A story about what a pet brings to your life and what they take when they leave.

She was the last thing we all loved at the same time.

It’s hard to explain exactly what she meant to us but I’ll try.

After several years of moving around from rental house to rental, just trying to stay a float after the 2008 crash, we had finally bought a home again. Built in 1951, the home was a mid century modern ranch style with three bedrooms, one bathroom, wood floors, large windows in the living room, and an almost new swimming pool in the backyard. It felt like a fresh start for our family.

Our daughter, now ten years old, had been begging for a pet. Specifically a dog. Her Dad did not like animals and put her off for as long as he could with the argument that we lived in a rental. With that excuse no longer available, she finally wore him down. He could tell me and anyone else no, but he could never tell her no.

Even though I had never had pets growing up, I was excited about the prospect as well. A new chapter was opening in our life and getting a dog felt optimistic and hopeful. Besides the kids were now older and didn’t require as much attention so having a pet felt doable. Even desirable.

We attended adoption fairs on Saturday mornings at a local pet care store. We searched websites for local rescue dogs and even went to the pound. Although my daughter would have taken just about any dog she laid her eyes on, I knew it had to be the right fit or her Dad might not let us keep it.

Totally by chance we found Mimi. A family was trying to re-home her. She was a 3-year old female Yorkie, house trained, and already fixed. Yorkie’s don’t shed fur and this was a big plus. The day we picked her up, my twelve-year-old son and I went to get her, without telling my daughter, so we could surprise her.

As soon as we walked into the house, holding the soft furry little ball of lightning, everyone fell in love. She immediately got the zoomies and the kids giggled with delight as they chased her around the furniture. From that moment on she was a part of the family’s beating heart.

Mimi was the most popular member of our family, always the center of attention when guests visited. She was small but packed a powerful punch. She would run nearly five miles with me from time to time when I was training for a half marathon, which is really far for a small eight pound dog. Although crate trained, she was often smuggled into our daughters room where she slept curled up under the covers between her legs.

Once curled up under the blankets with my son, he passed gas on her and she bit his butt. He laughs about that to this day. She was feisty and not to be messed with. She refused to play catch, looking at you as if to say, “You go get it.”

One spring morning, during the pandemic, my son and I sat in the front courtyard drinking coffee and petting Mimi. She was now close to ten years old. My son made the observation that she was starting to show signs of slowing down.

“Yeah but she still has pep in her step. Look at her.” I made the argument as she bounded across the courtyard toward a tiny bird that quickly evaded her approach. We both laughed at her clumsy attempt as she bounced back over to us, with tongue out, beaming with pride.

In years past, that weekend would have been a special time for our family. We all would have attended our yearly religious convention together, staying in a hotel, going out to eat with friends and family. This year looked very different. Our family was fragmented. Our special convention was to be held on zoom, while we were in isolation, both from the world and each other.

My daughter was tucked into her depression cave, fully rebelling against the spiritual life I had built for us. It did not seem like the right thing to try and force her to participate in it against her will. My husband was staying in a different room at the back of the house while we were going through divorce preparations. He had taken the lead in turning his back on the way of life that had brought us peace as a family.

But my son and I sat on the couch and watched the zoom program while cuddling with Mimi all day. It was her favorite thing, to cuddle with us on the couch when we were feeling lazy or relaxing.

After the program we ran out to grab some food for dinner. On entering the house, Mimi was in her favorite spot on the sectional sofa, by the front window. My son walked around the sectional sofa and looked at her.

He froze.

“Mom! Something is wrong with Mimi! I think…I think…she’s dead.” He stood frozen, unable to move. Her back was to me and I couldn’t see her face. I reached down and shook her. Then quickly pulled my hand away. My heart leapt into a full sprint. The thought of touching a dead animal made me recoil. I circled around and stood next to my son so I could see her face. We stood there in complete disbelief. Her eyes were open, but she did not move. The weight of this loss started to crush me.

There was a time that, as a family, we all loved the same things.

We loved the same friends. But not now.

We loved the same way of life. But not now.

We loved the same God. But not now.

We all loved each other. But not now.

The one thread that still linked us all together was our love of Mimi. She once symbolized a new beginning that was now ending. She symbolized a happy united family that was now disintegrating. She was everything that was good in all of us. And now, she was gone.

The repulsion I initially felt at her small lifeless body went away. She was just Mimi. I sank to my knees in front of the couch and put my hand on her belly that was not rising and falling with life anymore. A shriek of pain exited my body, as all hope that she may be sleeping, left me as well.

I don’t know if it was the pain leaving my body, like the slow building shriek from a tea kettle, or my son’s yells that drew the other two members of our family to the living room. My daughter stood frozen in the hallway door, unable to even enter the room. This was her pet, her Mimi, her love. I believe a piece of her died that day as well.

My husband stood in the kitchen, stomping his feet up and down. Yelling, “This is why I didn’t want a dog! This is why!”

At the time I just wanted him to gather us all in his arms and tell us everything was going to be OK. To tell us that we were a family and we would survive this because he would make whatever sacrifice was necessary to ensure it. Instead he threw a tantrum about how he was right and I was wrong to want to bring Mimi into our lives.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I had made a terrible mistake by letting this little fur covered ray of light into our lives. Without her, we were fully in darkness.

My daughter slowly turned and traced her steps back to her bedroom, where she closed the door to shut out the grief. But grief like that follows you the rest of your life.

My son, who was a young man of 19, took the place of a responsible adult. As I stayed on my knees petting Mimi’s lifeless body and sobbing, he got on the phone and found a 24-hour vet that could cremate her. He got her favorite blanket and wrapped her gently in it and handed it to me to hold while he drove the car. When we arrived, we were not allowed to enter, because of COVID-19 rules, so we stood outside. I was holding her and saying goodbye while he filled out all the necessary paperwork. He took her body and handed her over to the staff member that waited by the door.

A few days later we were able to go and pick up her ashes in a wooden box engraved with her name.

Mimi.

So much meaning was contained in those four letters. So many good memories. So much love and hope. So much heartache.

She had changed us all forever. Even if she couldn’t hold us together.