Nikki Campo:
My children – 12, 10 and 7 – sat us down to show us their PowerPoint presentation. The slides, designed to convince my husband and me that we needed a second dog, included photos of newborn puppies, potential names and how the kids would contribute.
“Turtle would have a friend!” their last slide read.
Turtle, our shaggy, beige 32-pound labradoodle, was almost 3. From his first puppy weeks, he would stay at my side during the day, glancing up now and then to check in. Each night, he curled up in bed with whichever kid needed him most.
“Maybe it’s not a terrible idea?” I said to my husband, secretly hopeful he’d warm to the idea of a puppy.
My sister’s dog had just delivered a healthy litter, and soon the puppies would need homes. My sister and I had always been close, but she lived in Nashville and I lived in North Carolina, and I didn’t see her nearly as much as I wanted. A chance to adopt one of her pups as a “sibling” to ours felt fun and special.
“Okay,” my husband said. “But,” he continued with his eyes on the kids, “you need to show us you can handle a puppy by taking more responsibility for Turtle now.”
The kids promised to walk, brush and clean up after Turtle, then erupted into squeals.
I smiled at Paul. “Guess we’re adding one to our family of six.”
To celebrate, Paul took the kids out for dinner. I was tired (and grateful for Paul’s willingness to fly solo), so I plopped onto the couch, grabbed the remote and called Turtle.
But he didn’t come. I went searching and found him leaning against the wall at the top of the steps.
He let out a soft growl and gingerly sat, as if in pain. I scooped him up as gently as I could and called Paul to let him know I was heading to the emergency clinic. There, a vet diagnosed Turtle with a spinal condition called intervertebral disc disease, prescribed some pain medications and sent us home.
We drove home to await the “all-clear” call. Instead, with almost no warning, Turtle died.
Not even a day had passed since we had agreed to a “sibling” puppy.
At home, we walked around the house, unsure what to do with our bodies that ached to hold our good boy. My son put on Turtle’s collar like a necklace. My youngest, who couldn’t stop crying, asked if my sister could send videos of the puppies. We watched the sleeping puppies’ bellies move up and down.
The next morning, I stared at Turtle’s water bowl. The house was too quiet without his jingling collar, his dramatic yawns. I dried my eyes and woke everyone for school, knowing the first morning without Turtle would be hard.
Meanwhile, my sister’s puppies started opening their eyes. Tiny white and black creatures who were changing, it seemed, by the hour.
Our neighbour’s dog, Bertie, became a welcome distraction. My kids borrowed the orange and white spaniel for snuggles at our house several nights in a row.
“Mom,” my son said one night with Bertie in his lap. “Could we invite a bunch of dogs over to play? Like a party in Turtle’s honor?”
I understood the desire. I’d asked to pet every dog I passed and looked forward to Bertie’s visits as much as the kids.
“Turtle would want us to do this,” he pleaded.
And so, the idea for a celebration of life for Turtle was born.
The kids designed invitations with pictures of Turtle and his best chocolate Lab buddy, Rivers, that read, “Come Celebrate Turtle’s Life” and “Dogs welcome, humans tolerated.” They made a list of nearby dogs and stuffed yellow envelopes with invitations and Milk Bones, then biked around the neighbourhood to deliver them.
The morning of the party, we baked cookies for humans and picked up doggy doughnuts at a local pet bakery. The kids hung signs from our fence and scattered dog toys throughout the yard. They Scotch-taped paper paw prints to the patio leading to a display of treats and a photo clothesline of Turtle.
Our yard looked party-worthy, but I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would people and dogs actually show up? Would the dogs get along? And would my kids feel better or worse surrounded by other people’s pets?
To my surprise, 13 dogs and 40 people showed up that day. Some dogs chased each other, while others relaxed with a chew toy. They all wanted belly scratches. I looked around my yard, sopping up the joyful energy.
In the delightful chaos, my kids seemed happy.
We gathered the crowd for a slideshow, and my son read a eulogy, a word he’d learned that week in preparation for the party. “Turtle was more than just a pet. He was my brother,” he said to the silent crowd, his voice shaking. I saw a few people wipe their eyes.
In the weeks that followed, we told more funny stories and fewer sad ones. We framed our favorite pictures. We awaited new puppy videos from my sister.
