Remembering Lilly (~ 12.19.2025)

It has been almost three months since Lilly crossed the rainbow bridge. She was 14 years old. Some days her absence feels "loud," while other days it is subtle, almost silent. I have wanted to write about her for a while, but as I’m starting to realize, quiet moments for reflection are a rarity. Lilly was essentially the inaugural member of our family, arriving long before Zoe and Zaylee entered the picture.

She was our silent companion, especially during those grueling surgery residency years. When the nights were quiet and lonely while Z was working at the hospital, Lilly was there. She loved to walk and excelled at hiking with us during the few times we had the chance. In her earlier years, before the rest of the family joined us, she went on road trips and even flew with us to New York, Colorado, and Seattle. She was an expert food beggar, often standing on her hind legs to perform her "backing motions" or giving us the saddest puppy eyes when no one would share their steak.

Lilly joined us on February 27, 2013, from a Houston city shelter. We were newlyweds with very little experience having a pet in our lives. She was in the large breed section of the shelter, shivering in the corner of her crate while dogs two or three times her size barked with fear and sought attention. Z and I were so lucky to find her. She was already house-trained, understood basic commands, and was the sweetest little thing. Honestly, she made the idea of ever rescuing another dog difficult for a while because she integrated into our family so seamlessly.

Some of her favorite habits used to drive me crazy, like rolling in piles of leaves and essentially turning herself into a "Swiffer Duster." A month after Zoe and Zaylee each were born, she would pee in the middle of our bed—her way of casting a "veto" vote on the newest edition of the family. It was frustrating at the time, but now it is one of my favorite memories to share with others.

To this day, I have mixed feelings and am still processing the final months of her life. She was clearly getting tired, spending more of the day sleeping than awake. She became picky with her food, losing interest in kibble and preferring fresh food or whatever human scraps were available. Since she was a senior dog, I didn't worry too much at first.

However, a few weeks after being diagnosed with a mild kidney disease—which explained her increased incontinence—she was accidentally injured by Zaylee’s bike. The girls were biking in the courtyard while I was busy cleaning the garage; the security camera captured the moment the bike ran into one of Lilly’s hind legs. She started limping, and a few hours later, she wasn't using the leg at all. Between the special kidney diet and the new anti-inflammatory medications, her appetite plummeted. I did everything in my power to get her to eat: appetite stimulants, homemade food with all her favorite ingredients... nothing worked. Then the vomiting started, occurring multiple times a day. Most days, she laid lifelessly. Eventually, I noticed her water bowl never moved. In fact, it was always full. She had stopped drinking entirely.

We had a winter vacation coming up, but I managed to squeeze her in for a vet appointment. Her blood panel showed kidney toxicity levels were rising. She was clearly nauseous, likely in pain, and just so tired. The moment the vet looked at me, I knew what we needed to talk about. I was completely gutted. I started sobbing while hugging her tired, skinny body. I called Z as soon as we left the vet to tell him he needed to come home, then FaceTimed my mom to start our goodbyes. Our trip was scheduled to start that night. Because of the severity of her condition, the vet recommended we say goodbye that evening. The alternative was putting her in inpatient care for dialysis to try to extend her life, but there were no guarantees. Part of me selfishly wanted her to hang in there just a little longer so we could go on the trip and come back to a treatment plan. But I couldn't imagine her being scared and alone with a dog sitter, wondering when her family would return.

I had always imagined her final days involving her favorite foods and visiting her favorite places. Instead, she laid lifelessly around the house, being carried by us. We all quietly said our goodbyes. The girls each made a necklace for her so she wouldn't be lonely. Z and I took her back to the vet around 6:00 p.m. The moment the vet administered the medicine to help her sleep, I felt a sense of relief and relaxation wash through her body. My heart knew she was ready, even if my head was still fighting the decision.

Despite the assurances from our vet, friends, and family, I still occasionally look back at those last few months and question my choices. I should have made sure Lilly was away from the bikes. I should have brought her to the vet sooner when her feeding became irregular. I should have seen the vomiting as more than an upset stomach. I was overwhelmed with the end-of-semester activities, the holidays, and trip preparations. And Lilly was always like that—my quiet, steady companion, silently struggling without telling me she needed help.

Every day, Zaylee asks me where Lilly is. Then she points to the wooden box to tell me that Lilly lives there now. Lilly still makes a daily appearance in my Google Photos, giving me a chance to remember all the silly things she used to do. Her leash and her bed remain exactly where they were. Stark doesn't use her bed at all; I know he misses her presence, too.

We miss you, Lilly. Thank you for being my first, and for setting the tone for the companions who will join this family in the years to come.