The 'Always' of Saying Goodbye
- ganavarie2025
- May 27
- 9 min read
Updated: May 27
Do you ever think of the last time you saw someone you were fond of? Had dinner? School or family reunion? Chance meeting out shopping? I mean the very last time because there would be no more last times? What were your thoughts during the encounter? Did you reminisce afterward? Was there anything unusual about your time together? Curious, telling, or just the usual?
If I count a year from last October, so far, seven months into the year, I’ve had to say goodbye to three pets – two deeply loved (read Journey's blog) and one a very sick baby - Itty Bitty Kittie, and two fondly remembered, deeply loved, and age-sobering friends from high school. And even another to the living death of Alzheimer’s. I’m a deeply intuitive, emotional empath, not just with people but with all living things including nature. There’s an interconnectedness that is sown into all of creation. This makes life challenging but extremely holy to me in that I get to share in the intimacy of “knowing.” That’s not really what I want to talk about, though. I just wanted to give you background as to why I’ve been pondering the “always” of saying goodbye.
My most recent loss was our precious little chihuahua name Bekka. As I’ve talked about before, my 90 something mom lives with me. When she came to live with me, she was in mild dementia and had experienced physical and emotional trauma on several levels. She was having seizures multiple times a day at one point. Through herbal and conventional supplements, a change in diet, and an angel of a doctor who agreed with the “less is better” approach to medical intervention, Mom’s health improved greatly, but she still had severe bouts of anxiety. Enter Bekka.
I had witnessed how mom responded to Roxie, a friend’s little dog, when we would dog sit. For mom, it was a change of focus, something other than self to be concerned about, something to take care of and pet. I thought it might be good for Mom to have a special friend of her own, and we began our search. It took several months, but we finally found Bekka through Angie’s Friends, a Dallas based pet rescue. From her chip, they determined Bekka was five years old, but for some reason, they were not able to locate the owner.
From the very first introduction, Bekka was joyfully ingratiating. I had not considered her. I was looking at a completely different chi. But Bekka kept pawing at the cage and standing on hind legs as if to say, “Hey, look! It’s me you’re looking for.” I had walked the other choice around on a leash and it went ok. The meet and greet was at a hardware store. We walked up and down the aisles without any red flags. I was ready to ask, “Where do I sign?” but decided to give Bekka a look because of her determination. She deserved a walk at the very least.
As I walked her up one isle, then the next, it was if she intuitively knew when to walk ahead, when to stop, when to wait, and she kept turning to look at me as if asking, “Am I not wonderful?” The clincher came when I stopped at the dog treats. We were scheduled to sit for Roxie the following week, and I wanted to buy some treats for her.
As I took the treats from the wall, Bekka gave a yelp of glee and stood and walked on her hind legs over to me. “Are those for me? Yes, please. I love those. Gimme one, come one, please….” And at that moment, I knew she was the one. That stance became her endearing trademark...well, at least one of them.
Little 7-pound Bekka had been found scared, hungry, and alone wandering the streets of Dallas. She was a deer head chihuahua as opposed to an apple head…short haired, reddish-brown coat, with deeply soulful brown eyes. She stole our hearts. From that day on, Bekka was one with us. She fit so perfectly into our family. She was obedient, patient, respectful, and just chill. Many chihuahuas are loud, testy, and can be unfriendly to others, especially children, cats, and other dogs. Not Bekka. She accepted almost all. And when she didn't, we knew to beware.
Three things Bekka loved were food, riding in the car with us, and exploring like a big game hunter. We had to be careful that she didn’t overeat because she was known to make herself sick at times. She went all over the country with us. She hiked the Blue Ridge in North Carolina. She ran on the beaches of Galveston and Pensacola. She rode middle shot gun on our travels.
She sat quietly and rocked with Mom. She rarely barked, except when we needed a doorbell alert. Bekka was so very kind. I believe she had been separated from a loving owner at some point, lost her way, and was so grateful to be with another loving family in her own home. She never was a lap dog, except for Mom, and she HATED face kisses – you to her or her to you. Nope! But she adored booty scratches and tummy tickles. She liked having her own bed in multiple rooms just in case she needed a break from us. Bekka adored sunning on her pillow on the patio. Now it sits empty, alone, unnatural. And her little butt wags – not tail wags, but butt wags when she got excited. They never failed to cheer our hearts.
We had Bekka with us for seven years, seven precious, delightful years. And then, we didn’t. Bekka would accompany me to take Mom to her Senior Club on Wednesday. On one particular Wednesday, May 6, we dropped Mom and proceeded on a 30-minute drive to meet a friend and take a tour of their ministry farm. I took Bekka’s collar and
leash, but I didn’t put it on her. That still small voice prompted me to do so, but, oh gosh, she was so excited to get out and explore that she almost pushed me out of the car. And I let her. If she’d been a big dog, I’d have been in trouble. Speaking of, there was a big dog there named Blu whom I knew would irritate her with his smelling and following, but she’d had a big brother in Journey, so I knew she’d be fine. And she was. Blu was much like Journey in many ways.
I met my friend and began the tour. Blu and Bekka followed around with us and we all, dogs and humans, went through a gated fenced-in area to view the tiny home. The whole time my gut kept telling me to pick her up, to put her on a leash, to take her into the house. It was fleeting, almost negligible nudges. I thought I was just concerned that I should give her a break from Big Blu, so I pushed the thoughts aside knowing she could handle it.
We were in the tiny home five, maybe 10 minutes at most. We were in a serious discussion, but with each passing moment my anxiety kept climbing. Blu came to the door a couple of time barking and scratching. I assumed he wanted to get to his owner. Now I know he was trying to alert us to Bekka. Relieved to walk out and reunite with Bekka, I discovered Bekka was nowhere to be found. She had found a way under the fence and out into the big area, and at last sighting was exploring the greenhouse and the truck area – only two minutes before, I was told. But no sight of Bekka anywhere. I think that unable to find me, she panicked, started looking, ran into the open, and......
This was not like Bekka; She never ran off but always tried to stay somewhat close to us even in her exploring. And she ALWAYS came when I called, but not this time. We searched for I'm guessing two hours. We searched the woods, the roads, everywhere we could think, continually calling out for her to come. No Bekka. I’m a little hazy about things, because I was truly in shock - numbed disbelief. My friend suggested I put it on Social Media, and I did. They shared it for me on other posts. I felt empty. I had to go pick up Mom, but I left Bekka’s car bed in case she returned, so she would smell a familiar scent. But No Bekka.
I picked up Mom, related the news, and prayed. Our hearts broke, and Mom, with her dementia, could not remember and would often call for Bekka and look for her. Oh gosh, this has been so difficult, even more difficult than a pet dying in the home. Why? Because we never got to say goodbye. We never got to kiss her one last time. We never got to say “I love her” with a butt scratch or belly rub one more round. She vanished. She was just gone. Without a trace.
Her beds are still around the hosue just in case of a miracle. I believe in miracles, don't you? It’s been three weeks since Bekka left us. Emotional, very difficult, and hard not to blame myself. We’ve made more SM posts, put out flyers, walked and called repeatedly. But unless there is a miracle of miracles, I believe as my dear friend kindly put it, “Bekka has probably crossed over the rainbow bridge. She would
want you to be happy.” I do fear that some predator got her in the short time we were separated, and as much as that hurts me to the core, I pray, if true, it was quick and painless for that sweet girl. I cry every day, but I’m trying more and more to accept the fact that I have zero control, and nature was just doing what nature does. I have more and better pictures, but it's too hard to look for them right now.
So now, I’ve told you a heart-wrenching story for what? It’s so easy to take people and pets for granted. I think it must be human nature. When you lose something you love, it’s hard to let go. I think part of the intense grieving is unfinished business, lack of closure. Yes, the loss causes grief, but it’s so much harder when it’s sudden without warning. And we find ourselves in the “always" of saying good-bye.” We see the dog bed and strain to see if she’s tunneled under the blanket, but she's not there. We start out the door and turn to look for the butt-wagging excitement at the thought of going for a ride, but no Bekka appears. We get up in the mornings and reach for the treat cannister only to realize there's no one to give it to. A million ways throughout the day, we are in the "always" of saying goodbye, saying things you wish you could have said, remembering things you could have done differently, more kisses and good girls...crying for the abysmal absence that only she can fill. It could just as easily be a loved one, or a friend. The point is, why is it so hard to think of each moment as a precious gift where we fill every part of it with deep love and blessing and never take a moment for granted. It’s a hard thing to do, isn’t it? Maybe even impossible, but I know, because of Bekka, I’m going to try to love harder, take more pictures, be more invested and celebrate the gift of each life that intersects with mine regardless of the manner in which they come or how long they stay.
I would like to offer a suggestion for any pet owners. Please get some type of gps tracker and have it on your pet every waking minute, especially if they are out and about a lot. A chip is ok, but only if a lost pet is found and taken in for scanning. A gps tracker can locate the pet or the remains and help alleviate the dark unknowing. I would do it in a heartbeat without reservation now. Hindsight, right?
Bekka was our canine angel. I think I sometimes took this precious, unassuming creature for granted believing that others would come and go but she'd be with us well into her late teens/early 20's. She was a blessing to our hearts and our home. She put smiles on the faces of everyone she met. She was a great comfort to both mom and me. We are grateful for the time we got to borrow her. We deeply miss her. But now, it’s time to move forward. I have decided instead of getting a new pet in time, that in Bekka's honor, I would like to foster the older pets who have been abandoned for whatever reason. And I’m going to strive to live even MORE intentionally in the moment with those I cherish, man or beast, always hanging out somewhere between the wildflowers and the weeds.
As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts! How many pets have you have over a lifetime? What were they? Cats? Dogs? Birds? Exotics? Do they become like family to you? Do you do anything special to commemorate the loss of a beloved pet?
A heartfelt memory