For about a year, Grits had been declining.

His back legs were failing. His cognitive functions were slipping. I don’t know if he was losing control of his bowels or just being a Shih-ty, but every now and then, as he b-bopped around the house, a little turd nugget would fall out. He wouldn’t even notice. It was like a Nerf gun firing poop pellets.

B-bopped. That’s how he trotted. His back legs were weak, so his upper body looked disproportionately large, like he had just finished arm day. Our spunky little fireball was disappearing.

Eventually, Grits stopped sleeping through the night. Our vet called it sundowners, something that can happen with dementia. At first, he woke us around five in the morning and barked incessantly. Then five became four. Eventually, he started barking shortly after midnight.

Josh and I were exhausted. We were frustrated. We yelled at him. I still haven’t forgiven myself for that.

The vet suggested melatonin. The first night we gave it to him, I woke to a wailing sound—a combination of a siren and what I imagine a dying parakeet might sound like.

It was one high-pitched note. Loud. Unrelenting. I shot out of bed and found Grits in his little round bed on the floor, his one remaining eye open as wide as it could go, staring at the ceiling, screaming. (Yes, one eye… a couple years prior, he had a corneal ulcer that ruptured.)

I thought I had killed him. I cradled him until he settled down, then slept on the floor beside him and cried.

We never gave him melatonin again. We tried other medications, but the problem wasn’t getting him to sleep. It was keeping him asleep. His days were numbered. And instead of spending every remaining moment loving him, spoiling him, cherishing each breath, sometimes we were angry with him because we were so damn tired.

It was a painful way to start each day. But we did it for months.

Eventually, Josh and I had to have the conversation we had been avoiding.

I stepped out of a client’s home one afternoon to take a phone call with Josh and our vet. The house sat in the country atop a large hill overlooking the Mississippi River. There was a beautiful garden just off the front porch.

As we talked, battling tears, I wandered through the flowers and found a small bench. I sat down. While I listened, a hummingbird came out of the blooms and hovered near me.

It was so close I probably could have touched it. I didn’t. I just watched.

I thought it was a sign.

Hummingbirds have always meant something to me, and seeing this mighty little bird hovering there, alone and facing me, I felt as though Grits was somehow telling me it was okay. That he was okay. That the decision was clear. And it was okay to say so.

When I got home that day, Josh and I sat in silence. We stared at each other, both knowing what the other was thinking.

Tears filled my eyes. Josh dropped his head. His face turned red, and I realized I was seeing him cry for the first time in my life. My entire body hurt. I cradled his face in my hands, and he collapsed into me. We sobbed in each other’s arms.

There is nothing that can prepare you for having to decide when your beloved pet should die.

Is there a right answer? We asked ourselves every question we could think of. Could he get better? Were we doing this because we were tired? Were we being selfish? Or were we delaying the inevitable?

After hours of tears, a gentle ripple of peace came over us. I kept envisioning the hummingbird. I knew it was time. We both did.

Josh didn’t want to rush it, so we scheduled Grits’ euthanasia for a week later. At first, I questioned waiting. Now, I am so grateful we did. For one week, every moment mattered.

We took turns staying awake with him so the other could sleep. We laid on the floor and held him until he drifted off. To avoid waking Josh and bothering our other two pups, when he woke, I’d take him to the laundry room, sit on the floor, and give him some food.

Without the threat of his brother and sister stealing a bite, he took his time. Between bites, he would glance up at me to make sure I was watching. It reminded me of when he was young.

In those last few days, we got to know him all over again. During the day, we spoiled him. He ate whatever he wanted. We let him watch SpongeBob, his favorite show. Family and friends came to say goodbye.

He deserved the world. We did what we could to show him just how much he was loved. As lucky as we were to get fifteen amazing years with him, no measure of time would have been enough.

He was our baby. Our firstborn. Our spoiled, prancing poser. Stubborn and tough. A trademark window-gazer at our first apartment. Mischievous and ruthless. Hater of cats, squirrels, and birds.

Our Grits Lewis Reginald III.

Breathe.

*All of my firsts had been his lasts.*

I was marking the beginning of a new life, while he was nearing the end of his.

I realized that all of my firsts had been his lasts.

My first Christmas sober was his last Christmas. My first birthday sober was his last birthday. The firsts that felt so significant to me were, unbeknownst to me, lasts for him. I was marking the beginning of a new life, while he was nearing the end of his.

Like with any disease, there were good days and bad. With Grits and his dementia. With me and my drinking. Some days I could control my intake, and I would boast about it. Brag, even.

For Grits, a good day meant he might pick up an old toy and start playing with it again. Youthfully. For a moment, we could convince ourselves he was still okay.

On my bad days, the night might end in a fight with Josh or simply blackness followed by an awful morning.

On Grits’ bad days, we might find his butt sitting in his water bowl, the bowl tipped over, leaving him drenched and surrounded by a puddle. He wouldn’t even realize.

We held on to hope during the good days. And we found ways to shrug off the bad ones.

When the day finally came, it was as bad as I feared. As Grits took his last breath, Josh leaned toward him and whispered, “send us a sign every now and then so we know you’re okay.”

That night, Josh and I went for a walk with our other two pups. We were in a daze, silently marching together. I looked up and noticed something in the sky. I stopped and put my hand on Josh’s arm. He followed my gaze.

Our other two, who normally pull on their leashes to keep us moving, stopped too. The four of us stood there together.

Above us was a perfectly clear rainbow. Grits was letting us know he made it.

We always knew the day would come when we would lose him. For years, we refused to acknowledge the reality of it. Then it came.

Grits had been a constant for nearly our entire relationship. He greeted us with excitement. He knew our routines, our jokes, our fights, our history.

And he made us laugh until the very end. He even shit at the vet’s office right before they put him down. It was the most Grits way to go.

To say “we miss him” never seems like enough. A piece of us is gone.

A couple of weeks after Grits died, Josh and I were bantering like normal, giving each other a hard time. Suddenly, I felt this hollow, empty feeling. Someone was missing. There had always been another being in our relationship. Someone who knew our history. Someone who had been there for nearly every version of us.

I instinctively looked for him to ‘chime in’ and agree with Dad. Instead, it was quiet. There was a hole. A missing piece in the foundation of us.

I cried for days. Then I cried some more. If I let myself forget for a minute, the universe was like, oh you haven’t cried today? I got this! Here’s a bruised apple for you.

The grief would arrive unexpectedly and completely overtake me. My heart felt vacant. I was emotionally exhausted.

And I didn't think I could handle that much grief without turning to alcohol. A year earlier, I wouldn't have. I would have numbed myself. Escaped the pain. Shut it down however I could. But there was nowhere to go this time.

Grits had been there for me without fail. He had let me cry over him when I was hurting. He made me laugh when I needed it most.

And in death, he taught me one last thing.

Sobriety doesn't make life easier. It doesn't protect you from grief. It doesn't stop sixteen-year-old dogs from dying or hearts from breaking.

Grits had been with Josh and me while we grew up—individually and together. Even in the end, Grits taught us about compassion and love. He reminded us to be appreciative and present. He showed me how Josh’s heart works. I saw Josh cry for the first time in the 17 years we’d known each other. He forced us to take time to feel.

For 15 years, Grits taught us that love and loyalty don’t require words. But the biggest thing he showed me was the difference between being sober and being someone who simply doesn’t drink.

I like to believe he held on for me. That somehow he knew I wouldn't have been able to handle losing him when I first stopped drinking. That he hung around long enough for Mama to get strong enough to process the grief without running away from it.

Grits showed me that it was possible to live with pain. Now that was a trial.

It was my first real test of sobriety. I made it through by channeling his strength, knowing that's what he would have wanted for me.

And even though I still find myself grieving his loss—sometimes crying unexpectedly when I think of him, or swearing I can feel him brush by me—I’m okay. I’m strong enough to sit in my pain, and I have him to thank for that.

To my angel in heaven, Grits Lewis,
I hope you are happy and healthy. I hope you are snacking on Cheez-Its and a gourmet chef is cooking you steak every night with ice cream for dessert. I hope you are going for car rides with the windows down and chasing squirrels. I hope you are still causing a bit of a raucous everywhere you go.
Mostly, I hope you know that you were the best friend anyone could have asked for, a piece of me, and I miss you every single day. I pray that we will see each other again, so until then, be free my love.