Ruben's Writings

There’s an old saying that goes something like this: getting a pet is like signing a contract to receive many years of unconditional love and happiness in exchange for getting your soul ripped of your body one day. Sadly, I can now confirm that every word of that saying is true.

I’d had a pet before, sort of. When I was little, my great-grandparents got a Wire Hair Fox Terrier puppy named Buddy. Whenever we would go over to visit them, I would always go find Buddy and play. But Buddy, being owned by a couple in their 80’s, was pretty much given free roam to go wild and, especially as he got bigger, was largely kept outside. Several years passed like this until a woman forced her way into their home, robbed my great-grandfather, and stabbed him in the arm. Afterwards, my dad had them all moved into our house. While this would plant roots that would eventually contribute to my parents’ divorce much later, it meant that I had a four-legged pet for the first time.

Unfortunately, me being young and Buddy having already been trained (or, rather, not been properly trained) was not an ideal combination. While I certainly loved Buddy and played and cared for him, he was simply too wild. He would tear up whatever room he was in and — with a young child (and eventually a baby when my sister was born) — was only allowed to be indoors when we were all asleep. I only ever saw Buddy walk slowly once — when we took him to the vet after he accidentally swallowed a bit or rat poison. It was almost as if we had a dog only when we went outside.

One day — I believe it was Halloween 2007 — I got home from school to learn that Buddy had run away. Our gardeners had left the backyard gate open and Buddy simply sped off. It had rained earlier, washing away familiar smells and meaning — along with his older age — Buddy likely couldn’t find his way back home. As families and other kids walked around in their costumes, we drove around looking for Buddy and hanging up signs. But it was no use. To this day I don’t know what ever became of him.

While I was certainly sad about losing Buddy — especially not getting closure as to what happened to him — I was also angry at myself. In the months that followed, I did a lot of self-reflection and tore myself up over my failings as a master. I realized how some kids never get the chance to have a pet, and I had plenty of regrets as to how I spent mine. Several months after Buddy ran away, my dad and I were talking about it on my way to soccer practice. I told him that if I ever got the chance to have another dog, somewhere down the line, I would be the best master I possibly could.

Flash forward to Christmas Eve 2008. Seemingly all of the presents had been opened and my sister’s kitten, Holly (who she had gotten for Christmas the year before), was playing around with the wrapping paper remains. But just as we were wrapping things up, Dad told me to check under the tree again. Sure enough, towards the back, I found a present that I was sure hadn’t been there earlier. I was told to open it and, upon doing so, found myself holding a new pet water bowl. For a second, I thought my parents had gotten confused and had me open a present for Holly for some reason. Then my dad opened the front door. What came through would change my life forever.

At first I couldn’t tell what it was — my mom thought it was a rabbit, given that instead or running it seemingly hopped everywhere. But it eventually paused long enough for us to see that it was a puppy, specifically a Jack Russell Terrier. My dad told us that she was just two months old and that — having heard my pre-soccer practice vow — I had gotten my second shot at being a proper dog owner. You could’ve blown me over with a single breath, I was so stunned (Holly was stunned for a different reason — her peace had been forever shattered). That shock quickly turned to joy and I proceeded to spend the next several hours playing with and carrying around my new puppy. During that time, we decided to figure out what to call her. I believe it was my mom who came up with Trixie, after the love interest in the old Speed Racer show my Dad and I liked. We all approved and Trixie Dominguez (later getting the middle name Lou) became the newest member of the Dominguez family.

Eventually it was time for bed, and I brought Trixie up with me. I was as happy as a boy could be, cuddled up with a dog the night before Christmas. But as visions of sugar plums began to dance in my head, I started to feel warm — too warm. I sprang from my bed and soon saw what was the matter: Trixie had peed all over my sheets. My dad had told me Trixie was my chance to prove my words and my responsibility, but I figured I would at least get through the first sleep without that resolve being tested. Nevertheless, I took Trixie out back so she could finish her business, changed my bedsheets, and leapt into my first true tenure as a dog owner.

Over the next year and a half or so, Trixie grew from a puppy to a young dog. During that time, we had to deal with the typical puppy teething troubles. I mean that literally — probably the angriest I ever got with her was when I caught her gnawing on the spine of my precalculus textbook (costing me about $200 in fines from my high school library). Of course, the overnight Christmas bed-wetting was far from the only accident of its kind in the house. For the lucky times we were able to catch it, I was often out there rain or shine, watching to make sure she actually went and wasn’t just faking it to go outside for a bit.

Perhaps the biggest challenge came at nighttime, as Trixie got used to sleeping in her new home. Far being left alone downstairs like Buddy before her, Trixie spent the night in a padded kennel in my room, propped up on a table next to my bed. There was a lot of whining — and not just to let me know she had to go to the bathroom. Most often, she would whine because it was dark and she couldn’t see me. But to reassure her that everything was okay and let her know I was there, I would stick my hand up to the kennel, my fingers poking through the holes so she could sniff and lick them. Both my mom and dad say more often than not, they would enter my room in the morning to wake me up, only to find me asleep with my arm draped across, the gap between my bed and table, my fingers caught in the kennel door. Eventually, Trixie was not only able to sleep by herself, but too big to stay in her kennel, opting instead for a small dog bed on the floor.

When she was awake, she was anywhere but her bed. While there were times for walking around the park, she was so excitable and ran around the house so much she often tired herself out just from typical playtime. We eventually discovered these small rubber balls in the doggy toy isle, about an inch and a half wide and incredibly bouncy. Lining up from my room to my parents’ room (or vice versa), you had a long enough hallway to throw the ball and let Trixie give chase. She would bring the ball back and we would repeat seemingly ad infinitum. We were somehow able to keep finding those exact kinds of balls, which (being a Raiders fan) were the only orange-and-blue colored items allowed in the house. Another favorite game would see us hide under the covers or a blanket and bat our hands at Trixie, who would growl and playfully bite at us. We would eventually let her undercover and lick us all as a sort of apology for any hard bites.

Through this time of training Trixie, we discovered she didn’t take long to learn. She was smart — like, shockingly smart, able to remember new commands and practices quickly while showing off a surprising sense of awareness of things around her. Granted, there were also times where she would make us facepalm and wonder what hell she was doing. But those were far outweighed by the times she awed us with her intelligence. She was also incredibly curious and playful, often going up to someone and either sniffing them or jumping up in an effort to get them to lift her up. She would never bite people, but would cover any available bit of skin with her saliva. I could recite dozens of times where Trixie would lick my hand, arm, foot, or face for literal minutes on end. If you weren’t careful, she would get her tongue up in your grill.

There was one member of the family who didn’t exactly appreciate Trixie’s playfulness or ability to get up in their grill: Holly. There are many examples of cats and dogs living together peacefully, often lovingly so. But in the Dominguez household, cats and dogs were, in fact, natural enemies. Granted, that rivalry was vastly one-sided. While I can count on one hand a Trixie-Holly encounter didn’t end with the latter either hissing or swatting a paw in the former’s face, Trixie was seemingly oblivious to her sister’s hatred and kept inviting confrontation, failing to realize nothing had changed.

Unfortunately, my nearly uninterrupted time with Trixie came to an end in the fall of 2010, when I began my four years in college. While not seeing my family every day was certainly an adjustment, not having Trixie waiting for me when I got back from class somehow stung the most. I could call or text my parents and sister, but Trixie had no idea where I was. Occasionally, whoever I was talking to would put me on speaker and Trixie could hear my voice, which honestly made me feel worse because she would look around wondering where I was hiding. Fortunately, I was only in Stockton — about a 40-minute drive from our South Sacramento home. I drove home the vast majority of the weekends, and following whoever opened the door at the time, Trixie would often scamper up and be the second to greet me. Once in a blue moon, my family would visit and bring Trixie, letting her roam around the University of the Pacific campus (well, mainly my dorm room).

One major change would soon be followed by another: we moved from the home where I had spent the majority of my childhood to another place within walking distance of my high school (naturally, after I had graduated). While we certainly had to make adjustments, the layout of our new one-story home ended up benefiting Trixie in a unique way. Instead of having to go upstairs to play fetch and risk the ball either disappearing under the bed or going down the stairs, we could just use the main hallway stretching from the living room to the edge of the bathroom. Not only was it just as long, but the proximity to the common area of the home meant everyone could easily participate in fetch — willingly or not.

I distinctly remember one night when my sister and mom were tossing the ball for Trixie while I was in the living room watching TV. One second, I was engrossed in whatever program I was watching. The next, I felt a sharp pain between my legs as the ball landed squarely, as Jeremy Clarkson would put it, in the plums. That was followed by a second, much larger object, landing on my nuts, as Trixie had directly followed her ball’s path and careened into mine. A few months later, I happened to be sitting in almost the exact same spot on the couch, this time with Trixie on my lap. Out of nowhere, my dad called out for Trixie, who responded by springing up and darting towards him. Unfortunately for my (hopefully) future children, she planted all four of her legs directly in my crotch to propel herself forward.

The living room was also the site of one more ball-related story, but fortunately this one doesn’t involve my own. Remember when I said that despite Trixie’s intelligence, she would have some surprisingly dumb moments? Well, one time during fetch her ball landed directly in an empty laundry basket. Trixie ran right up to it and began barking, trying her best to squeeze her snout through the holes on the side. Somehow, it never occurred to Trixie — who could easily and often willingly jumped on top of couches and other bits of furniture without a second thought — to simply jump into the laundry basket (that she was taller than) and easily retrieve her ball. We watched and laughed for a solid ten minutes as she tried in vain to figure out the basket problem, before mercifully getting the ball out for her. More than a decade later, this remains arguably my favorite Trixie story.

After my freshman year of college, I moved out of the dorms and commuted back-and-forth from Sacramento to Stockton, only staying a couple of nights a week at a family friend’s place. While this was painful for my gas bill and overall sense of stability, what made up for it was the fact that my Trixie time had doubled. My schedule also increased, from just dealing with school to adding increased time working for the student newspaper to my junior year internship with the Stockton Thunder hockey team. Then, in between my junior and senior year, I started working at FOX40, something I expected to last just through the summer and then until that November (could you imagine how much things would’ve changed had that been true?). While I would end at the station until, well, I’m still there actually, I didn’t lock down a full-time position for a couple of years. In an attempt to get a full-time gig anywhere, I ended up with four jobs at one point after getting out of college. This understandably was incredibly stressful and I arrived back home every day exhausted. Fortunately for me, I could count on Trixie waiting to welcome me home and sit with me while I ate the plate of dinner my mom had left for me before she and everyone else went to bed. Granted, Trixie’s interest in the latter could easily explained by wanting to stay in range to devour any scraps of food that fell off my plate.

Then, in 2015, things changed forever. My parents split up, with my mom taking my sister and Holly with her as she moved into another home in the neighborhood. Me being the only other adult and therefore the only one legally able to decide where he lived, I was forced for the first of many times since then to choose between my parents. Not wanting my dad to be alone and deciding that an even split would be the most fair of the unwanted options, Trixie and I ended up with him as the three of us moved into a different home.

We were all impacted by the split — including Trixie, who would only see my mom a few more times and Gabby very occasionally. She often whined even with my dad and I in the room and definitely took a while to get used to her new surroundings. But although her new backyard was smaller than her old one, she ended up adjusting more quickly than either of us.

At least one aspect of backyard life hadn’t changed — squirrels. With plenty of trees in all of our backyards, squirrels were constantly climbing our fence and scurrying around the grass. When she was inside, Trixie would suddenly poke her head up and dart towards the backdoor, jumping up and down and demanding to be let out. As soon as the door was open a half-inch wider than her body width, she would dart outside at lightning speed, barking at and chasing the squirrels, who would retreat to the safety of the trees. Sometimes, when she had already been let out to enjoy some time in the sun, Trixie could be seen speeding across the backyard, which was the unmistakable sign that a squirrel was nearby. This dog and squirrel relationship was a cat and mouse game that always had the same ending.

Except, for one time. Not too long after we moved in, I arrived to find my dad in an alarmed mood yelling something about “your [my] dog” in a tone that meant she either broke something or pooped in the house. But to my shock, my dad revealed that for once, the squirrel hadn’t gotten away quick enough. In the ultimate example of “f’ing around and finding out,” Trixie had not only finally caught a squirrel, but had in fact killed it. Turns out, those barks and bites weren’t just warnings to the squirrels to stay away. My dad had gotten home to find blood all over Trixie’s mouth and a dead squirrel in the backyard. Fortunately, Trixie had all of her shots and was fine — better than the squirrel, anyway. But having needed some water and a towel to clean up Trixie and a shovel to clean up the squirrel, my dad was a bit shaken up.

While discovering your family pet had killed another animal would definitely shake anyone up, my dad was understandably a lot more shakable in this time period. Not that I wasn’t, either — my parents’ split and eventual divorce have messed up my mental health both in notable ways and in ways I still haven’t had the pleasure of discovering. But my dad was by far the most impacted by the split, and he wore the pain and devastation on his sleeve. More nights than not, he would weep and lament everything that led up to it, while viscerally reacting to any mention of my mom or divorce in general (I had to be very careful about which shows and movies I watched after that). Sleeping in the same room, I would often hear all of this as my dad tried to fall asleep, often needing to physically put his hand on my shoulder just to do so (reminding me of a young Trixie in the kennel).

I’m never going to tell someone how to react to a domestic split (especially as someone so eternally single that my dating history is practically in the negatives) or say that guys should hold in their emotions and be stoic for stoicism’s sake (doing so has contributed to major mental health issues for men). That being said, I was in my early 20s and far from ready to handle or be around these kind of emotional situations, especially with my own now-broken family in the middle of it. I had to get out of that house and start living independently, but also had to bide my time to be properly ready for it. Eventually, I was able to secure a full-time gig at FOX40 (reducing my job count to one in the process) and, after a few months of saving, made plans to move into an apartment with a friend of mine. I told my dad I wasn’t abandoning him, but I had to make the best decision for myself as a young man. I think he understood — while he didn’t help me move out, he did give his blessing for moving in general.

However, there was a major factor in the move: Trixie. While I could reasonably afford the monthly rent, the additional pet tax would push that assertion into questionable territory. Plus, with me and my roommate at work a lot, Trixie would often be home in a new environment alone. Whereas my dad could sometimes work from home, which was already a familiar setting for Trixie. Plus, I wasn’t the only one my dad relied on for comfort during this tough time. Trixie would often lay down next to him as he slept and proved that whole “pets can sense sadness in humans” thing true. While I knew I had to leave for my own sake, it felt cruel to take Trixie as well, even if she were my dog and I would miss her. In the end, I decided to sacrifice a huge chunk of my time with her to help my dad, knowing she would be properly taken care of and loved. Plus, I vowed to visit at least once per week in order to see both of them (but mainly spend time with Trixie). Thus, the setting and routine for the next decade began.

The weekly visits soon became a highlight for me. Whether my dad opened the door upon my arrival or I got there first and had to use my key to get it, the pitter patter of paws scraping the ground for traction served as the introduction to Trixie swarming me and jumping into my arms. Most of the visits would lead to dinner at home and us gathering around the TV to watch some kind of sporting event. It was around this time that Trixie took up a new position — instead of being my literal lapdog, she would sit to my left (always to my left — if she was on my right she would inevitably shift over to my left) and either put her paw or her head on my leg. It became such a habit that eventually I took my wallet and keys out of my left pocket before I sat down in order to make my leg smoother and more comfy for her. There were occasional times where I had to work. That would mean Trixie would go on the road, with my dad preparing dinner and my dog to eat during my lunch break. Dad would even bring her around to my apartment from time to time. In fact, Trixie’s presence would be the one good part about the one time I’ve ever hosted a Super Bowl party (Super Bowl LIII, unfortunately).

That routine was the one consistency over the next several years. After a year, my roommate moved out and left me scrambling to find a new one, which I eventually did. Then it was my dad’s turn to move (I helped move him, of course), as he and Trixie found an apartment nearby. It would be another adjustment for Trixie, especially at a much reduced size with no backyard. There was a main courtyard with grass, which Trixie was eventually trained to run down from the upstairs apartment, head to the grass, do her business, and then run back upstairs and receive a treat. If her business was solid, one of us would follow, pick it up, and throw it away. Over the course of my dad’s time at the apartment complex, there were one or two spays with neighbors that involved Trixie. Fortunately, my dad was able to handle all of those issues without me, which was probably a good thing — anyone who dared say anything negative about Trixie in my presence had a 100% chance of getting their teeth shoved down their throat.

As the 2010s gave way to the 2020s, we began to notice a troubling trend with Trixie. Sometimes, when she was running, rolling around on the ground, or even just sitting, we would hear a yelp of pain and discover one of her hind legs sticking out at on add angle, seemingly dislocated. While we were able to get the leg back in its socket, it happened enough times to take her in for a checkup. The vet told us that this was actually a common problem for Jack Russell Terriers, especially as they get older. It would keep happening and get worse/more painful unless she had surgery to deepen the socket for her joint, preventing it from slipping out again. But that wasn’t all — not only did the vet discover a rotten tooth, but also a huge ovarian cyst that was on the verge of bursting. If it did, it could prove fatal. For the first time, the thought of Trixie’s life ending creeped into my mind — a horrible thought which was quickly and forcefully removed by the mental equivalent of me sticking my fingers in my ears and going “LALALA!”. Fortunately, we were told all of this could be solved at once while she was under for the initial surgery, with the vet ensuring us that — barring something unforeseen — this would all but guarantee five more years of life for her.

Despite the cost — $4,000 — it was a no-brainer, and Trixie underwent surgery in February 2020. When we got her out, she was in rough shape. Her hind legs were shaven and covered in bandages. She had more tape around her body, all of which meant she had to wear a cone around her head to avoid chewing on it. Not that she could chew right away — she was on a strict soft food diet for several weeks. To help with the initial aftermath, the vet had sewn a pouch of water inside of her, designed to burst after a few hours and make sure she was properly hydrated. She was also on so much drugs to deal with the pain that her eyes were glazed over and couldn’t even sit up without falling. We were told that while her front legs were fine, her back legs couldn’t support herself, meaning we had to prop her up with a towel so she could do her business. We took her back to my dad’s apartment and placed her in her bed without her so much as moving an inch on her own. Then, after we went into the kitchen to get something, we came back to discover she had dragged herself halfway across the bedroom.

Ultimately, the long recovery would end up falling mostly on my dad, and not just because Trixie lived with him. This was for two reasons. First, I had moved out of my apartment and into a home in the Rosemont area on the opposite side of town, meaning weekly dinners took at least half an hour to reach one-way. But most importantly, recall the date of the surgery and consider what happened immediately afterwards. The pandemic and ensuing global shutdown threw a massive monkey wrench into social gatherings and family meetups in general. Not knowing much about COVID-19 and not wanting to accidentally infect either my dad or a recovering Trixie, weekly dinners — let alone any other visits to help care for her — became extremely complicated. On top of being forced to be socially distant from everyone, not being able to be around my dad or Trixie was rough. Fortunately, as the pandemic unfolded, we were gradually able to figure things out and Trixie would make a full recovery.

Those visits became much easier in 2021, when not only did we know much more about the virus and had gotten used to pandemic-era habits, but I moved once again. My mom, who had remained in town with my sister, had decided to move back to her hometown of Mt. Shasta, some 230 miles away. But my sister, still a teenager, wasn’t ready to live on her own. Their landlord agreed to keep the rent steady if I essentially took my mom’s place on the lease. Jumping at the chance to not only live with my sister again, but move close to my dad and Trixie, I came back to South Sacramento. My sister had been over to my dad’s on occasion and had seen Trixie from time to time. But for reasons that would take up ten times as many words as have already been written, their relationship began to collapse. I ended up not only being the liaison between the two, but the main reason she got to see Trixie.

That included one time when one of the recent “storms of the century” hit Northern California. Before the storm hit, my dad called to let me know that he would be out of town for the night projected to see the worst of the wind and rain. Not wanting to leave Trixie nervous and alone during the scary weather, we agreed that I would pick her up and keep her for the night. So after I got off work that night, I drove to my dad’s apartment and — having found no parking — had to cross the street on foot to get there. After loading up Trixie’s supplies into a bag, I realized I didn’t have enough hands to take her along on the same trip. Not wanting to keep wasting time as the storm got worse, I ended up fitting all of her supplies into one bag, before loading Trixie herself into another bag and carrying both through the rain to my car, dodging puddles and various debris along the way. We finally made it back and got ready for the next day, with Trixie hopping in bed with me for added comfort from the storm. Fortunately, while it poured rain outside, the bed remained dry (unlike that Christmas morning all those years prior).

There was another benefit to moving back in with Gabby — for the first time in several years, I was living with Holly again. While we didn’t meet up as often as I did with my dad, my mom and I still occasionally got together, often at her home, which allowed me to visit with Holly. She was my sister’s Christmas present the year before I got Trixie and was around 14 at the time I moved in. As 2022 began, that age really began to show itself. Holly developed severe bladder problems, with my sister and I discovering a new mess seemingly every day. It was eventually discovered that these bladder problems were the result of a disease that, even with major surgery, would leave Holly severely depleted. Eventually, we tried our last potential solution — having Holly move in with my mom, hoping the mountain air would help her live easily. While it worked for a little bit, there wasn’t much change, and any updates were getting worse. To our horror and growing sadness, it became apparent that it was no longer a matter of “if,” but “when.”

That “when” came on July 5, 2022 — my 30th birthday and my mom’s [age redacted] birthday. I called my mom to wish her a happy birthday and, after she did the same to me, she informed me that Holly had been put to sleep. After recovering from the initial shock, my reaction was to demand why she had made that decision on our birthday. If it had to be done, surely it could’ve waited a day? She told me that she had learned that Holly was in so much pain that living was basically torture, and it would be inhumane to keep her alive under those conditions (even just for a single day) for our selfish benefit. I wouldn’t begin to understand those words until about three and a half years later. But for the time being, I went to comfort my sister, who while knowing that the end for her beloved cat was near was still understandably inconsolable.

As the day went on and I tried to either comfort her with happy Holly memories or distract her by using my birthday as an excuse to go out on the town, I couldn’t help but remember something my mom had mentioned at the end of our call. She had pointed out that Trixie was only a year younger than Holly and, given the life expectancy of a Jack Russell Terrier was between 13-16 years, I should start thinking of what to do when that time came. I wanted nothing to do with those thoughts, not able to bring myself to imagine the pain I would be in when that would happen. But I couldn’t help but drift back to that point from time to time, all while dealing with entering the next decade of my own life. The previous decade had been entirely filled with Trixie’s presence. No matter what I wished for, the incoming decade would not be the same. I just didn’t know when.

Fortunately for the time being, Trixie kept on keeping on, taking full advantage of the extra time that surgery had bought her. However, time was also starting to show itself. It began with several leaps onto chairs and couches — which she had easily made several thousand times in her life — turning into struggles, or even resulting in her falling down and needing to attempt it again. Eventually, she got too nervous to even attempt to jump up, instead whining until we picked her up. Then on walks, she would get tired more quickly. At first we thought she was just being dramatic, throwing herself onto a patch of grass near the sidewalk whenever she was done with walking (which she had done even in her youth). But then we discovered she was genuinely tired and had to carry her back home. A year or so later, we truly realized that the famous brown spot on her head had turned a lot more grey, and that there wasn’t much brown fur left on her at all.

Still, Trixie kept adjusting, even as time brought about more changes. My sister had begun her own college journey, which was about to take her from Sacramento to Santa Barbara (then eventually West Sacramento, Mt. Shasta, and now currently Chico). That left me looking for a new place to live, which eventually turned out to be just a bit further south in Elk Grove. Around the same time, my dad had met a lovely woman, with the two eventually moving in together in Rocklin. Trixie, of course, came along for the ride. Although that say was relatively short before they moved to South Sacramento, the Rocklin tenure did include one alarming incident. After letting Trixie out to do her business, my dad realized she hadn’t returned as normal. He found her sniffing some grass outside. As he went to pick her up, she suddenly yelped in surprise and ended up biting my dad in an apparent act of self-defense, not realizing he was the one picking her up. Not only was this the first time she had ever bitten someone like that, but it was my dad — and she had made enough of a mark to draw blood and require stitches. We chalked it up to old age, which didn’t exactly leave me with much comfort.

Once my and and his girlfriend did move to South Sacramento, easy dinners became the routine again. They quickly made their house a home, helped in part by Trixie’s presence. Walks became more regular and, for the first time, Trixie had a doggy door to come and go through as she pleased. But even then, it was clear she was slowing down even further. Those walks had become strictly business, with little neighborhood exploration by Trixie. She had also completely given up on jumping on furniture, instead relying on us to pick her up. Not even her old favorite — the orange and blue ball — excited her anymore, with it just rolling past her with barely an acknowledgement. Still, she remained as hungry as ever, scrounging up any food that fell to the floor and helping herself to leftovers from my dad’s plate. Those leftovers kept getting bigger and bigger, although it wasn’t because my dad we feeling more generous.

Being bitten by Trixie was far from my dad’s only health problem. His kidneys had been giving him trouble for years and he had finally reached the point where something had to be done. Last year, he had a tube surgically installed in his chest to allow him to undergo a less-invasive form of dialysis. But not too long after he began dialysis, his condition worsened. He was eventually diagnosed with kidney and lung cancer, requiring surgery to remove the infected kidney — a process that had a non-insignificant risk of death. Just as thoughts of my dog dying had entered my head, I suddenly had to deal with the potential of losing my dad. Fortunately, the surgery (which took place this past spring) went well and the remaining lung cancer is in remission. But since then he’s been unable to work and has been trying to gain his strength back. A silver lining of him being stuck at home is more time with Trixie, as the two old timers grew older together.

But even so, a classic Dad-Trixie interaction could no longer take place. Over the past year, Trixie went from hard of hearing to completely deaf, which had a big effect on her overall mood. I didn’t hear her bark nearly as much, we had to wave our hands and work to get her attention, and she flinched when touched by someone she couldn’t see, unable to hear anyone coming. At this point, she would still greet me as I arrived, if she wasn’t sleeping. She did that more and more, falling into a routine of eating, sleeping, and doing her business, with little in between. She didn’t seem to be in pain, but she was definitely as low-key as we’d ever seen her. Still, she would rest her head on my leg and receive all of the head and back scratches we were willing to give. Two months ago, Trixie turned 17, officially surpassing the life expectancy of a Jack Russell Terrier. As we celebrated, we were all wondering just how much longer we’d have her in our lives. But she was not displaying any urgent heath problems, so apart from age we had nothing to go on. In fact, the Sunday before Christmas, I arrived at my dad’s house to discover his girlfriend and one of her sons (her whole family had taken to Trixie like a dog to peanut butter) had taken her for a walk. When they came back, everything seemed fine. Trixie was her usual, albeit old, self.

Things changed as the week began. One morning, when my dad’s girlfriend was preparing her food, Trixie whined and panted as usual. But this time, she sort of fell down and peed a little. Thinking she had just gotten a bit excited, they calmed her down and all seemingly went back to normal. Then, when I came over on Christmas Eve, they revealed that they had noticed her breathing a bit heavily, but nothing too alarming. But it became all to clear that something was wrong on Christmas. When I arrived, I picked Trixie up, sat down, put her on my lap, and stole a piece of bacon of my dad’s plate. I broke off a little chunk and gave it to Trixie, who I expected to swallow it whole. Instead, she barely nibbled part of it. Hoping it was just her being old and full, I kept comforting her on my lap. While on my lap, several times she began breathing rapidly and heavily, before almost passing out. She would then lift her head and cough before going back to normal. I put her down and she went to her water, drinking enough of it to make me think she was just a bit dehydrated. But during dinner, my dad took part of his steak and dropped it in front of her. Trixie, who I once saw eat an entire taco seemingly in one bite, barely sniffed at a piece of literal steak. At this point I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, and unsure if a vet was even open on Christmas, my dad and his girlfriend agreed to take Trixie in first thing in the morning.

That would be more literal than I could imagine. Just after midnight, my dad noticed Trixie hadn’t joined them upstairs. His girlfriend went downstairs to check on Trixie, only to discover her unconscious on the stairs, having pooped herself. She managed to revive Trixie, who tried to stand up, but stumbled back down to the ground. It was now an urgent situation, as my dad and his girlfriend rushed Trixie to a nearby vet, which was in fact open. They gave me a call and I rushed over to join them, learning upon arrival that Trixie had been placed in an oxygen chamber. The vet staff had their ideas about what was wrong, but needed an x-ray to confirm. After getting the x-ray and waiting nearly two hours for analysis, those theories were confirmed.

Essentially, Trixie had a trio of problems. Her trachea (windpipe) had begun to collapse, which was the reason for the coughing and some of the breathing problems. But the main issue was her heart, which had become enlarged. It was a sign of heart disease, which staff told us could not be reversed, only managed. In addition, there was a small lump on her heart that was contributing to the overall problem, which was that Trixie’s heart was unable to pump blood throughout all of her body, meaning oxygen wasn’t getting fully circulated. This accounted for the breathing issues and passing out. At that point, the oxygen chamber was the only way she could get enough of it to live without problems. In addition, her natural excited nature was contributing to the strain on her heart and make the breathing problem worse. They had to sedate her to prevent that from happening. When we were let back in there to see and pet her, she didn’t even recognize us — that’s how sedated she was. Right before we left the vet around six in the morning, they told us they would start giving her some heart medication and call around to various health centers to see if they could perform an EKG. However, they said the EKG would merely confirm the extent of the problem, not change the ultimate outcome: in an absolute best case scenario, Trixie had at most six months left to live.

We got what sleep we could and anxiously awaited news on an EKG opening. Just before five in the evening, we got a call — UC Davis had an opening, but we had to let them know in like half an hour. Oh, and the cost of the EKG (not to mention transportation) would be at least $2,000. This would be for a test that would merely tell us the exact extent of the problem we knew already existed. It would also be on top of the more than $2,500 we had already spent on the initial hospitalization, x-ray, and day spent in the oxygen chamber. Another night in the chamber, which would be required due to her being unable to breathe properly outside if it, would cost an additional $1,700. It’s crass that money would even be a factor in my dog’s health (keep in mind we had spent $4,000 for that surgery several years earlier without a second thought). But that money had given her five extra years of life, most of it active and like her usual self. The nearly $4,000 we were looking at now wouldn’t solve the problem — only manage it and hope (not guarantee) at most six months of labored living.

One thing the vet staff kept telling us was their emphasis on quality of life for pets. Even looking at the best case scenario, Trixie would need expensive heart medicine (taken several times a day) that would have sedation side effects (among others). What’s more, she wouldn’t be restored to her former self, let alone the lively Trixie of her youth. It wouldn’t even solve the trachea problem. Assuming the heart issue wasn’t worse than we thought, all of this money, time, and effort would at best only prolong the inevitable for six months. Of course, money shouldn’t be a factor and I would willingly cut off a limb if it made Trixie’s problems go away, or even give her one more day of life. But at some point, we had to ask ourselves if that was something even Trixie would want. Were six more months of Trixie worth her just existing as a zombie the whole time? Hell, Trixie was already just kind of existing to exist. We asked ourselves when was the last time Trixie had played around, rather than just eating, sleeping, and doing her business? Were we just trying to keep Trixie alive to make us feel better?

These were the kind of questions we had to ask ourselves as we scrambled to find solutions that weren’t there, tried to discover a path that didn’t have a dead end, and grasped at straws to give us some kind of hope. Ultimately, in spite all of us trying in vain to come up with something that didn’t bankrupt us or let Trixie have a good remainder of her life, there was only one humane option left. Unfortunately, it was the worst possible option, the option that no pet owner should ever be forced to choose. I even called my mom and sister, hoping they could think of something we couldn’t. But, even with knowing the pain of losing Holly, they came to the same conclusion. Trying and failing to stay as objective as we could, we made the call to not get the EKG and instead say goodbye. Making it worse was that due to the nature of her problems, we couldn’t even take her from the vet for one more fun-filled day of playing and eating whatever she wanted. She would either be too hampered by a lack of oxygen or too sedated to truly enjoy it. It had to happen that night, and I did my best to brace for the pain that was to come.

(TRIGGER WARNING: I am about to describe my dog’s death in detail — please scroll to the next picture if you want to avoid reading that)

My dad was already starting to cry and I was on the verge of tears when we entered the vet’s office. After signing in, we were then asked whether we wanted a little ceremonial urn with some of her ashes. My dad could barely answer, while I responded in the affirmative, the dam somehow holding. We were then taken into a side room, complete with a couch and some treats, and told what would happen. Trixie would be brought in and we would spend as much time with her as we needed. Then, when we were ready, we would press a button to bring the doctor in. The doctor would then inject her with two liquids — a white mixture which would sedate her, then a pink mixture that would end her life. Afterwards, her body would be taken back and we would be allowed to leave whenever we had composed ourselves.

A few minutes after we were led into the room, the door opened and Trixie was carried in, wrapped in a brown blanket. Seeing Trixie — knowing that it would be for the last time — immediately caused the dam to start springing several leaks. She wasn’t sedated and immediately recognized us, although we could still see she wasn’t nearly fully healthy. When she was stood up on the floor, she tumbled over after a few seconds. The vet staff then asked us who wanted to hold her. I knew the responsibility was mine — she was my dog, after all — and she was plopped on my lap. Once she was properly positioned, we could also see the tube embedded in her arm where the mixtures would go eventually. More leaks were sprung. We were then left alone as we tried to think of what to do to say goodbye, ultimately resorting to giving her pets, patches, and kisses. Between sniffles and amid cascading tears, both my dad and I told her we were sorry, that we loved her, and that she was the best dog anyone could ever ask for.

Wanting to give her one last present, we tried to offer her some dog treats in the room, but she barely sniffed them. We figured it was because they were a bit too hard for her teeth at that age. The one set of treats that looked soft enough were actually meant for cats, but we figured we’d give it a shot. To our surprise, Trixie loved the cat treats, wolfing down about eight of them and giving us one last surprise, one final happy moment. But even as we were giving her all of the love we could, we noticed that she had started whining and breathing heavily, like she did just a couple of days earlier. She was still in pain, and as badly as we wanted to spend as much time with her as we could, we knew that the fair thing would be to stop delaying the inevitable. With much reluctance, we pressed the button.

The doctor came in and, positioning herself, withdrew the tubes containing the white and pink mixtures. As she got ready to administer the doses, every fiber of my being was screaming inside of me — wanting to pull Trixie away, rip off the tubes, and run for the hills, anything that would prevent what was about to happen. Somehow, I remained seated, holding Trixie in my lap and petting her head, while my dad held her paw and looked her in the eye. First the white mixture came through, and Trixie seemed to calm down instantly. Then the tube turned a twinge of pink and I knew that it was too late to stop what was happening. After what seemed like less than ten seconds, Trixie took her last breath and slumped over into my stomach. So many times before, she had done the same thing, only to turn her head up at me to receive some kisses or administer some licking. But this time, there was no more movement. There would never be any more movement — no panting or barking or licking or tail-wagging or anything. The doctor put her stethoscope to Trixie’s chest and confirmed what less than a week ago would’ve been unthinkable.

Just after 9:30 p.m. on December 26, 2025 — 17 years and two days after she first entered my life — Trixie Lou Dominguez passed away in my arms.

The dam had fully burst and nothing was left to stop the waterworks. I openly wailed as I held Trixie’s lifeless body, squeezing her tight and screaming how sorry I was. My dad was fully weeping and his girlfriend, who had left the room last minute — unable to bear seeing Trixie die — came back in tears. I struggled to hand Trixie over to the doctor, who carried her out of my sight, the last time I would ever see her. My dad and I spent the next several minutes crying in each other’s arms. The doctor returned and handed us Trixie’s harness, still covered in her hair but would never be worn again. More crying — any remnants of the dam completely washed away. I don’t know how long it took — probably at least five minutes — before we were able to pause enough to at least leave the room.

Shellshocked would be the best word to describe my state as I walked out of the vet’s office, not daring to look at anyone else in fear of starting to cry again. My soul truly felt like it had ripped out of me, my body a lifeless husk barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. Anyone looking at me just had to glance at my right hand, which was gripping Trixie’s empty harness, to know what had happened. Once outside, the tears returned as I called my mom and sister to tell them what had happened. Though both had agreed that the option we ultimately went with was the most humane choice, they shared my sorrow and reassured me that I had done the right thing. I had never felt more wrong doing something seemingly right. After the phone calls, we drove back and had a silent, somber dinner. I then drove home, took a shower, and went to bed — each of my movements lacking any soul or feeling, my body a hollow shell only filled with tears, which managed to leak out more times than I could count.

It’s been just under a week since Trixie’s death, and I’ve struggled to come to terms with it all. Every moment I’m not trying to focus on work or another activity, my mind drifts back to Trixie. Even when I’m working or busy elsewhere, the thoughts sneak back in more often than not. Voices in my head shout at me, “Trixie is dead, and it’s your fault — you killed her.” The shower — once my sanctuary to rest and let my mind wonder — is now the place where I’ve cried at least once every night since then, unable to prevent those thoughts from creeping in. I’m having trouble taking care of myself, those same voices telling me I haven’t suffered enough to earn it. Everything reminds me of Trixie. I look around my room and see a wooden carving of a dog with her name on it (Dad gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago) and burst into tears. I look at people walking their dogs and see dogs on TV, each reminding me of her. I drive on the freeway and see the vet’s office where her life ended, and I violently turn away. I don’t want to wash the very clothes I was wearing when she died, because they’re full of her hair. After 17 years of complaining about little white hairs getting on everything I own, I can’t bear to have them go away forever. I visited my dad for the first time since her death and, expecting to hear the pitter-patter of her paws, cried when I realized it would never come again, then cried more when I stared at the now-vacant spot to my left on the couch, I could just be sitting around and start crying, and I would be lying if I said I hadn’t hit a table or wall in anger, trying to use physical pain to make the mental pain go away.

Hell, there’s a photo (seen above) that I took of Trixie two weeks after her surgery in 2020. She had just been cleared to not have to wear her cone and after we took it off, she went out on my dad’s back porch to finally stretch out in the sun for the first time in what to her felt like an eternity. As she sat on the wood on that sunny day and enjoyed her freedom, I took that photo as a reminder of her resilience and recovery. I ended up making that my phone’s background picture, and it remains there as of this writing. This means that every time I get a phone call or an alert, that photo pops up and I get emotional all over again. I can’t even operate my phone without the risk of tearing up. Of course, I could just change the background to another photo. But I can’t bring myself to do that — It would mean I can move on, and I’m not in the same galaxy as I will be when I’m ready to do that. I don’t know if I ever will be. So for now, my phone has become a catch-22 of sorts.

Good or bad, a part of my personality always seems to react to a bad situation by wondering if there was anything I could have done to prevent it from happening, even if what happened was completely out of my control. If something bad happens at work in an area I’m not responsible for, I wonder if I could have somehow reacted to stop it ahead of time. If my sister makes a mistake or has something bad happen to her, I wonder if I could’ve imparted some life lesson that would’ve prevented her from being in that situation. So you can imagine how much second guessing I’ve done over the past several days. Did we really think of everything? Did we ask the vet staff the right questions? Could Trixie have lived for even a little bit longer without much risk? Could we have lived without (at minimum) several thousand dollars to buy at least another day or two? Worst of all — was Trixie ready to die?

To that last point, having now been through the agonizing process, I’ve had some thoughts about the very practice of putting your pets down. Who are we to play God and decide when an innocent life ends? These pets trust us with their lives, and there’s no way we can even let them know what’s happening. I doubt they’d ask to be killed, so are we simply luring them into a false sense of security and betraying their trust? Friends and family have told me that I did the most humane thing I could, and that I was brave for not only doing it, but holding Trixie as she passed. But I don’t feel brave — I feel like I betrayed my dog. My dad has told me that he regrets not offering to hold Trixie instead. I told him that I knew I had to do it — as her master, it was my obligation to be there for her in her last moments. Now, I’m not entirely questioning the practice or calling for an end to it. Objectively, it’s about having the strength to choose the least worst option, helping pets out in a way that they could never do for themselves at the cost of our own suffering. I also recognize that all of this can be traced to a simple question asked by a man suffering immensely: why did this have to happen to Trixie? I know I’m not thinking clearly, but I can only feel what I feel right now.

Above all else, I just miss my dog. I miss my puppy. I miss my little girl. Even if I didn’t have her by my side, at least I could be happy with the fact that Trixie was out there having fun. Now, for however long I have left to walk the earth, I have to do so without her. For the past 17 years — literally more than half my entire life — Trixie has been in my life. Now, for the first time since I was in high school, I no longer own a pet. Unlike when I got Trixie, that won’t change anytime soon. My dad has resigned himself to never owning another dog for the rest of his life. I’m certainly not ready for another pet and I won’t be for a long, long time. I certainly won’t be getting another Jack Russell Terrier — it would be an insult to Trixie’s memory. I hate when people get a new pet shortly after losing one — it feels like they treat pets like objects, easily replaceable. In fact, the only way I can see myself having a dog again is if my wife and kids want one, and that’s quite a ways away. During this entire look back, covering nearly 30 years of my life, I never once referenced “my girlfriend” or anyone like that. I’m eternally single, and now in my mid 30’s wondering (and somewhat doubting) if I’ll ever get married and have children. So to get to the point of having kids who want a dog seems lightyears away. But even though I’ve never had children, to me Trixie has almost felt like having a (really hairy) daughter. Now, my little girl is gone.

If there’s one good thing to happen in the wake of Trixie’s death, it’s me being reassured that I have people who truly care about me. My dad has put my grief over his own and respected the way I want to try to heal. My mom and sister have reached out to talk and make sure I’m okay several times. All three have even helped to make sure I’m properly feeding and taking care of myself. They know I’ve had my own mental health struggles and are doing what they can to help me back up. Good friends have called to share their own stories of grief and offer their support. All of these efforts have encouraged me to be more open about my thoughts and emotions about Trixie and her death. It’s helped me battle those voices and brought me new perspectives on what I’ve described in the above paragraphs. It’s made me confident that one day — certainly not soon and maybe not for a long time — I will be okay and fully come to terms with Trixie’s passing. I still cry when I think of her, but maybe someday I’ll be able to conjure up happy memories of her instead. I hope that day comes, because Trixie brought so much happiness to my life and many others that it would be a shame to have to bury all of that with grief. Maybe I’ll end up keeping that photo as my phone background, not out of an inability to change it, but because I’ve been able to move on and smile upon seeing a picture of my dog. After all, I almost always smiled when I saw her when she was alive.

Right before we left the vet’s office the night of Trixie’s death, a staff member gave us a card. They had covered Trixie’s nose with ink and made an imprint on the card, which also included included a poem written by an unknown author called “The Rainbow Bridge.” It reads as follows:

“Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

Death is often considered the great unknown. Some people believe in an afterlife. Others believe we just rot in the ground forever. Others believe in various other theories. Despite my own beliefs on the matter, I don’t question what others think about it — whatever gives them comfort, I guess. Honestly, I’m not sure what to believe, and that uncertainty makes death particularly scary for me. It’s spurred me to take certain risks, go on adventures, and leave behind as few “what ifs” as possible. William Shakespeare wrote in Julius Caesar that cowards die many times before their actual deaths, and that the valiant only die once. Death scares me enough to not want to die more than once. That being said, it feels like part of my died when Trixie did. There’s a piece of my heart that disappeared, and I can feel its empty spot inside of me. I don’t know if it will ever be filled, but maybe someday I will be reunited with Trixie as we cross the Rainbow Bridge together.

There’s another saying about death, this one most commonly attributed to Ernest Hemmingway. It states that people die twice: first when we stop breathing, and second when our name is spoken for the last time. The last one signifies that we are truly forgotten. I’ve been thinking about that a lot over the past several days, thinking that maybe it’s a way I can help cope with Trixie’s loss while doing one last thing for her. I knew that Trixie was never going to physically live forever and, now that she’s gone, I know I can’t do anything to get her back. But I do have the power to prevent that second death from happening. Trixie wasn’t just a dog — she was a truly special animal who left a lasting impression on everyone she interacted with. I want as many people as I can to know more about what an amazing dog she was, and hopefully I can inspire them to better appreciate and care for their own pets during the time they have them. It’s what led me to battle through my grief and write more than 10,000 words about my recently deceased dog. This may be a small blog with an even tinier following, but I owe it to Trixie to use whatever platform I have to tell her story and make sure her name is never forgotten, for as long as I can.

At the very least, I can put into words what I hope she understood without speaking them. Trixie, you were the best dog anyone could ever ask for. You brought smiles and joy wherever you walked and we’ll be telling stories about you for as long as we live. You were kind, playful, smart, sassy, funny, energetic, loving, and (of course) seemingly always hungry. You set the bar for all dogs going forward and changed our lives for the better. You gave more love than you got, and that wasn’t for a lack of trying by all of us on the latter. I hope you know that you were truly, thoroughly loved, and that we would’ve given our own lives to make sure you were around forever. I don’t know if there are any squirrels in heaven, but if there are, be sure to give them hell for me. Thank you for everything.

Rest easy, my Trixie Lou Lou.