By Jen Rinaldi

An Unthinkable Accident

The worst sound any dog owner can hear is a scream of pain. In those split seconds, the world seems to stop as you realize something irreversible has happened. 

Our beloved Sully, always careful and never reckless, leapt from the top stair after an elk—something he had never done before. That single act, so out of character, would lead to his passing, and now we find ourselves living through the stages of grief.

I was in denial as I rushed down the stairs. He was already up but limping—I hoped he would just shake this off. I was angry that I hadn’t been fast enough to stop him. Then I bargained with myself. “It will disappear in a day if I let him rest.” I clung to the hope that he would be back to normal soon.

My heart sank at the reality of things as his condition only worsened. I made the appointment to have him seen immediately, knowing deep down that this was life-changing for us all.

Sage but Bitter Words

A few days later, when a second opinion was given, Sully had stopped even trying to walk around the house. He would stay on his mat, his eyes pleading with me to do something. It was decided that surgery—even though we had insurance—was simply not an option considering Sully’s injuries and his age. The veterinarian looked me in the eye and shared a difficult truth: “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” Her words carried wisdom, but they were hard to accept. It’s a reminder that sometimes the best decision is the hardest one, and even wise counsel can cut to the heart when it means letting go of someone you love.

Great times with a friend

From the time Sully was old enough, we walked together every day but Sunday—two to four miles, rain or shine. Those daily paths became our shared ritual, a rhythm that grounded both of us. I am a healthier person because of him. Lighter in pounds and in spirit. Those steps together changed me in ways that I am still discovering, leading me to patience and resolve that I never had before. He made me take time for myself.

Even though the thought of walking those routes alone feels unbearable. I live fondly in the steps of our years together and where it has brought us.

Some might say, “He’s just a dog,” but those who have loved a pet know that animals often share a deeper bond with us than many human friends. We were partners. Sully was more than a companion; he was a confidant, a source of unconditional love, as much a constant in my life as the tufts of fur that still linger under the bed where he loved to den. His wagging, curled tail and gentle eyes could lift my spirits on the darkest days, and his presence brought comfort that words will never fully capture.

Now, I feel as if I’ve lost my mojo — this final week of penance now complete. 

The studio was our shared space; everything around me, from the leash hanging on the wall with my walking bag to the well-worn doorknob that led outside, reminds me of him. His absence is palpable, leaving an ache that seems to permeate every corner of home and heart. 

Loss is a rollercoaster.

The stages of grieving are not linear; some days my husband and I find ourselves heartbroken at the unfairness, some days numb, others flooded with memories both sweet and sad. 

It’s ironic this passing happened during the Lenten season, a season of solemn but hopeful rebirth. Because our time together reminds me of all I have gained. My health, my mind, and my heart have all improved with the wag of a tail.

During our walks, we met neighbors and hikers alike who would ask what kind of dog he was, and Sully was always patient while I explained. I grew confident in his ability to judge the character of the person I was speaking to; subtle shifts in his body language told me all I needed to know. 

At shows, we met fellow dog show enthusiasts. The Canaan dog community always treated us like family, commenting on the pictures of Sully on social media. On market days, many who saw the portrait I painted of him on my table would inquire about him and order their own portraits.

As I look at the rally ribbons on the wall, I smile because even in the most sorrowful of moments, there were glimpses of beauty and humor. Sully, being a dog of his own mind, always had the judges and competitors laughing when he would, after completing a rally course, scoot out of the ring on his behind. Two different times he did this, there are videos! It was his way of saying thanks, but no thanks. 

He turned nine this year, and before his last event, I told him it was fine to retire with a memorable farewell. Ever the obedient guy, he did not disappoint as he slid out with style—After all, three’s a charm. Well met, Sully, well met!

He kept bringing remarkable people into my life, even at the end. As journeys go, he has been a great tour director and breed ambassador. Thanks to Jane, a dear dog club friend, I found a compassionate vet, Cathy from White Mountain Animal Hospital, and a cremation provider, Sydney from Pawprints on the Woodlands, who came to our home and helped him find rest. I am at peace knowing he was able to be 

at home. 

He leaves behind not only John and me, but two cats who thought him their warden. Sully always made sure that no one scratched the furniture or played too rough. Now, even Elle and Zac sense the loss as they peek around the corners as if to say, “Hey ma, where is our brother?”

Grieving Together: The Importance of Sharing 

Grief is a powerful emotion, and whether it stems from the loss of a loved one with two legs or four, it is an experience that is deeply real and should not be faced alone. 

Anne, the editor of Outdoors SW, encouraged me to write about my experience while the loss was still fresh. Putting these feelings into words has been a helpful process, allowing me to heal and find comfort in expressing my emotions. For this support and encouragement, I am forever grateful.

It is important to talk about your grief. Sharing your story can ease the burden and remind you that you are not alone, no matter the form your loss takes. The White Mountains thankfully has several great counseling options.

There is no shortcut through loss, especially when it comes to a soul as gentle and loyal as Sully’s, so now as I write this, I dream of seeing him again. In the Robin Williams movie “What Dreams May Come,” there is a scene where Robin Williams makes it to heaven and the first creature he meets is his Dalmatian. He quips, “I must have really screwed up to be in dog heaven.” I wouldn’t mind starting in that heavenly space, surrounded by my beloved furry friends.

I know that in time, the pain will soften and the memories will bring comfort rather than pain. For now, though, it feels like it was never long enough—we never get enough time with those we love, whether or not they are human. Yet, the bond we shared is proof that love transcends time, and Sully’s spirit will remain with me in every footstep, even when it’s another dog that walks beside me.