This is the most absolute beautiful tribute to our gorgeous boy. How do we live without him? Seems impossible. I love the way you have told the story of his last physical day with us, so I never forget how much we loved him and how we made sure he had everything he needed. I think we did right by our man, nomatter how much it hurt
You did both more than right by him. He gave you and Gloria his whole life, and I know it was a wonderful life by how you both speak about him. You gave him exactly what he needed for a peaceful passing. Holding you both with so much love in my (always broken) heart for my late Spotty girl (cat) gone a year, and my late Lisa (partner) gone eleven years). Lovely tribute to life, death, and living in the present moment, which is all we have. Carly Simon sang (Coming Around Again) “there’s more room in a broken heart.”
Beautiful words about our dear Shelby He loved everyone,not judging,just there for everyone. He touched everyone’s life he came in contact with.My most memorable times are when he would come to greet me and immediately lean into me with his whole body like a giant hug.Rest in peace big guy miss you always
By the end of reading, my tears were falling freely.
Yes—it’s true, what others wrote: those who are dying often know. I’ve witnessed it too many times not to believe that.
My grandmother didn’t want anyone from our family near her when she was dying. She’d worked most of her life in our local hospital, but chose to go to the “rival” hospital in the next city to die—on her terms, with no one who knew her.
I sat with my mother when her cancer-ridden body took its last breath. In that final moment, as she pressed my hand faintly before that deep inhale and soft exhale, I felt her let go completely—and somehow, we made peace. With my wife, I gave that moment over to her daughters, though I know she would have rather had me beside her. She couldn’t speak near the end, yet when I told her that I’d stayed away so they could be there, she let me know, in her way, that it was okay. And when she died, though I wasn’t in the room, I felt it. I was sitting at my desk, and suddenly I went cold—as if something sacred had left my body too.
In between, I helped end my brother’s life, the way you helped Shelby cross. He had suffered an unrepairable brain injury in a car accident and had been in a coma for a year. When his organs began to fail, we were asked whether they should still attempt resuscitation. His partner and I said no. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make: to let my brother go at 29.
Sometimes, as we say in German, “Besser ein Ende mit Schrecken, als ein Schrecken ohne Ende.” Better an end with horror than a horror without end.
All these losses—alongside my own near-death experience in 1985—have led me to one thing: gratitude. I am grateful for the time we had. Even when they caused me pain, even when it was complex. I’m grateful for the joy, for the memories, for everything they enabled—even despite what they couldn’t.
I no longer grieve the time we never got. I grieve only what we shared—and had to release.
After my wife died. After my cat Becky. What helped me most was this: not dwelling on what’s no longer mine, but honoring what was.
And Shelby—Shelby was love made fur. Everything you wrote is proof of that.
Thank you for writing this. Thank you for letting us witness the holiness of his last day. I see it. I feel it. And I’m holding it with you.
Silke, thank you for your kind words. And I believe it’s the other way round. The more challenges we face the more options we are having available the counter future one.
A friend once said that strong people often get handed even more by life.
It might be a spiritual thought — and I’m not even really that way inclined — but I liked the idea.
Precisely because we’re strong, we get that extra helping of burden.
And we go looking for things, too, because we’re caretakers.
If you weren’t the way you are, you wouldn’t have taken on the responsibility for your brother or your wife, and you wouldn’t have stayed with them to the end.
It’s the same for me.
Many other people turn around and walk away.
We take things on because we feel with others.
Just like you stepped back and made space for your partner’s daughters.
What I’m trying to say is:
There’s often that extra load handed to us by fate, whatever fate is.
And we often take that extra load because we don’t run from pain or loss.
However, that also makes it especially difficult for us.
Silke, I hear the spirit of care in your words, and I understand where this thought comes from. And I want to gently offer a different view.
I do not believe life hands us burdens because we are strong, nor do I believe we “draw in” hardship through our care or capacity. That is a story that too often veils systemic injustice, generational dynamics, or simple, unexplainable chance with a layer of spiritual causality.
Strength may help us respond to what comes, and empathy may lead us to step in where others turn away. Yet none of this means we ought to carry more, or that it is somehow fitting or fated when we do.
For me, what matters is not why burdens appear—it is how we meet them, how we care for ourselves and others, and how we choose what to carry forward and what to lay down.
I'm currently waiting for the same ting with Cookie Kitty, who's been the light of my life for the past 18 years - an extra long time for a little black cat.
My Afghan vet/musical play writer/cleaning person and I just gave her a bath - turns out she really is still a black cat! - and she's very happy to be able to groom herself. I think we just added time for her.
Such a beautiful tribute to Shelby. At 72 I’ve lost so many furbabies. Some tragically through trauma, some before their time to strokes or cancer, and some through old age after a lifetime of love given and received. None was easy. Your words here were like stroking the softest velvet to my soul. Thank you.
What a beautiful walk over the rainbow bridge you two went with Shelby. I also think you did right by him, lovingly letting go, allowing him to run the rain again, pain free.
I love the story you shared about the little boy and his lack of fear while dying.
It reminds me of another true story I heard a few years ago, perhaps you know it…
There was a family taking their dog to the the vet, to allow the vet to aid in his death. When the time came, the vet asked the boy if he wanted to leave the room, and he said nope. Later, the boy was peaceful, quiet, mourning yet not crying. The vet asked him about how he felt about their beloved dog’s death, and the boy answered, “I think that we’re all here to learn how to love… and dogs just learn it faster than people do.” ♥️💔💔❤️🩹
Every time I have been blessed to visit Shelby's home full of love, I wasn't super interactive. I would talk to him, and sometimes pet his head a little -- this is me, being careful of the dog allergies I have that can flare up unexpectedly. But now I curse that carefulness and wish I could hug his giant, sweet face one final time. We too have done the overnight watch, the waking every few minutes to check breathing and demeanor. And it's the confirmation of the decision and the dreadful next day's goodbye - we are doing the right thing. Your description of Shelby's last evening and day are so familiar, and so accurate - as much as we love them, they do those final acts for us, out of their love for us. It won't be the last time I cry about Shelby, but my tears are mixed with how profoundly grateful I am to have spent time with him. So much love to all of you.
The last, best loving thing we do for our fur babies......being next to them as they journey on. We'll still be missing them and crying at odd times (like right now) when a memory surfaces, but they know we loved them and that's all we need to know. Thanks for sharing.
Full throated cry came out as I read your sweet post. Our dear Reba is 14 and wears this same harness. She has saved my little family so many times. We semi joke that she is our daughter’s sibling. She is one of us and I know I’m going to be in your shoes one day way too soon. I’ve been privileged to say goodbye to 4 beautiful cats in my life, but never a dog. Thank you for lighting the way. Deepest condolences for your loss. Thank you for sharing.
We were adopted by a pit bull mix (no, really!) last summer who was likely abandoned by a backyard breeder. I am astounded at how attached we’ve become to her—•I’ve• become. So I comprehend this tender tribute far more now than I would have a year ago. Thank you…and may you have nothing but fond memories of your time together…
Thank you, Julie. Hugs to you, too.
This is the most absolute beautiful tribute to our gorgeous boy. How do we live without him? Seems impossible. I love the way you have told the story of his last physical day with us, so I never forget how much we loved him and how we made sure he had everything he needed. I think we did right by our man, nomatter how much it hurt
Condolences to you, Crystal.
You did both more than right by him. He gave you and Gloria his whole life, and I know it was a wonderful life by how you both speak about him. You gave him exactly what he needed for a peaceful passing. Holding you both with so much love in my (always broken) heart for my late Spotty girl (cat) gone a year, and my late Lisa (partner) gone eleven years). Lovely tribute to life, death, and living in the present moment, which is all we have. Carly Simon sang (Coming Around Again) “there’s more room in a broken heart.”
Beautiful. Tender. Written with grace and love. Gentlest of hugs from me to you ❤️
Beautiful words about our dear Shelby He loved everyone,not judging,just there for everyone. He touched everyone’s life he came in contact with.My most memorable times are when he would come to greet me and immediately lean into me with his whole body like a giant hug.Rest in peace big guy miss you always
Our leanin’ Berger ♥️
Gloria,
By the end of reading, my tears were falling freely.
Yes—it’s true, what others wrote: those who are dying often know. I’ve witnessed it too many times not to believe that.
My grandmother didn’t want anyone from our family near her when she was dying. She’d worked most of her life in our local hospital, but chose to go to the “rival” hospital in the next city to die—on her terms, with no one who knew her.
I sat with my mother when her cancer-ridden body took its last breath. In that final moment, as she pressed my hand faintly before that deep inhale and soft exhale, I felt her let go completely—and somehow, we made peace. With my wife, I gave that moment over to her daughters, though I know she would have rather had me beside her. She couldn’t speak near the end, yet when I told her that I’d stayed away so they could be there, she let me know, in her way, that it was okay. And when she died, though I wasn’t in the room, I felt it. I was sitting at my desk, and suddenly I went cold—as if something sacred had left my body too.
In between, I helped end my brother’s life, the way you helped Shelby cross. He had suffered an unrepairable brain injury in a car accident and had been in a coma for a year. When his organs began to fail, we were asked whether they should still attempt resuscitation. His partner and I said no. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make: to let my brother go at 29.
Sometimes, as we say in German, “Besser ein Ende mit Schrecken, als ein Schrecken ohne Ende.” Better an end with horror than a horror without end.
All these losses—alongside my own near-death experience in 1985—have led me to one thing: gratitude. I am grateful for the time we had. Even when they caused me pain, even when it was complex. I’m grateful for the joy, for the memories, for everything they enabled—even despite what they couldn’t.
I no longer grieve the time we never got. I grieve only what we shared—and had to release.
After my wife died. After my cat Becky. What helped me most was this: not dwelling on what’s no longer mine, but honoring what was.
And Shelby—Shelby was love made fur. Everything you wrote is proof of that.
Thank you for writing this. Thank you for letting us witness the holiness of his last day. I see it. I feel it. And I’m holding it with you.
With love,
Jay
Beautiful!
Thank you Judith
Oh, Jay, it is beautifully written. Thank you for sharing your story. The stronger one is, the more they have to endure. You are very strong and wise.
Silke, thank you for your kind words. And I believe it’s the other way round. The more challenges we face the more options we are having available the counter future one.
I know, that is the logical solution.
However, I meant it exactly as I wrote it.
A friend once said that strong people often get handed even more by life.
It might be a spiritual thought — and I’m not even really that way inclined — but I liked the idea.
Precisely because we’re strong, we get that extra helping of burden.
And we go looking for things, too, because we’re caretakers.
If you weren’t the way you are, you wouldn’t have taken on the responsibility for your brother or your wife, and you wouldn’t have stayed with them to the end.
It’s the same for me.
Many other people turn around and walk away.
We take things on because we feel with others.
Just like you stepped back and made space for your partner’s daughters.
What I’m trying to say is:
There’s often that extra load handed to us by fate, whatever fate is.
And we often take that extra load because we don’t run from pain or loss.
However, that also makes it especially difficult for us.
Silke, I hear the spirit of care in your words, and I understand where this thought comes from. And I want to gently offer a different view.
I do not believe life hands us burdens because we are strong, nor do I believe we “draw in” hardship through our care or capacity. That is a story that too often veils systemic injustice, generational dynamics, or simple, unexplainable chance with a layer of spiritual causality.
Strength may help us respond to what comes, and empathy may lead us to step in where others turn away. Yet none of this means we ought to carry more, or that it is somehow fitting or fated when we do.
For me, what matters is not why burdens appear—it is how we meet them, how we care for ourselves and others, and how we choose what to carry forward and what to lay down.
You are wise, and that's why I love that we met here on Substack!
💔💙
If tears were words they would shout from the roof tops…hurrah, hurrah,and then Hurrah.
You are truly living in The Flow
Bless your tribe.
Kath Cotter age 80…
Thank you for feeling my tears/words Kath Cotter
Your story is compelling and draws the Universal heart strings of all who have, and will, read it. You are an accomplished writer. But you know this.
God bless you in the work you call writing. You have found your home. Stay in the Flow. Kath Cotter (Lloyd).
Magnificent piece…soft and gentle with powerful emotions. Thank you.
My own experience tells me they don’t leave. Unfair of us maybe but our love holds them close. And they are.🙏
I'm currently waiting for the same ting with Cookie Kitty, who's been the light of my life for the past 18 years - an extra long time for a little black cat.
My heart is with you, Tom. ❤️
So sorry to hear it. Mine went of the Rainbow Bridge two years ago 17.5 years. It is so hart for us to let them go.
My Afghan vet/musical play writer/cleaning person and I just gave her a bath - turns out she really is still a black cat! - and she's very happy to be able to groom herself. I think we just added time for her.
For sure.
Such a beautiful tribute to Shelby. At 72 I’ve lost so many furbabies. Some tragically through trauma, some before their time to strokes or cancer, and some through old age after a lifetime of love given and received. None was easy. Your words here were like stroking the softest velvet to my soul. Thank you.
What a beautiful walk over the rainbow bridge you two went with Shelby. I also think you did right by him, lovingly letting go, allowing him to run the rain again, pain free.
I love the story you shared about the little boy and his lack of fear while dying.
It reminds me of another true story I heard a few years ago, perhaps you know it…
There was a family taking their dog to the the vet, to allow the vet to aid in his death. When the time came, the vet asked the boy if he wanted to leave the room, and he said nope. Later, the boy was peaceful, quiet, mourning yet not crying. The vet asked him about how he felt about their beloved dog’s death, and the boy answered, “I think that we’re all here to learn how to love… and dogs just learn it faster than people do.” ♥️💔💔❤️🩹
Every time I have been blessed to visit Shelby's home full of love, I wasn't super interactive. I would talk to him, and sometimes pet his head a little -- this is me, being careful of the dog allergies I have that can flare up unexpectedly. But now I curse that carefulness and wish I could hug his giant, sweet face one final time. We too have done the overnight watch, the waking every few minutes to check breathing and demeanor. And it's the confirmation of the decision and the dreadful next day's goodbye - we are doing the right thing. Your description of Shelby's last evening and day are so familiar, and so accurate - as much as we love them, they do those final acts for us, out of their love for us. It won't be the last time I cry about Shelby, but my tears are mixed with how profoundly grateful I am to have spent time with him. So much love to all of you.
The last, best loving thing we do for our fur babies......being next to them as they journey on. We'll still be missing them and crying at odd times (like right now) when a memory surfaces, but they know we loved them and that's all we need to know. Thanks for sharing.
That all could be loved, like Shelby🫶
Full throated cry came out as I read your sweet post. Our dear Reba is 14 and wears this same harness. She has saved my little family so many times. We semi joke that she is our daughter’s sibling. She is one of us and I know I’m going to be in your shoes one day way too soon. I’ve been privileged to say goodbye to 4 beautiful cats in my life, but never a dog. Thank you for lighting the way. Deepest condolences for your loss. Thank you for sharing.
We were adopted by a pit bull mix (no, really!) last summer who was likely abandoned by a backyard breeder. I am astounded at how attached we’ve become to her—•I’ve• become. So I comprehend this tender tribute far more now than I would have a year ago. Thank you…and may you have nothing but fond memories of your time together…