If you have known my family at any point in the last decade, there’s a good chance you have known the smallest member of our team too. Our dog Pepper, a funny & friendly little rescue we adopted in 2006, passed away last month from cancer. I say passed away, but it was more heart wrenching than that. 

Until the day she died, I didn’t realize that I could miss something so very much. You see, Pepper was one of the few who was with me before I got sick, and then remained through the next phase. She’d watch out for me after I’d come home from chemo, and lay outside my door until she felt I’d slept “too long” and then go get my mom to check on me. Once I was through the very scary part of cancer, she’d stay with me on the nights the pain was too much. We had our special way to sit on the couch together, and I hope she knew how much comfort she brought me when I couldn’t go be with friends.

With Pepper, I never had to explain that my body hurt, or that I couldn’t do the things I once was good at. When I was moving slow, she’d adjust her pace to mine. When my body was in pain, she’d lay down beside me, just close enough that I knew she was there without it hurting.

That dog taught me a lot about unconditional love, and what it means to be gracious. IT didn’t matter to her that I couldn’t run as fast as I once did, she was just happy I was in the yard with her. And she stuck by my side until she knew I was 10 years a survivor. 

That’s really all I can write about it. The hurt is just as deep as if I lost a blood relative. Pep was a bit of sunshine and joy in a dog’s body. Her tail always seemed to be in motion, as if she knew something we didn’t and it pleased her. Maybe she did. Maybe she knew that we needed her just as much as she needed us.

One last “boof” for auld lang syne.