Everyone who has had a dog knows the sound of their four-legged best friend moving through the house. The rhythm of paws on the floor. The soft shuffle as they circle their bed. The familiar clink of tags tapping together. It becomes a song you recognize as soon as you hear it. And after 11 years with Stewie, I knew every jingle that was his.
Stewie may have looked intimidating to strangers with his powerful and enormous stature. But he was a gentle giant, all softness and sweetness beneath the surface. Scared of nearly everything and barking only when necessary, he made sure to always love deeply and lived for cuddles and his comfort blankets.
As Stewie got older, he grew sick, and the veterinarian said he would not be able to get better. We decided, as a family, to let him pass at home. No cold clinic, no scary smells or sounds, but instead on his bed and wrapped in his favorite blanket.
A mobile vet came to our house, letting Stewie spend his final moments surrounded by the people—and other furry members of our family—who had loved him since the day we brought him home eleven years earlier.
It was one of the hardest moments of my life, but also one of the most special.
I don’t think any of us even ate dinner that night. Eventually we went to bed, exhausted by the sadness of the day.
Hours later, still half-asleep, I was jolted awake.
clink ! clink ! clink !
His sound! The unmistakable clinking of Stewie’s tags as he adjusted on his bed woke us up.
For a split second, I believed it had all been a dream. “He’s right there,” I thought. Before I could process what I’d heard, my husband shot upright next to me. He looked at me with wide, confused eyes.
“Did you hear that?” he said in a raspy, half-awake—but alert—voice. “Stewie’s tags…” I nodded, tears already falling. “So did I.”
The sound that had woken me countless nights suddenly became the one thing I longed to hear more than anything.
We both had tears streaming down our faces, and as we glanced toward the foot of the bed, instead of Stewie curled up in his usual place, were our two cats.
Blueberry and Mr. Moon were Stewie’s best friends. The three of them were adopted at the same time as babies and grew-up side by side… but they never slept on each other’s beds. Instead, they would always sleep nearby one another.
Our furry trio, as we lovingly called them.
But on this sad night, the cats rested on Stewie’s bed, snuggled together gently, almost protectively, and as if they were also mourning the loss of their big, clumsy brother.
Both lifted their heads and looked at us with an expression that felt like confusion. It was almost as if they, too, had heard his tags clink.
We all sat in silence and felt Stewie’s absence.
Maybe we all needed to hear Stewie one last time. Maybe he just wanted to let us know he made it across the rainbow bridge, where we will see him again one day. Maybe he came, not to say goodbye, but to say see you later.
Our pets hold pieces of our hearts, and when they leave us, the silence is enormous.
But that night, hearing Stewie’s tags jingle one final time, I felt certain he was letting us know he was okay and would miss us too.
He was confirming that love, even when our furry friends aren’t with us, their love has a sound all of its own.
Pecoché Creative 