Author: Emily

(A Submission for World Childless Week 2025)

Dear Kirby,

It’s been 6 months now; I am still struggling to explain to others how hard it’s been since you’ve been gone. I’ve tried to write them down in some meaningful way about this grief I have for you, but everything just comes out hazy and incoherent. So instead, I decided to write you a letter. 

Seeing cows or horses at the side of the road will always remind me of your soulful bark. Coming home after a walk or drive will bring me back to the all the time you got so excited knowing we were “almost home.” Turning in for the night and saying. “Big bed?” to you will bring back the times you eagerly jumped off the couch to run into the bedroom. Every single night. 

Everywhere I looked, heard, or touched made me wish you were at my side. I wanted my shadow back; I wanted my bathroom buddy, my toothbrush companion. I still look for you when I step out of the shower. I still dream of picking you up and holding you until you squirmed out of my arms. I still pray for the times you’d burrow into my lap or between my legs during “Ohana Couch Time.” Every night in bed I still reach out to my left side, hoping you were there sleeping next to me. 

You were my security blanket; having you was such comfort. I’ve missed your exuberant greetings when we came home. I miss your squeals and sloppy kisses; bad breath and all. You were the one who made me feel safe, and I never realized how much a presence you were until you were gone. 

After all, you were the one little soul I would go to for comfort when I grieved about my infertility and other losses. Except now, you are the one that I’m grieving about. 

GUILT TRIP 

We knew we were going on an extended vacation without you for the first time. Since joining our family 11 years ago, we never took a family vacation without you; we never wanted to exclude you from our “Ohana Adventures.” So, this two-week trip for an Australia / New Zealand cruise was the first time we wouldn’t have you by our side. 

We thought it would be easy to find a person to take care of you for 2 weeks, as our family and friends always offered to babysit you while we were gone. But when Kira joined us, we knew it would be too much to ask of them. Boarding was our only option, though leaving you with strangers who didn’t know you and your quirks didn’t appeal to us. 

We also knew you had kidney problems leaving you with little appetite. That’s why we prepared an extensive list for your caregivers at the kennel to make sure you took your meds. We even asked if they could sit with you during meals to ensure you would eat. Both you and Kira had been there for daycare before, so we knew we were leaving you in good hands.

Before Christmas last year, I started to prep the two of you. While cuddling, I would take your head and smooth your entire face and eyes (and those velvet ears, too) with my thumb. I would look into your eyes to say, “I am always in your heart, just like you are always in mine.” Which was eventually shortened down to: 

“I am in yours and your are in mine” 

That was my mantra to both of you. Or for me. It just helped calm my anxiety about leaving you both. 

The last memory I have of you was the day we dropped you off; knowing it’d be a long time before we’d see you again. You & Kira were so eager to play; you were already squirming to get out of my arms. I held you tighter for a bit and told you to wait a minute so I could get one last nuzzle on your neck, one more kiss on that heart on your head; one last and “I am in yours, and you are in mine.” When the staff took you from my arms, I remember that you happily looked back at me as I called out, “Be good! Have fun! We’ll be back soon!” 

That memory repeats in my head daily. I watched as you looked back at me with those big brown eyes and silly smile of yours before turning forward. To date, I am still so hyper-focused on that moment. I realize that I must have been looking for some sign to tell me that this was the last time I’d see or touch you. 

I think that my heart knew you would be traveling to the Rainbow bridge this year, but I refused to acknowledge it. About two weeks before our trip, were more clingy than usual; staying by my side on your own accord more than normal. There was no more, “pretend growl” every night when I kissed that heart on your head. There was little resistance when I wanted to hold your paw while we cuddled. Suddenly, you were just there. I should have recognized your actions were trying to tell me something, but I did not. And that’s one of my biggest regrets. 

TRIPPING OUT 

On the third day of our cruise, your caregivers contacted us. They said that they were struggling to feed you. We asked them to take you to your Vet, who quickly recommended that you should be taken to the Emergency Vet. 

I panicked at the thought of you at a new place being treated by unfamiliar doctors. I was anxious about them performing new procedures on you without a familiar face around for comfort. I wanted to be there to support you; to encourage you to get better. Instead, I was now on a ship. In the middle of an ocean. On the other side of the world. With a 16-hour time difference. 

We found out that you were weak and extremely dehydrated. An X-ray showed that you had acute pancreatitis. Worse, it showed you had a large, slow-growing tumor in your belly … which was likely the cause of your kidney issues. The immediate plan was to give you fluids overnight and monitor your response. If you recovered well overnight, then you should be strong enough to eat on your own. 

The next day, the Dogtor told us that despite all the fluids, you were still very weak and could barely lift your head. They tried to stand you upright, but your legs would buckle prompting you to lay back down. She offered to put a tube down your nose to get the necessary nutrition you needed. Unfortunately, she didn’t think this treatment would be sustainable for more than a week, and we’d be gone for the next 2 weeks. She even told us that she wasn’t sure you’d be strong enough to have surgery to remove the tumor. 

Though she didn’t say these exact words, I knew (as a nurse) she was describing a medical term called “Failure to Thrive.” After answering all our questions, we told her we would call her back soon after we made our decision. 

The thing is, Kirby, that as a nurse, the moment she hinted at “Failure to Thrive,” we knew what our decision would be. We both broke down and sobbed knowing we couldn’t be there to physically hold you and hug you at that moment. 

BON VOYAGE 

It killed us knowing that Dad & I couldn’t be there with you, Kirby. We really, really wanted to be the one to hold your paw. To stroke your head. To kiss that heart on your head one last time. It should have been your Daddio and me. 

That’s why we sent your Lola and Auntie to be next to you, to be there in our place as someone who loved you almost as much as we did. We asked them to Face Time with us so we could see and speak to you one last time.

We saw in your eyes how frightened you were; how exhausted you looked. We’re pretty sure you heard everything we said to you as you lifted your head slightly and looked at us with those beautiful eyes of yours. We talked about how much of a Good Bubba you were and how much we loved you, remember? 

Maybe you heard or saw it, but after your last breath, I broke out into sobs. All I kept saying was, “My baby! My baby boy is gone!” I felt my whole world crumble underneath me.

My first “child.” Gone. 

SPIRITED AWAY 

This brings me to why it’s so hard to explain to others why you are extra special to me. I felt that you were ours the minute you were placed in my arms. The warmth of your chest, the slap of your tail on my right arm, the complete happiness you exuded … I just knew you belonged to our Ohana. Then somehow you became something more; you became my spirit animal. You became part of me, part of my spirit. 

Since we couldn’t have kids, you became OUR son. You were the child we couldn’t have; the one we hoped to nurture and love. You gave me a reason to wake up every morning. You (and Daddy, too) were the only motivation I needed to put one step in front of the other. That made me so very happy, and it had been a long time since I felt that happiness. 

Though it’s a generalized assumption of mine, I honestly don’t think anyone, not even past infertility friends/couples who have found closure with infertility (either with or without kids, by choice or not) could truly understand the belief of treating a “pet” as a child. I felt that even though I didn’t physically give birth to you, you were a part of me. We shared the same spirit; we embodied parts of each other so closely that I felt we could read one another’s emotions. I truly feel we embraced the whole “I am in you; you are in me” part. 

SOUVENIR GIFTS 

Having you helped with the grief I had when I thought about being “childless.” You and Kira had been a great excuse when people asked if we have kids. Better yet, you were also a GREAT excuse not to stay out late. (“Gotta get home to the dogs!”)   

You were TRULY the most helpful whenever we saw or heard about births and corresponding “First” announcements.  Even news about graduations, weddings, showers, and grandkids — — all those things I can only celebrate as a guest or be participant — were much easier to handle. 

Your gift (and Kira’s, too) of the unconditional love amazed us. We saw how excited you both were to greet us whenever we returned home. You both were such good sports whenever I dressed you up and take pictures; allowing me to share your antics on social media. 

Your complete trust in us fulfilled my dream of being a Mother. I finally felt that maternal instinct; the the responsibility of caring for someone so deeply and unconditionally. I finally knew how it felt having someone’s livelihood depended on me. Though we may not have been genetically linked, you have and always a part of my heart … and I can only hope that you feel the same way. 

GROUP EXCURSIONS

Before infertility, your Daddy and I used to enjoy speaking with others. Momma was a social butterfly at one time, but infertility made me reluctant to make new friends. At that time, infertility was a taboo subject, and it made those going through it feel ashamed and broken. The longer we lived through infertility, the more introverted we became. 

As an infertile couple, we were less relatable. It was hard to find childless people around us who could be empathetic to our struggles. We couldn’t relate to old friends; those who were newly married, starting their families, or committed to their professions. And many women or couples felt uncomfortable when they found us childless. 

But WOW, that changed when you became part of our family. You gave us confidence by instantly winning everyone’s heart. We constantly had people stop us and ask if they could pet you. You always wanted the attention, and we usually obliged as we were so proud to show you off. These interactions led us to speaking with people, and having conversations about topics other than kids, sports, or the weather. 

It was your personality that helped us come out of our shells. With you and Kira, we felt comfortable relating to other people. You were always a good conversation-starter.  You made us feel less socially awkward. 

Eventually this led me to create your Instagram account. Showing off your HUGE personality though social media brought new friendships through the #GrumpyBeaglesUnited 💪🏼 community. True fact: We have met so many of your “friends” and their owners in real life during our road trips. I even went on a California vacation for a “Grumpy Beagle Parents” meet-up. To date, I consider those we’ve met very good friends. These same friends were the ones that help us with our grief. 

Since hearing that you’ve passed, countless other Instagram followers have expressed how much you meant to them. (I truly can’t believe the number of people that followed you for all these years!) They’ve told me that you brought smiles to their faces with all your silly #KirbyThoughts 💭 and antics. That just confirms what we’ve already known; that you are pure unadulterated joy. That’s how special you are, Kirby. 

You, Kirby. You … my Spirit Animal, my Baby Boy. 

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

I hope you have everything you want at the Rainbow Bridge. I hope you’re having the best zoomies of all time. You deserve it. You have provided unwavering, unconditional love to our Ohana. You’ve rightfully earned your wings. Run free, my child. 

You will always and forever be in my heart, Kirby. 

Love, Momma