In October 2015, a very good girl returns to say goodbye. Get the scoop after the jump.

Rhea Checks In On Her Human

I lost Rhea on September 27, 2015. She was 12 years old.

Rhea’s first name was Fawn, named after the color of her fur. She had the classic fur colors of a boxer; a tricolor of reddish-brown body, white chest and black mask and muzzle. Rhea also had the biggest, floppiest ears.

Her favorite toy was a green frog. She’d grab it and run all around my apartment in Chicago. She was the first dog I had in the city, and I rescued her when she was about a year old. The police found her chained to a fence and being abused by some brats on Chicago’s West Side.

They took her to the city pound, but the pound moved her to a no-kill rescue within a few days. You see, Rhea was too sweet to be put down in a week.

When I brought her home, she wouldn’t leave her crate for the first 4 days. Rhea was petrified of the new environment. But she was still such a good girl. When I’d reach my hand in to pet her, she’d give my hand kisses and let me scratch her behind ears. After a week, she came out and promptly went potty everywhere. I didn’t mind though.

Due to her abuse, she didn’t like men and kids under 13. She’d bark at them or pee from fear. Let’s just say, I had some embarrassing moments with her in the elevator. Nothing a bucket and mop couldn’t fix.

The first signs of her health deteriorating came when she turned 4 years old. An autoimmune disease. At first, the vets thought she had intestinal cancer, but it turned out to be inflammatory bowel disease. Most people would have put her down because the drugs that treat the condition were astronomically expensive without insurance. And Rhea didn’t have insurance. I spent all my savings on her treatment at that time. I promised to take care of her no matter how much it cost.

When Rhea was 8, I got Wally, a puppy that was about 20 different breeds, according to his DNA test. Rhea became a great big sister to him. Then, Mikey came along when Rhea was 11. Again, she was the best big sister to him. Wally, on the other hand, became a bully to Mikey. Luckily, Rhea would have none of it, and she protected little Mikey, the tuxedo pitbull, until Wally learned that the puppy wasn’t going anywhere. (Note: Wally and Mikey became best friends in about 3 months.)

In 2015, big career changes happened, and I uprooted the pack to move to the Pacific Northwest. I landed a job at a big ol’ tech company near Seattle. Let’s just say, driving 1800 miles in a Ford Edge with 3 big dogs wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve had. But the fur kids loved our new home with a huge yard and a doggy door to come and go as they pleased.

Shortly after we arrived, Rhea, now 12 years old, started to get sick. It wasn’t something outwardly obvious. Most vets thought she was just getting older. She didn’t rapidly lose weight. Then, she didn’t play with Mikey and Wally as much. Then, she didn’t want her treats anymore. Then, she couldn’t make it up the stairs anymore. Finally, her breathing became irregular, and I took her to vet as soon as I noticed her labored breathing.

The vets looked over her panels to see if her meds for the autoimmune disorder had stopped working. They thought her overactive lymph nodes caused fluid to build up in her chest. That was the clue to diagnose inflammatory bowel disease.

But they found something more sinister.

Cancer.

Rhea had developed Mesothelioma, an ulcer in the wall of her chest cavity. And it was advanced. There was no coming back from it.

I took Rhea home and snuggled her all day. Wally and Mikey seemed to know something was wrong with her. The boys sniffed her, gave her kisses and stood guard around her while she slept on her bed in the sun room.

The next day, I drove her down to Puget Sound. She played a little in the water and along the rocky shore, but she got tired and laid down after a few minutes. Then, I drove her to the vet and said goodbye. I smooched her muzzle when she closed her eyes for the final time.

I got her ashes about 2 weeks later. They came in a mahoganey wood box with her name etched on it. Her ashes sit in my office today. I can look over my shoulder and see them, and I start every morning by saying “Hi Rhea” to them.

It was about 2 weeks later that I had a surprise experience. Her ashes sat on the top shelf of a bookcase with a Boo Buddy next to it. The Boo Buddy activated. It beeped and its tummy glowed green from the EMF meter inside it.

I fumbled with an audio recorder and hit the record button. Then I asked, “Are you there baby girl? Is that you, Rhea? Are you the bestest girl ever?!”

Fifteen seconds after I asked that last question, the recorder captured a whine then a deep bark. Rhea had a burly, deep bark. I recognized it so well.

That was the only time I heard from her. I hope she’s happy and playing with Wally, who also died from cancer in 2022. I have his ashes sitting next to Rhea’s. Mikey may be nearly 11 years old now, but he’s still going strong.

I think about Rhea every day. When it’s my time to go, I hope she’s the one that leads me into the light.