Our long-haired chihuahua Zoe died peacefully at home at around 4:30 on a Monday afternoon in October.
At approximately 4:32 on the same day, every child in our neighborhood arrived at our front door. I greeted them with red, watery eyes.
Things only got more awkward from there.
…
Before I tell you Zoe’s awkward death story, allow me a moment to tell you a little about her life. My wife, Michelle, and I moved in together in late 2008. In this new era of hope and positivity, what was stopping us from getting a second small dog?
Nothing, that’s what.
Michelle and I met online and despite our Facebook dating app profiles indicating that we were both located in central Florida, it soon became clear that only one of us actually was. Well, I assume Michelle knew that she was living in California all along (she was working as a travel nurse), but I didn’t find out until we matched and started corresponding.
Eventually, we met in person a few times — once in California, once in Las Vegas (woot!), and once in Florida — and after not too long we decided we might as well move in together. Michelle returned home to Florida and moved into my house with me and my small skittish chihuahua named Pepper.
I vaguely remember that it was a cool day in February or March when Michelle texted me on my Razr flip phone to let me know that she had procured a fluffy tan and white long-haired chihuahua puppy from a pet store. I was coaching a high school tennis match somewhere on the Space Coast. I remember standing on a weathered asphalt track in a windswept school field.
My memory is unreliable so I’m probably taking some poetic license here but I think Michelle brought Zoe to the match and that’s where I met her. I may be smushing together several different days.
Regardless, Zoe existed.
She was vibrant and loveable. Pepper was a couple of years older, more standoffish, and liked to keep to himself, but he and Zoe still made a perfect pair. One of my greatest regrets is that Michelle didn’t agree to the name Salt. I don’t remember how we settled on Zoe.
Zoe, Pepper, and Me in 2009
Zoe lived through a lot in her time. She and Pepper navigated a year spent with my parents while Michelle and I lived in England. She saw the addition of three children to our family. Later, she tolerated two bunnies. At the very end, she had to deal with a rambunctious Labradoodle puppy named Hades. Hades annoyed Zoe with his constant demands to play and the occasional gnawing on the scruff of her neck, but he did watch over her on her last day when I took this picture.
Hades and Zoe
Zoe lived a full life. She was remarkably active and energetic until just a few months before she passed. During those last months, she spent a lot of time behind the couch and I could sense her beginning to untether.
Still, as endings tend to be, hers was sad and somewhat unexpected. But unlike some other endings, Zoe’s was freaking weird.
…
Zoe’s breathing started to grow noisy and labored the day before she died. I noticed it but my kids didn’t because she had mostly become a background character in their lives. She spent most of the day sleeping in her blanket-lined bed under the kitchen table or behind the couch. Out of sight, out of mind. I decided to keep it that way because it was easier. For the children, presumably, but mostly for me.
After the kids left for school in the morning, I texted Michelle who was at work, and told her I wasn’t sure how this would all play out exactly but that Zoe was having a rough day. I was worried about leaving to take our 10-year-old to basketball practice in the evening before Michelle got home from work.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about that.
My youngest two kids were home and I was working in the kitchen when I noticed the quiet. I checked on Zoe in her bed with some trepidation and found that, yes, she was gone. I was upset, of course, but mostly panicked trying to figure out what I was going to do next.
I knew this was coming but I wasn’t ready.
At that exact moment, my oldest child, who is in seventh grade, walked in having just been dropped off by the school bus at the front of our neighborhood. I turned toward him with tears in my eyes. He looked cheerful, as he typically does after surviving another day of middle school.
I told him the news.
His face fell.
The doorbell rang.
Over and over and over again.
My son quickly recovered and said he’d tell everyone they needed to leave. When the doorbell rings repeatedly in the afternoon, we all know what it means. The neighborhood has arrived.
I gathered myself in the kitchen, tending to Zoe. Covering her neatly with the pink blanket and an old bathrobe that she and Pepper claimed as their own at some point during their existence on this earth. Pepper left us last year, so this was the end of the trusty blanket and bathrobe. It was the end of an era.
I wiped my eyes and walked outside to find five to seven children milling about in our driveway. They all looked uncertain, confused. None of them showed any signs of leaving.
“Yeah, this probably isn’t the best time,” I mumbled in the general direction of the growing crowd.
Nobody seemed to pay me much attention. They continued meandering around, climbing on the makeshift tree house, accidentally rolling scooter wheels over each others’ bare toes.
After a few minutes of awkward standing about looking at each other, things began to return to normal. It became clear no one was going to be leaving so we just got on with it.
My 8-year-old daughter seemed completely unfazed. When I went back inside to cry some more while thinking about how Zoe used to crawl up onto my chest when I was lying down and lick my face, my daughter and her best friend followed me. They walked into the kitchen, cupping a hand on the side of their faces to block their view of Zoe’s bed.
“We don’t want to see Zoe,” my daughter said, “but we need to get something.”
Understandable.
“She’s covered up, it’s fine,” I sagely replied.
My daughter and her friend both shrugged in unison. The death of a cherished family pet doesn’t happen every day, but when it does, it’s best to be extremely nonchalant about it.
The girls located whatever it was they were looking for and skipped back out the front door.
…
The neighborhood children stayed at our house the day our dog died. In the end, no one left before their normal departure times. Unlike most days, however, they did stay outside. The inside of the house remained peaceful and quiet. The chaos and noise relegated to the front yard and the squeaky trampoline in the back. Even my oldest eschewed his computer for the remainder of the afternoon.
Maybe that’s the silver lining of having a dog carcass in the kitchen? Less screen time and noise?
Only when the light began to grow short and we had to leave to drive to basketball practice (yes, we still went) did the impromptu vigil/play session break up.
I guess that’s the great thing about kids. Not even death can keep them from their routines. Not even death can put a damper on the fun.
The whole situation was awkward, yes, but it did serve as a nice distraction. Somehow, it helped soften the blow.
And if I’m being honest, it really wasn’t so bad. It’s not like one of the neighbor kids whispered, “Why is Mr. Andrew crying?” literally minutes after I announced the death of our dog.
Oh wait, yes they did.
…
A week or two later, one of the few children from the neighborhood who wasn’t at our house on Dog Death Day stopped by. As she traditionally does, she hopped over our back fence using the old playhouse as a stepstool.
As it turned out, not only had she not been at our house on that fateful day, she didn’t even know Zoe was gone. She walked through our back door, greeted Hades, said hello to the bunnies in their hutch, and then casually asked where Zoe was.
“Oh,” I said hesitantly. “Yeah… about that. Zoe died a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh no,” the girl said, a ripple of sadness moving across her face.
Great. Was this about to get awkward once again?
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the girl continued. “Where are the ashes?”
Yep.
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