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In Mourning: Ginny 2000-2012

Ginny was my last Muttville foster and my first dog adoption since sweet, shy Sage – a Shepherd mix – spent a brief 18 months in my life in 2003. Volunteering for Muttville for nearly two years, I knew what to expect when adopting a senior dog and over the four months of our foster relationship, I had the opportunity to learn her health limitations. My biggest concern in giving Ginny a forever home was whether she had any internal issues that were, at this point, invisible – cancer, kidney disease, heart problems. But her blood work was clean. Ginny had other health issues, of course. She was deaf, she limped significantly in her hind legs, but neither issue seemed to bother her much and if these relatively superficial issues didn’t bother her, they didn’t bother me either.

About six weeks after officially adopting her, Ginny’s mobility issues became more serious. It became harder for her to get up, she became exhausted more easily on her walks and she panted heavily in the night. X-rays showed that Ginny had fused vertebrae in her neck and a lesion that had formed in the area. Her shallow hip sockets accounted for her strange, limping gait. Painkillers, muscle relaxants, and later, steroids, helped to bring Ginny back to her normal self. She began playing with her ball again and she rejoined her doggy buddies in her 3-day a week afternoon walking group.

Tuesday was a good day. Ginny scarfed her breakfast and dinner, greeted me with playful excitement when I returned from work, and relished the smells on her walks. That night, Ginny was tired. She slept soundly on the living room floor until bedtime. But in the middle of the night, Ginny became restless. I let her out to do her business and when she returned, her violent shaking and rapid breathing frightened me. About 30-minutes after, she settled down in another room (unusual but not alarming) and presumably fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, it was with surprise. Ginny, despite her inability to hear, always knew the second my feet hit the floor and would attempt to herd me to the kitchen for breakfast. This morning, she didn’t move. When I went to wake her, I found her with her eyes open, shaking, and panting. I offered her water and she turned her head. Super food-driven dogs like Ginny will only refuse treats if they are under severe stress or in deep pain so I brought her a couple. She ate them but took no pleasure in the act. I carried her in to the kitchen to prepare her breakfast. She took a couple of bites and then dropped her head. When I carried her outside to do her business, she took the opportunity, but could hardly stand or move her back legs. Later, she vomited several times.

By the time I took Ginny to the vet, she was paraplegic – unable to move her hind legs. She had lost significant function in her front legs. The vet believed she slipped a disk in her spine but couldn’t be certain without an MRI, technology that most neighborhood veterinary offices don’t have. Given her age and mobility issues, and we had to act fast; Ginny was in severe pain. Our options were limited. The first was to put Ginny on heavy morphine and keep her immobile for 6-8 weeks (i.e., in a crate) to hope that the slipped disk would adhere to its new position with scar tissue. If the disk acted as we hoped, Ginny might be able to walk again. More likely, she would regain some function in her legs and would need to be partially carried with a sling to keep most of her weight off of her legs. But even if she regained some function, Ginny would inevitably find herself back at the vet as her spine deteriorated and her pain increased. She would take morphine daily and would move around less and less. The second option was to put Ginny to sleep now, gently, and spare her from additional pain.

I chose the later. Ginny passed away a little before 11am on July 5, 2012.

Everything about this little dog in my life took me by surprise. Ginny came to me severely underweight, missing large patches of fur, covered in scabs. At her death, Ginny was soft and fluffy, her skin was clear, and her belly was soft. Ginny didn’t know any obedience when she arrived. By the time she left me, she had learned to sit, down, roll over and shake using hand signals. She walked by my side when off-leash and came to me when I motioned to her. Her initial fear of the car had dissipated to comfort and even joy. She was playful and loved to tug on her plush ball and chase it around the living room, giving goofy growls and barks. She was a constant scavenger; I’ve never seen a dog so good at finding “food” on the street or in the park. She had a spirit of a dog half her 12 years. She adored her walks and greeting dogs at the dog park.

And I adored Ginny. I often marveled at how much love I had for this silly little dog and how quickly it had developed. I loved being with her and regularly begged off of outings with friends or left early from events to go home to be with her. For eight short months, Ginny was the light of my life.

Final goodbyes

I didn’t expect to cry when Franny was returned to me. After five weeks she has become a series of great memories so I was not prepared for the wave fresh pain that came to me when I was handed her ashes in a handsome wooden box. I brought Franny home and placed her in a safe place.

The following Saturday, it was time to bring Franny to her final resting place. I invited my friend Mark, who was with me when Franny died, to come with me to say our final goodbyes; I thought it was only fair that he get the same closure I wanted. When I picked him up, he handed me a small gold frame with a photo he took of Franny at Baker Beach, the same place I wanted to scatter her ashes. I tucked it in to my bag and carried her along for the ride. We brought Franny and my current foster dog, Ginny, to the beach and as I stood on the waterline, slowly pouring her ashes in to the waves, Ginny explored the sandy beach. When almost all of the ashes had been scattered, Mark told me that when his grandmother passed away, they spread half of her ashes at her favorite beach and buried the other half in the yard of her beloved home. The thought of having a little piece of Franny stay with me made me smile so I wrapped the remaining ashes in the bandana I made her, which she wore daily, and placed her back in the box.

For the moment, Franny stays, wrapped warmly in her bandana, and protected by her wooden box. At some point, when I’m ready, I will place her in the ground behind my home…her home.


Grief and mourning

Me and Taffy, circa 1989

The night Franny died I dreamt that the euthanasia didn’t take, it only made her groggy, and she appeared in my building, unstable on four legs, but alive. Somehow, in the dream, it was proof that it wasn’t Franny’s time to go and that she could overcome her cancer…

It has been over ten years since I have grieved for a lost pet. In the eighth grade my beloved lop rabbit Taffy passed away. It happened in the morning and I was furious that my mother waited to tell me about it until late that afternoon. That day happened to be an important high school placement test day and she didn’t want to break my concentration. I now understand how enlightened that decision was – I probably would have been so distracted that I would have ended up in remedial classes – but at the time, I was angry that I wasn’t there when he left us. She felt that getting another pet immediately to replace Taffy would help my grief to quickly disperse so that evening we went to a pet shop where a tiny rabbit was about to become snake food. We adopted Alabaster (Ali) immediately. I never connected with Ali the same way I had with Taffy; he was a fearful creature and I was a teenager more interested in the politics of adolescence than pets. When he died three years later, my grief was shallow.

With Franny, the pain is fresh and deep. Unfortunately, the loss of our pets – whether they be dogs, cats, rabbits, horses, snakes, whatever – is a sad fact of life. Most of us will lose several beloved animals before we, ourselves, pass on. And as those who have lost a pet will tell you, this grief and mourning can be as intense as losing a friend or family member. Those who have never had a pet will expect you to bear the loss gracefully and return to “normal” quickly. But they are wrong. The sadness you feel at the loss of a loved one – four-legged, two-legged, or legless – must not be belittled.

There are a number of resources for grieving pet owners on the internet and I thought it might be useful to include some here: has a number of good articles on how to deal with your grief following the loss of a pet. Their Ten Tips on Coping with Pet Loss are a good summary of basic questions to what you are feeling and how to proceed emotionally and physically.

If you need to talk to someone who understands what you are going through, visit the Pet Grief Counseling by Phone page at to locate counselors in your area or

There are a number of ways to memorialize your pet:

Tell your pet’s story at, In Memory of Pets, and

Pet Memorial Jewelry and 4 Paws Forever create sweet pendants so you can always keep a memory of your pet with you. offers pet memorial candles.

And if the lost pet is not your own, show you care with a free pet loss condolence e-card from the Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement.

Celebrating Franny

Franny found this ball at the park and went crazy with it, rolling around like a dog 1/4 her age.

In her last 36 hours, Franny was only a shadow of her self but I don’t want to remember her that way; I want to remember her as the dog she really was.

Franny loved the outdoors. I suppose most dogs do but for a 12-year old with cancer, she was surprisingly active. Because I work from home, we had the great fortune of being able to explore San Francisco’s open spaces on a regular basis. Her favorite place, without a doubt, was Baker Beach. The first time I took her there was the first time I saw her in a full-out bounding gallop of happiness. She didn’t like the water – she would trot away from the waves if they got too close – but she loved the sand and the smells and the tiny little crabs that would wash ashore. On the beach she chased balls, running after them with gangly adolescent legs she never grew out of. Recently we discovered Glen Canyon and she loved traipsing around the hillsides and digging in animal holes.

Franny’s smile was infectious. We were regularly stopped on the street or at the park by people telling me how cute she was. Like all dogs, she loved stinky stuff and when she would roll in a smelly spot in the grass, legs akimbo, she looked like a puppy.

If Franny were a human, I’d call her a foodie, always in search of yummy remnants in the park and on the street. Franny loved her treats and demanded them with her barks. If anyone else in the park had them, she would run over and sit nicely in front of them, straining for a piece. She loved bully sticks and regular sticks and chomped them down with abandon. Franny fancied herself as an enforcer. If the cats got too rowdy, she gave them a closed mouth growl that, to my ears, was totally goofy and useless. In the park, she would join in any good barking session.

Franny liked her space – she didn’t like sleeping on my bed or sitting on the couch – but she always kept me in her sights. She was never so happy as when she was off-leash. When she wasn’t distracted, Franny stayed right by my side; we even occasionally walked on the street without a leash. Whenever I could, I brought her with me – to picnics, to dog friendly bars, to concerts, to dog-training class.

Not many dogs like hugs, but Franny wasn’t one of them. If we were in a strange situation or if I had just come home, she would walk up and lean her forehead in to me. One of the cutest things Franny did was her nightly face scratching in which she used her front paws to rub her nose. Sometimes she brought up a hind paw to scratch her ears but it was almost like she was putting on a show rather than doing anything useful, her nails hardly touching herself and her hind leg moving slowly.

All her life, Franny was a sweet, soulful creature and everyone that met her fell in love. She was my friend and my heart. I will remember her always.

Franny at Baker Beach.This is where I will scatter her ashes when she is returned to me.

In Memoriam: Franny 1999-2011

Last night, Franny lay her head on my knee and passed from this world.

Just a few days ago, Franny was her normal self. Tuesday morning we went for a hike in Glen Canyon and off-leash Franny went nuts running all over the hillsides, digging holes, stomping through the river…

On Wednesday we took a walk in Golden Gate Park; Thursday it was Alamo Square…

When Franny violently vomited on Friday morning, I assumed it was something gross she ate. She had eaten only half of her breakfast – fairly unusual for her – and I figured she must be feeling pretty nauseous. We went for a walk in the neighborhood around 11am and Franny moved slowly. Her cropped tail which she usually holds high and wags was low and still.

I left Franny for 90 minutes to walk another dog and when I returned she was laying by the front door waiting for me. I pulled out the remaining cheese from my treat-bag and offered it to her. She took the cheese I held out but when I dropped the remaining pieces in her food bowl she walked away from it. I turned from her food bowl and realized the whole floor of the kitchen was covered in vomit. An hour or two later, she walked in to the backyard, vomiting again.

The last week or so Franny’s shaking had increased. She would occasionally get shaky – sometimes before a meal or when she first woke up in the morning – but it was now coming much more frequently. On Friday she shook all day. When dinner time rolled around I offered Franny some plain white rice and cottage cheese, a combination vets recommend when dogs have digestion problems. She didn’t touch the food and when I took her out for a walk in the evening, she looked at me questioningly, standing at the top of the stairs of my building, then slowly made her way down. Once outside she just stood there. I coaxed her on and she took a few steps and stopped again. A few more steps and stops later, we turned and headed back home; we hadn’t even made it half a block to the end of the street.

After our walk, Franny couldn’t get comfortable. She was restless, getting up and standing awkwardly for several minutes at a time then laying down again, shifting around and shaking. I made a painkiller meatball for her and hoped it would help. When I offered her treats later that evening she ignored them.

The next morning was the same. I offered Franny another painkiller meatball and the remaining wet food I had, feeding it to her by hand. She ate the food and, bolstered by this slight improvement, I pulled out the cottage cheese, digging out bits with my fingers and giving it to her. After a few bites, she turned and walked back to her bed. Our attempt at a walk went much the same as it had the night before. Franny showed no interest in this activity which she adored; we didn’t get more than 50 meters from the house.

In the afternoon I called the 24-hr veterinary hospital at Pets Unlimited. I asked them “how do I know when it’s time?” They suggested I bring Franny in so I could consult with the vet. I called my dear friend Mark who has always been there for me in times of need and asked if he would come to help and he immediately agreed.

At 6pm we drove Franny to the vet and they had a private room ready for us. Dr. Villard joined us and asked me to recount the last 36 hours. I told him I was terrified that I was making this decision too early but more terrified that she might suffer. He said that what I was describing suggested to him it was the end – the increase in shaking was pain, the vomiting and refusal to eat was a tumor obstructing her organs (in stomach cancer, tumors will either burst causing blood in the urine and vomit or will grow to block normal functions). Dr. Villard told me that, though this was a personal choice, he, himself, would rather err on the side of early euthanasia than have the animal in deep pain. I found myself agreeing. For the last five months, I have done everything I could to make Franny’s last chapter the best it could be; to let her suffering increase would betray that effort.

At 6:45pm, Dr. Villard brought the lethal cocktail. I sat on the floor next to her, stroking her side as Dr. Villard injected the solution in to a catheter they had inserted in her front paw. As the drugs entered her body, Franny stretched her neck and we gently guided her head to my lap. Less than a minute later, Franny’s heart had stopped beating. She was gone.

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