August 18 has come again.
For some people, that is just a date on the calendar. For me, it is the moment my world changed. This post lives honestly in the space of grief, so if that’s not where you are today, save it for another time. No pressure.
You would think that after four years of him no longer physically being here, the pain of his passing would lessen or diminish. You’d be somewhat right. Not every day hurts. Not every moment hurts like it did in the beginning. But there are moments, and there are days, like today, where it is extremely painful, almost impossible, to get through.
I look at his pictures everywhere, and that hole in my heart where he was starts bleeding anew with pain. I find myself almost unable to breathe with the amount of heartache that I feel.
The day of his passing is one I will never forget, no matter how much I wish. It is a vivid memory in my brain. It’s funny, and it’s not, how the most painful moments in your life become the most vivid ones. You can picture where you were. You can picture what you were doing. You can almost picture in your mind what you were thinking and what you were feeling.
The Phone Call
I was going camping with a group of friends. Dempsey was staying back with other friends, because where we were camping there could possibly be bears, and I didn’t know how the bears would react to Dempsey, or how Dempsey would react to the bears. So I thought it was best that Dempsey stay in the Twin Cities, where I knew he was safe.
That day was cloudy and rainy. As we drove north, it seemed like the rain would never stop.
As we were getting close to the campsite, I got a call. It was from my aunt. I found it a little odd that she was calling me. I vaguely remember that phone call. Over the last few years, she’s filled in the blanks a little bit.
I do remember not believing her. He couldn’t be gone. He was only six years old. He’d had surgery a little over a year before to install a pacemaker, and the doctor had assured me he would have as normal and happy a life as you could have with a pacemaker. There were no symptoms, no signs, that he was in pain or distress. He was one of those dogs that just kept going, just kept moving, despite everything life threw at him. He was one of those dogs that, I guess, was just gonna go until he couldn’t anymore.
I remember getting off the phone, and my friend who was driving looked at me and could tell something was wrong. I told them. We made it to the campsite. The rain stopped just long enough for my friend to get out and meet up with our other friends, and they told everyone what happened. I sat in the car by myself and took that moment to cry. To scream.
When my friend came back, I took a deep breath. I wiped my eyes and got out of the car. Most of our crew had already shown up, and we gathered under an awning because it was sprinkling. We chatted. Then, matter-of-factly, we told them Dempsey had died. Straight to the point: no sugarcoating, no emotion, just that he had died.
The Weekend I Couldn’t Stay
I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was four hours from home. My friends helped me put up my tent, but I didn’t have the heart to set it up like I normally did, so it was bare — just my air mattress and my sleeping bag.
I didn’t even know if I wanted to stay the whole weekend. My mind was whirling in a hundred different directions. Do I stay? Do I go? My friends completely understood whatever decision I made, and they told me they’d support me however they could.
I don’t remember much from that night. I remember talking. I remember being tired and just wanting to go to bed. I got in my tent and laid there, and I quietly cried, quietly let my breaking heart bleed out onto the floor of my tent.
I couldn’t stay. I needed to go home.
Thankfully, my friend who was watching Dempsey had taken him to the University of Minnesota, even though there was nothing they could do to help him — he had already passed. They offered to store his remains until I could come in and figure out next steps. My friend told me I had time, that I didn’t need to go right away, but that I should go soon, because as time goes on, bodies break down no matter how well they’re stored. That’s when I decided to go home.
I texted my aunt, who texted one of my other friends, and the three of us coordinated. My friend agreed to get up early the next morning, drive the four hours to pick me up, and then drive the four hours back to the Twin Cities.
You’d think I would’ve slept. I didn’t — not a wink. I was up all night, my head spinning, my heart breaking. I tried. I just couldn’t.
The next morning it was still raining. I don’t know if it had never stopped, or if it had started up again. My camping friends are amazing. They helped me break down my wet tent, and we stuffed it into a bag.
My friend showed up, we loaded everything into the car, and we drove. I don’t remember what was said. I don’t remember the conversation. I don’t even remember if we stopped for breakfast, though I don’t think we did. Rain, all the way back to the Twin Cities. Got home. Dropped off my stuff.
Saying Goodbye
I’d been in touch with another friend, Dempsey’s former trainer, and she offered to drive me to the University of Minnesota so I could see Dempsey and make proper arrangements. She pulled up, and it was still raining.
We drove. In the rain.
Again, like every other conversation that weekend, I don’t remember what was said.
We got to the university. I told them who I was and why I was there. I’m thankful they had a room for us to sit in. They brought Dempsey in on a wagon, covered up to his head with a blanket. Seeing him lying there, my heart broke all over again.
I paused for a minute. Some part of me wondered if he was just sleeping, if he was going to wake up and this would turn out to be a cruel joke. We sat there in silence. I touched his head. It was cold. He wasn’t coming back. I reached under the blanket and held his paw.
Four Years Later
I don’t tell this story to make you cry. Heck, I don’t tell it to make myself cry, even though that’s what I’m doing as I write this.
I write it as a kind of catharsis — a way to get feelings out that I’ve held onto these past four years. Often, when a loved one, or a loved pet, passes, it feels hard to tell others what you’re feeling or how you felt in that moment, especially once time has passed and everyone else has “moved on.” But you still live in that grief, in those moments, on the days when it’s fresh. When that wound opens back up, you’re in it, even while others aren’t.
Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t feel sorry for Dempsey. Know that he was loved beyond measure, and that I tell these stories and share these memories so that he lives on. I’m a strong believer that as long as someone is remembered, as long as someone is talked about, as long as their name is still spoken, they are never, ever truly gone. They stay a part of you, and a part of everyone who knew them, or who’s only ever heard the stories.
I strongly believe that 10 years, 25 years, heck, maybe even 50 years down the road, someone will have a moment, and they’ll remember Dempsey, and they’ll smile.
I had Janis Ian’s “Days Like These” on repeat while I wrote this. It’s a song about waiting on rain that won’t come, about the toll certain years take on a person, and about choosing, in the end, to make peace with the hard days rather than be undone by them. It felt like the right song for today. Maybe it always will be.
If you want the fuller picture of who Dempsey was, Dempsey: Where It All Began is where that story starts. And if this stirred up something tender, Wondering Who Would They Be sits in that same space.
Resources
If you’re navigating grief and could use some support, a few places to start:
- Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement: Online support groups and resources specifically for people grieving the loss of a pet, including scheduled chat support groups.
- Pet Loss Support Page: A long-running online community with support resources, memorial pages, and a Monday evening chat group for those in grief.
- SAMHSA National Helpline: Free, confidential mental health and emotional distress support, available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
Have you ever lost someone or something suddenly, without warning? I’d love to hear about it in the comments, if you’re up for sharing.
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