Stash came to us as an adult ten-year-old dog. It was during Covid and my friend Patty was riding the current of hard times: the riptide of a break up then a sudden move south. Poor Stash was being used as a soccer ball by her border collies and after her best beagle buddy, Scout, died, Stash was bereft, the only beagle alone and adrift in a sea of herding dogs. Patty asked if I might take her as I had always loved Stash, and my friend felt my home would be more on Stash’s “wavelength.” Read otherwise: a pack of low-intelligence beagles (at the time Sasha, Isabelle, and Sparkle) versus her home of smart if beagle-cum-soccer-ball-loving border collies.
Stash arrives as a ten-year-old girl.
It was a rough first few weeks with the little Houdini escaping only to be found by two conscientious young girls out on the highway. Yet after Stash realized she’d be walked every day, allowed to hunt every day, surrounded by those of her own “wavelength”, fed the best foods, and sleep in the bed, she settled into her new home and never looked back.
As a young dog she was active; now as a senior she had slowed down enough so that our quiet home provided her with exactly what she needed. She arrived in July of 2020 and by the following year, both Sasha and Isabelle had left their earthly existence to move within the realms of the spirit world so that little Sparkle and Stash were the only ones left.
Thus began an uncomplicated, golden period in our lives. I grieved my two beloved and departed seniors but I’d forgotten just how easy two dogs were compared to three or four. I had two hands for petting and two hands for holding two leashes and we walked in what seemed endless afternoons over the trails, through the mountains and across the fields watching as the seasons changed one into the other. Both dogs came to know and love these walks and looked forward to each new day with boundless joy. In the morning, they hunted, Stash making a particular noise that so frightened one neighbor she stopped walking past our house until I told her it was only Stash. To which she replied in disbelief, “That little dog? How does she make such a big noise?” And caused another neighbor to seriously think that a woman was being murdered out in those fields.
Sparkle & Stash
Stash hunted, she walked, she ate, and she slept. She was confident, a source of strength to Sparkle’s sensitivity. She was friendly to all dogs and all people. And she was smart…maybe not as smart as the border collies, but close.
Days turned into months and months morphed to years. Sparkle, Stash, and I had settled into a beautiful and peaceful routine, so much so that Stash told Patty, our communicator, that “She loved her easy life.” I’d slip on their invisible fence collars and open the back gate of their fenced-in yard to let them hunt for the wild things that lived by stealth at night out in those fields when we were sleeping. They’d charge forth with Sparkle harassing Stash just a bit, maybe coaxing her to play or maybe making sure she never forgot how good she had it here, free from soccer-loving border collies. Both were great hunters with Stash preferring rodents and Sparkle going for the rabbits she was bred to seek. And even though Sparkle was younger, it was Stash who would often outhunt her, dragging herself in last.
Sparkle & Stash in the morning light.
There was little upset in her simple, soft life, except perhaps the occasional thunderstorm and then I’d find her trembling in the bathroom hiding beside the toilet. She loved to lick my face (or anyone’s). She rolled on her back in the cut grass, moseyed around the backyard sniffing the scents, slept in the sun on the bench or on the ground below, and what she loved most of all: to go into each of the flower beds and trample the flowers, stamping out her nest then lying down.
When I’d come home from work, she was my joy. I’d hear her particular howl and yes, it did sound like a woman getting murdered. She’d be at the window, belting out her version of welcoming me home. Then she’d be at the door scraping the side molding where the scratch marks still remain. I’d open the door and she’d slip out onto the porch until I called her back in. She’d snatch up her toy with glee and race around the house squeaking it. I’d call to her, “You can’t have that toy!” and run and grab the squealing hedgehog, toss it out for her to race after and snatch up in her mouth, squeaking and charge outside. And where was Sparkle during all this commotion? Outside at the far end of the yard showing me she’d been guarding the house the whole time, and yet when I felt the loveseat, there were two warm spots not one. Because most of all, Stash loved to be with Sparkle, and my photos attest to the two as one inseparable being: Sparkle licking Stash, Sparkle and Stash together hunting, on walks, lying side by side on the chair, on the bench outside, and at night, back-to-back, sleeping together in the bed.
Sparkle & Stash
Sparkle licks Stash.
When I traveled to France, I boarded them at a wonderful facility, The Dog Cottages, where they lived in their own temperature-controlled house, with two small yards, were taken out for twenty minutes twice a day. I also paid extra to give them longer walks and staff sent “report cards” daily with photos that would often reveal Stash swimming in rivers, rolling on her back, or lapping the faces of the team, while Sparkle looked on, a anxious expression painting her face. I never worried about Stash when boarded the way I did Sparkle.
On one of their many walks.
In June of 2024 when I returned from France, I felt the same elation upon seeing them again as I always did, the same elation I know they felt in seeing me, too. Once home, I could sigh in relief that they were here. Safe. I was safely home, too. The first day back, I let them out to hunt and Stash stayed out for two hours, a long time for a fourteen-year-old dog with a heart condition. When she finally came back in, a good 45 minutes after Sparkle, I could see the utter bliss on her white beagle face, together with the exhaustion. She drank and drank then collapsed on a dog bed, reviving herself only to eat dinner and flump down again. They were like two prisoners finally released and I was thrilled for them.
But by morning, Stash was in pain. This had happened before when she overdid it and I got out the laser. We took it easy that day, and the next day, too, with only a short, gentle walk. By the third day, when I let her out to hunt, I was surprised when she stayed out longer than I expected. Because she’d been hurt, I decided it wise to call her in, and as she’d begun losing her hearing so this wasn’t always an easy task. When I called, she emerged from behind the bird bath in a flower bed; only then did I realize she’d been hiding. I scooped her up and saw at once she was still badly hurting. That evening she was walking but staggering with every fourth or fifth step. She’d stumble and fall but she seemed undaunted, perhaps only a bit confused, and she righted herself each time to continue sniffing about the yard.
Stash in the outside dog bed with the IV in her leg.
She worsened over the weekend, collapsing by nightfall but regaining her strength, if wobbly strength, by daybreak. And so, on Monday morning I called the vet and how I wish I had not.
A doctor, not our doctor, could see her. I brought Stash in.
“Is she eating and drinking?”
“Yes, great appetite.”
“Peeing and pooping?”
“Just fine.”
In the treatment room, I called to her offering treats as enticement, getting her to walk around, hoping she’d stumble and fall so the tech could witness the problem. But she only wagged her tail and seemed happy to be receiving so much attention. The tech left and Sparkle, Stash, and I sat on a blanket on the floor, me doing emails, the two of them lying pressed together, contented. It would be the last time we’d feel such unblemished peace.
A different tech and doctor returned and explained they’d take Stash for x-rays and blood work. With that, she was gone and Sparkle and I waited together on the floor for over an hour, longer I thought than x-rays and blood work should take.
But finally, two more techs came into the treatment room and the one set Stash onto the blanket beside us. At once I saw her face and what I saw was a dog in distress—her rapid panting, her frantic looks to me asking for help.
“She’s in pain. Can you do something?”
Perhaps it was the wrong thing to ask. Perhaps I should have then asked, “What have you done to her? She hurting.” But my only thought was to bring relief to my dog. They took pictures of her, which I found odd, and then the one gave her a shot of Buprenorphine. I checked out, took Stash outside to go to the bathroom but she collapsed. She never walked again.
Once home, I was beside myself to alleviate her pain. She looked crazed, her eyes bugging out even more, her face like a Chihuahua’s not my tough hunting beagle. I called the vets and described what was happening and told them she couldn’t stand.
“It’s the drug. It makes them loopy. She should be fine by the morning.” What I hadn’t remembered was that some dogs react very poorly to opiates and Stash was obviously one of those dogs. She was having a bad trip. Finally, the drug worked its narcotic magic and she succumbed to it. She slept the night, but in the morning, despite my desperate hope, she still could not stand on her own. Which also meant she couldn’t relieve herself, and she had no appetite for food or drink. I returned her to the vets to spend the day hooked up to fluids with acupuncture and laser work.
The next two days were hard, for me, for Stash, and brought with them no answers, just a very valiant little dog spending her days at the vets then returning to me by night to be carried from one room to the next, and placed in a dog bed outside when I went out. She kept her I.V. in her left front leg, giving an even more vulnerable impression to her already stationary self. Sometimes I could tell she was in pain, but most of the time she was on heavy-duty pain killers and she sniffed the air, panted, and looked at me and Sparkle in her confusion, perhaps seeking the answers I didn’t have. I’d stand her up and, propped up like that, she balanced and wobbled for a moment, stoic and brave, then would fall down onto her side. It was unbearable.
I assumed the issue with Stash was a disk in her neck, causing her immobility on all four legs. Of course, we couldn’t rule out a tumor either. The vets were unable to tell from x-rays and urged me to have an MRI. They called the neurologists in Richmond to advise we might be coming.
It was only with great reluctance that I made the appointment. The MRI was expensive and Stash would have to be under anesthesia; could I do this to her? Should I do this for a fourteen-year-old dog with a heart condition?
We drove to Richmond on Thursday, leaving Sparkle behind. I had not known whether to bring Sparkle or not, thinking she might offer moral support for Stash, but also it might prove difficult. When Sparkle refused to go, odd in itself, my decision was made. It would turn out for the best, for Stash and I would have this one last road trip together alone. Stash, unlike Sparkle, loved the car. She loved standing up on the armrest between the driver’s seat and passenger seat, looking forward as if hoping she could take a turn at the wheel instead of me. While she could no longer do this, she lay in the back seat on the outfitted dog bed and went quickly and deeply to sleep. She didn’t care that she was going to have an MRI—she was riding in the car.
The day was hot, 95-plus-degrees hot. We parked and I carried Stash around Bush Neurology looking for the entrance. She was heavy in my arms on the heat-radiating pavement, but she was here. I felt I could carry and hold her forever. Finally, back in the car and driving around we got to the right side and entered the cool building. The techs were wonderful. We were led into a room with a cushioned bench-like seat covering the right angle of a wall. The kind tech asked questions and then we were left alone. Stash would have a consult with the doctor and then I would decide whether to do the MRI and find out what was wrong with her. But I had pretty much already made up my mind I would not. Even unconscious, would not some part of her know what was going on, intubated, upside down in her wedge in the tube alone for 45 minutes to an hour? I wanted answers but perhaps my fear (or was it intuition?) was stronger. I could not lose her under anesthesia. No, that I couldn’t take.
The surgeon took her away for her consult then returned to talk to me. She was a fine candidate he reassured.
“Her age?”
“I’ve seen older.”
“Her heart condition?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“What are the chances of losing her under anesthesia?”
“About 1 in 100. Of course, if it’s your dog it’s 100%.”
“Right. Tell me,” I began. “If something were to happen, would you come and get me? I’d want to be with her.”
He hesitated. “Well no, not while I was doing CPR. But afterwards, we could.”
He was not without compassion. He didn’t push me towards anything but I knew just the same he felt I should do it then surgery. Doctors are trained to save lives, to choose life at all costs. They have the skill and knowledge, but in my book, life at all costs is not always the wisest answer. My guess is that had he executed the MRI then surgery, she would not have died under anesthesia because she was tough, a fighter. But surgery would require a lot from an older dog and a long recovery. Stash was an athlete, not an invalid.
And when the tech returned and talked to me candidly about the dogs who had died during the process, I felt fleetingly, as my hand stroked a tired Stash lying beside me on the bench, that I’d made the right decision for her and for me. A hard decision but one with which we would have to live. Or one with which I’d have to live because Stash could not live in this condition. Such a decision also meant that I would have to euthanize her.
We drove home, silent, as though coated in cotton. But the trip was not a failure. We had had that time together, time I’d remember differently than the hours of feeding and walks that blended together in their familiarity. We’d had that last road trip together.
Nothing got easier for Stash or for me. And poor Sparkle was entirely neglected. Stash could neither walk nor stand. She could not empty her bladder or bowels on her own. And while I was successful once in expressing her bowels, the bladder proved more difficult and she’d cry out when I tried. I knew this was no life for a dog who reveled in the full use of her athletic body. Even at fourteen, Stash had been an active, vibrant girl. But now there was only one decision left for me to make for a little dog I loved, one that neither of us was ready for, not her, not I, and not Sparkle either. In a matter of days, our lives had become unrecognizable.
She remained home with me on Friday and I carried her from room to room, setting her outside when Sparkle and I went out, sitting her in the dog bed outside when I ate my meal, and when I planted seeds along the fence that would one day grow to be Stash’s Garden. In these difficult, heartfelt moments, she was still there with us, and I could cover her white face with my kisses as well as my tears. The deep pain and grief would not come until later because for now, she was here. And yet, she was suffering. Valiant and brave, sniffing the air with pricked ears, until the end.
It felt like a sign, a sign I desperately needed, when the house call vet was not only willing to take us as new clients, but also not traveling over the weekend. We corresponded and she agreed to come Saturday morning. Once confirmed, the panic set in. Everything I did now with Stash was for the last time. And doubt—leering, jeering doubt that Stash was not ready to go and that I had not done all I could for her. While her physical body had failed her, her spirit never did; she remained exceptionally brave until the very end.
On a pure late-spring day (the day Sasha had arrived many years ago) I held Stash in my arms as the vet gave her first one injection and Stash relaxed, fell deeply asleep, her pain finally eased. And then the second injection and Stash was gone. Just like that. Her spirit left her broken body, and then I was holding the shell of her, soft and warm still, but a shell nevertheless—the Stash I had known and loved forever gone except in memory. On her last morning, she had refused all pain medication, and I have to wonder if on some level she wanted to be fully conscious when she did this last thing, the thing we all must ultimately do. The vet came to our house so that Stash was able to die in the peace and comfort of her own home in my arms. And although the sorrow was intense, for this I am deeply grateful. That, and getting to share my life with such a good girl.
Monday, I had brought a wobbly, yet happy and mobile dog into the vets. By Saturday, she was gone and I felt my heart shattered into many pieces. It had all happened so fast and yet when I stand back and reflect, I see many signs.
Two nights before Stash died, she was lying next to me in bed and I had a flying dream. I was flying high above the countryside and held her in my arms. She was alert and interested and unafraid as she looked out over the landscape and we flew through time and space. Only later, on the day I took her body to be cremated and, stunned and silent, Sparkle and I made a short hike on the Skyline Drive, did I realize that the countryside over which we had been flying in the dream was that same view that Sparkle and I now looked out to, McCormick Overlook, and the last time I had been there was with Sparkle and Stash. I’d taken Stash’s photo to show to Patty. There is indeed a vast world beyond what our limited brains can conceive, a vast world of heart intelligence beyond the mind.
Dazed and tired, I walked the trail with Sparkle, thinking of Stash and the many walks we three had taken over the years, when my eyes looked down and there was a perfect heart rock. I scooped it up and that evening painted it: Stash: 15 June 2024.
In the morning when I reached for the coffee, a tea bag fell out. Across the top was, “STASH.” At first I could not process it. Outside the air was thick and still with summer’s liquid warmth, but when I called out to Stash, a breeze rippled through the wind chimes Patty had sent me for Stash, and I’d close my eyes, nod my head, and know she was there.
And yet, if I thought my sorrow was deep, I saw at once a sorrow deeper than my own: Sparkle’s. She would always sleep under her blanket, no matter how hot. Now, she sought out the places where Stash had last lay, where she had taken her last beagle breaths. And in these places, I would find Sparkle, forever seeking her friend. Even in the Writing Room, she would lie on Stash’s armchair, and I can only assume she was searching for some last semblance of her smell and physical being. At night Sparkle lay not under her blanket but on the pad that was Stash’s, Stash’s scent filling her nostrils as she drifted off to sleep. I realized that as deep as my grief was, it was no match for hers—she who was with Stash 24/7, the two beside each other when I was at work or in town, the two boarding together, giving each other solace and security when I was thousands of miles away across an ocean. She, who relied upon Stash’s strength and confidence. And she, who had watched all of her canine companions leave her behind one by one: Olive, Isabelle, Sasha, and now Stash. How vast her grief must have been and her pain touched deep into my own.
So, I must now turn my attention to Sparkle, for Stash is free. I picture them all welcoming her: Sasha and Isabelle, and Scout and Scooter, from her first home, too. It is not those last intense days of her as an invalid that I now remember, but Stash on our walks, Stash rolling on her back in the yard, Stash hunting, Stash kissing my face, Stash asleep on the chair, and Stash greeting me as I came home in the evening, slipping out the front door to the porch, then back in, racing and squeaking her toy in the pure joy of being.
Run free, little Stashy. Chase those bunnies in the sky.
Run free, little Stashy. Chase those bunnies in the sky.
Postscript: Unable to write about Stash so soon after she passed, I wrote the above later, but even since then, much has changed in our lives. Stash’s Garden grew beautiful zinnias and sunflowers and as I tended to it daily, I thought of a white and stoic beagle, lying in the bed I had dragged out there. Then on July 20th, only five days and a month after Stash died, I adopted a 6 or 7-year-old hunting beagle who’d been discarded because she was too small. We named her Paisley. I did not want another dog so soon, but Sparkle needed a friend and she is slowly getting used to Paisley as Paisley slowly gets used to her new home. Stash’s photo sits on the dining room table and I think of her every day. I think of her when I look at all the many places where she would sleep. And I think of her on our walks. I think Sparkle does too. And I believe on some level she’s there and what I know for certain is that Stash would happily welcome Paisley.
Paisley joins our household.
