Sassy was a teeny, tiny, three-pound Yorkshire Terrier with a supersized personality and an iron grip on our hearts. She crossed the rainbow bridge last October at the age of fourteen, and because of our age and stage in life, we were resigned to her being our last dog. Before we lost her, I couldn’t imagine life without a little fur baby cuddled up on my lap while I watched TV and read a book, or wedged warm and comfortably against my neck while I slept. Hubby is 83 and has dementia, and I’m 78, which means we are too old to sign up for a young dog. Even adopting a senior dog comes with concerns and downsides, so we are currently dogless.

After seeing someone regularly walking three adorable Yorkies when I lived in Parkdale (in Toronto) in the late sixties, I was determined to have a Yorkie before I died. After three Maltese in succession, and several decades later, we adopted Sassy, knowing she would probably be our last dog. Even with all that foresight and mental preparation, I’m still struggling with being dogless. Two of her beds now hold stuffed dogs in her place to ease our loneliness when we cast a glance their way. I only recently removed her food dishes and placemat, and everywhere I turn, there are reminders that pull at my heartstrings.

The problem, however, is that I cannot bring myself to part with all the dog paraphernalia we still have around the house. For a three-pound dog, she had a shocking amount of baggage. I compare my holding on to her belongings to the mother who keeps her baby’s first teeth in a little silver box next to kindergarten artwork and the baby’s first shoes. They’re a precious part of our memories.

We had dog beds in every room, so she was always warm and cozy while observing us as we went about our daily routines. She never begged at the table, but with a dog bed right beside our kitchen table, she was on high alert for the final scraping of forks on our dinner plates so she could enjoy a few slices of cooked carrots, beef stew, or whatever else we were eating that night. In fact, the other evening as I was scraping the last bits of steak off my husband’s plate into the organic trash, I found myself unexpectedly tearing up a bit, remembering how I would have cut it up into tiny pieces for Sassy. After viewing an alarming documentary (available on YouTube) called “Pet Fooled”, shortly after we adopted her (we were her fourth home when we got her at seven months), I stopped buying commercial dog food and always cooked real meat and veggies for her. I prepared big batches, divided into sandwich baggies for freezing to be used when needed. How’s that for a pampered dog!

I’m embarrassed at how many cute doggie outfits I’ve collected for tiny dogs over the past forty years. I have doggie golf shirts, a genuine Roots™ doggie baseball jacket (which I had to alter to make it much smaller), Halloween costumes, winter jackets, “Security” tee shirts, party dresses, fall duffle coats, hair bows, grooming tools, special shampoos and conditioners, pee pads, poo bags, leashes, harnesses, blankets, doggie probiotics, furniture covers, car and airplane carriers—you name it, we still have it . . . all of it. Yet, there are still so many empty little holes around the house where I expect her to appear, and she doesn’t. As anyone who has ever had a dog or a cat knows, losing a pet is devastating. It’s hard to move on to nothing. It was so much fun, and I miss it.

Disposing of your fur baby’s estate is not fun, however. There’s always that remote chance that I might become a dog mom again. I kept a clipping of hair from each of the four dogs I have had over the last forty years, along with their ashes, which I hope will be interred with my own at some time in the future. I’ve heard that cemeteries object to that, but if you don’t tell, I won’t either. I want them all with me in heaven. Just when we’re at an age when having a pet is so therapeutic, and we’re home most of the time, time is not on our side. It’s not easy to pack up all a deceased pet’s belongings and take them to the local shelter.

If you’re a current or former pet owner, you understand the grieving process associated with losing a beloved pet. While we miss them terribly, they enriched our lives immeasurably. There’s that little empty spot that never seems to be filled. I’ve deleted most of the Yorkie Rescue Facebook and Instagram sites I used to follow, but I kept a couple for old times’ sake. I need the regular fix. Following online, though, doesn’t quite capture the feeling of snuggling with the warm beating heart of a pet. Who knows? We’re not dead yet, which is coincidentally also the title of a famous book by yours truly (and available on Amazon). Meanwhile, I’ll keep using her image in my sign-off as it always warms my old boomer heart.