Those of you who’ve listened to this show over the years may remember the misadventures of my dog, Bisbee.
She was a chihuahua who loved to run. She must have had some Italian greyhound in her blood because her little stick legs could beat me in a footrace.
Through the most meaningful decade of my life, she stayed right by my side, which is why I called her “Bisbuddy.”
She was there for a lost pregnancy, for the adoption of my children, and through my family’s ongoing battle with obsessive compulsive disorder.
The dog was also there for all the days in between when she carried into our lives the most uncomplicated form of love.
Earlier this month, Bisbee ran out of time.
Her last morning was spent sleeping beneath the backyard elm tree. If it had been a normal day, she might have staggered back into the house, blissfully intoxicated by the heat of the Arizona sun.
But Bisbee didn’t rise, and I wept as she died.
“Pets bring us so much joy because they force us to remember how short life is and how fleeting our time is together,” E.B. Bartels told me.
A few years back, I interviewed Bartels about her book that explored the shock of grief that can overcome us when a pet dies. In a way, it was preparation for a day I knew would come eventually.
“With grief, I have diminished my own feelings in the past where I’ve thought, ‘It was just a dog — it was just a bird. It wasn’t a human being that died,’” said Bartels, warning me not to minimize the grief. “The truth is we can have really deep, important relationships with animals that sometimes are even more profound than our relationships with other people. I interviewed so many people for my book who said, “It hit me way harder when my cat of 20 years died than when my dad who I was estranged from passed away.’”
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Bisbee had many opportunities to leave us sooner than she did.
We were visiting my brother for the holidays in 2015 when she dug under the fence and escaped from his backyard. The dog was missing for a week.
And then — on Christmas day — a stranger called to say he’d found her. His little boy had spotted Bisbee.
She was too skittish to catch. But the boy tracked her movements for longer than an hour because somehow he already knew what I had just started to understand: that losing your dog is a desperate kind of feeling.
Bisbee howled when we were reunited.
More than a year later, that Christmas miracle inspired me to do a story about where to turn when your dog runs away. I met all kinds of people who did just what that boy did for Bisbee — they helped search.
Bisbee was just 10 pounds, but the weight of her absence feels like 10,000.
That we could have such big love for small things that aren’t human fills me with awe and gratitude. It gives me hope that more is possible than we might imagine.
Maybe you think I’m silly to feel this way about a dog. Or maybe you know exactly what I mean. Either way, it helps me to tell you about Bisbee.
If it would help you, tell me about your friend. I’ll listen.
I’m at letters@hereandnow.org.
This segment airs on February 21, 2025. Audio will be available after the broadcast.
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