On the Death of a Dog

By Stephanie Skinner
October 2026

I had to learn to walk again. This called for daily dedication, and in the beginning, I wasn't enthusiastic about the effort required.

I mean, people are perfectly good walking companions, but my best buddy and I had walked twice a day or more, for almost 18 years. In our nature walks he'd sprint 20 miles and return filthy with a lolling tongue while I picked my way through brambles, scrambled over rotting logs, inspected moss and lichen, identified trees, collected feathers, and plopped found objects in a basket.

Every morning he graciously let me sleep in 'til 6-ish, and squealed with excitement when I got my lazy bones up. Most evenings he'd fix me with a penetrating stare after dinner, letting me know times-a-ticking to get the final walk in. Occasionally he'd need to nose nudge, or paw tap his recalcitrant servant.

We had routine. That's more than I can say for myself without his intense control.

I am, of course, speaking of the biggest jerk of a dog anyone ever had: willful, snippy, stand-offish, and my most deeply loved little control freak.

Before the walking re-learning though, there was the phase of silent shock.

I knew it was serious when I found myself standing at the fish counter looking for something that would inspire me when a voice asked me something. "I'm not sure yet," I said and glanced over at a puzzled face I'd never seen before. "You don't know how you're doing?" he said. Surprised, I heard myself say, "Oh, well …" with a shrug, and then to my shame, "we put our dog down on Monday, so I'm really not sure.'" And then I was crying and squeaking.

Good lord, what am I doing telling complete strangers about my emotional wreckage?

Back at home, a day later and preparing a thoroughly non-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving meal, I had allowed for one usual thing we'd have on the big eating day: pumpkin pie. I made the crust and got out everything for the pie filling: evaporated milk, check, cinnamon and cloves and ginger, check, molasses, check, eggs, check … at which point I realized I had forgotten the pumpkin of the pumpkin pie.

Sometimes life gives us metaphors to chew on. Metaphor is the cruelest figure of speech.

Igneous, my best buddy. Photo by Stephanie Skinner

Now as we celebrate Thanksgiving 2026, let me start with this: it's been a year. And I mean that as both it has been a year since, and it's been a year.

In late summer, eight months after the store blubbering incident, my mother, the final parent of our extended family, passed away on my birthday, peacefully and surrounded by family.

As devastating as it was to lose mom, we had lived apart, near but still far enough away, for many decades. Her death took my breath away but it didn't knock me to my knees. We'd lost dad, suddenly, six years earlier and that was closer to the bone. And now with mom gone, came the brutal truth that next up, by all rational thought, were my sisters and I. Life and death; inevitability.

But somehow my dog undid me.

The irony of animal ownership is that they just don't live long enough for our frail hearts. I cannot say this loudly enough, we do this to ourselves. If we are lucky, we bury our parents late in life and we pass before our children. Our special pet pain is our own fault.

Here's how it was for us:

We first saw him across a parking lot. He was in the top window of a mobile unit operated by the North Shore Animal Rescue League. He was lying quietly with crossed front paws watching the goings on. We had no idea the mobile unit would be there that day … or perhaps it is more honest to say that my husband had no idea it would be there. We hadn't decided to get another dog–our last dog had lived with us for 17 years and her passing had been traumatic. But we decided to take a look, assuring each other that this was just a first pass to consider whether to get another dog.

We asked to see that puppy in the window. Out he came, no fanfare. My husband held him, the puppy licked his wrist. We oohed and ahhed about how cute and calm he was and handed him back. We got into our car … and within five minutes we were back in signing papers for our new master, Igneous.

And here we are now a year later; I'm still getting teary writing this, but also remembering the love and joy, our youth and innocence.

So, back to the walking. It took a long while, but I have lovely friends who walk me often. Scheduling the walks is a regular feature of my new reality. The conversation is much better, but not a one of them has yet disappeared for a 20-mile zoomie returning with a lolling tongue. That would be charming.