Remembering Pippa

Back at the end of August, my sweet girl Pippa crossed the Rainbow Bridge. It’s taken me some time to be ready to write about it.

Pippa, my fawn Cairn Terrier, lived just over twelve wonderful years. In that time, she saw me through many of life’s hardest moments. When my longtime partner passed away—she was only two then—our bond deepened in a way that never left us.

She was worth every penny of her Apoquel and Cytopoint medicines that kept her comfortable and stopped her from scratching. At the vet’s office, she knew exactly where every treat jar was.

Once, she had a little accident in the lobby. After that, every visit began with her leaping from the car and heading straight for the dirt outside, making sure to take care of business before going in.

If the waiting room was crowded, I’d tuck her between my feet to keep her from trying to make too many new “friends.” It didn’t take long before she started backing in between my feet all on her own, just in case.

When she was ten, she went in for a dental cleaning. She trotted happily inside, excited to see all her “vet friends.” But when I picked her up afterward, she seemed indignant—marching straight to the door without a backward glance. We all laughed. At her next visit, I told the staff she had a bone to pick with them for laughing at her.

Like many other dogs, Pippa was my alarm clock. She made sure I got up on time—and reminded me when it was time for bed. She loved everyone she met, especially children. On our walks, if someone stopped to say hello, she never forgot where they lived. Each time we passed that spot again, she’d try to take me right back to them.

Pippa loved barking, especially at squirrels. Our back yard was her domain and no squirrel dared enter in. The one time one did, she removed the intruder expaditiously.

Our house sat next to the YMCA, and in summer the daycare kids would come to the fence to visit her. She loved that. You could see the joy in her whole body when the children called her name. It didn’t happen every year—it seemed to depend on the camp counselors—but when it did, it made her day.

When I bought a reclining loveseat for the rec room and left the leg rest extended as a ramp for my new mini Dachshund pup (my “COVID puppy”), Pippa claimed the space underneath as her personal “doghouse.” Every evening she’d hold up there until bedtime.

She was so bright, always eager to learn new commands—especially when treats were involved.

At her last vet checkup, Dr. Halsey reported that for the first time he heard a heart murmur. The tests that followed showed she had an enlarged heart. That was no surprise to me. I knew how great her love was, so she had to have a big heart.

The now old lady Pippa next saw a cardiology vet. He prescribed her the same types of medicines that I take for my heart. That got her groove back, but it didn’t last long enough for me.

There are so many moments in the day when I’m reminded of her—especially when I come in from the garage and she’s not there to greet me with that joyful energy that filled the house.