Anyone who has ever owned a pet understands the extreme grief we experience when a beloved pet reaches the end of the yellow brick road and crosses the rainbow bridge. It is agonizing. I’ve had dogs for most of my life. I grew up with yellow Labrador retrievers, although as a child I didn’t fully comprehend the positive impact those lovely creatures would have on my entire life. For the first couple of decades of adult life, I was dog-less after leaving home, establishing my “career”, commuting, buying a home, and juggling all the other demands of adulthood.

When my first marriage was in its final throes, I adopted a poorly-bred little 5-lb. Maltese from a pet store—in the days before I knew about the evils of puppy mills. Murphy was my salvation during the years of adjusting to divorce and being on my own again. He was followed about five years later by Annie, another Maltese, who died prematurely at the age of eight. That was my first full-blown dog-loss experience, and it was tragically followed a couple of months later by Murphy’s passing at the age of fifteen—double whammy.

After losing Annie and Murphy, I lasted a month before I adopted 4-lb. Gracie, another Maltese. She became the new joy of my life, and I settled into pet parenthood once again. When I had Gracie, I had planned to adopt another Maltese for a twosome, and name him George—you have to be a certain age (boomer) to appreciate the George & Gracie reference. I never got around to adopting that second dog because in 2000 a male, human George came into my life, when Gracie was three years old. I married George, and always had a chuckle when signing our Christmas cards, Love Lynda, George, & Gracie!

Back in the late 1960s, I lived in a little apartment on Spencer Avenue in the King and Dufferin area of Toronto. Every morning when I walked up to King Street to catch the streetcar to go downtown for my job at Ma Bell, I used to see a guy walking three little Yorkies on leashes. Those three little dogs captured my heart, and I knew then that before I died, I wanted to have a Yorkie. By the time Gracie reached the end of her road at the age of fifteen, I was in my mid-sixties so I knew it was now or never. Yorkies can have a healthy lifespan of 14 to 16 years, so doing the math, I figured this was my last shot at having a Yorkie before they sent me to the home.

Sassy was less than a year old when we adopted her (about a year before Gracie died) and had already been placed in three homes before she came to ours. Apparently, her previous owners found her to be “too much of a handful”, which is not surprising if you know Yorkies—they’re personality plus. Sitting in the passenger seat with Sassy in my lap on the way home with her the first time, she christened me with the holy trinity of doggie behaviours; she pooped, peed, and puked on my lap. Undaunted, hubby and I immediately fell in love with all three pounds of her, and she gave us fourteen years of joy, laughs, love, and companionship. We passed her over to the wings of an angel in October of last year.

As someone who could never imagine life without a dog on my lap, wrapped around my head during the night, or snuggled against my spine under the covers, the sad fact is, I am now seventy-eight years old. My husband is eighty-three and has dementia, so a rescue, even an older one, seems highly unlikely at this stage in our lives. As someone who could never envision living without a dog in my life, that’s exactly what I’m now forced to come to terms with. It’s a kind of grieving, with the pinch of acceptance and resignation.

I still miss being a doggie mum so much, but let’s be honest. There’s no lingering guilt now when I have to leave the house for an afternoon. I could put the area rug back down in my living room, and those vet bills were getting crazy. Three thousand dollars to clean a dog’s teeth? I desperately miss the unconditional love of a dog, though. I miss the snuggles, kissing that lovely, silky, sweet spot between their eyebrows, and inhaling their warmth for a shot of nature’s oxytocin. Cat owners may miss the comfort of a warm little fur ball in your lap, and the lovely feel of their velvety ears, but I doubt anyone misses cleaning out the litter, or trying to keep on top of vacuuming cat hair.

While Annie died early, Murphy, Gracie, and Sassy all enjoyed long, healthy lives, which I think ultimately helped ease me along life’s road. If you have ever owned a pet, you know exactly what I mean. I desperately miss having a dog in my life, but I have to be realistic. While some people in their 80s successfully adopt an older dog or cat, there are obvious risks, including the potential of our pets outliving us, as well as the associated veterinary bills that may accompany an older pet. Not everyone can afford that.

We were blessed with wonderful, loving animals to share our lives over the years, but it seems we have aged out. I may have to start training hubby to be more affectionate and loving to fill the gap, which could be a challenge. Perhaps I could begin with something easy, like training him to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. It’s a start. But, as I learned from having little dogs for the last 40+ years, I think it will be worth the effort. The rewards are immeasurable.