Our dog died. My kids turned their grief into a backyard dog party.

Washington Post

06-05-2025

My children — 12, 10 and 7 — sat us down to show us their PowerPoint presentation. The slides, designed to convince my husband and me that we needed a second dog, included photos of newborn puppies, potential names and how the kids would contribute.
'Turtle would have a friend!' their last slide read.
Turtle, our shaggy, beige 32-pound labradoodle, was almost 3. From his first puppy weeks, he would stay at my side during the day, glancing up now and then to check in. Each night, he curled up in bed with whichever kid needed him most.
'Maybe it's not a terrible idea?' I said to my husband, secretly hopeful he'd warm to the idea of a puppy.
My sister's dog had just delivered a healthy litter, and soon the puppies would need homes. My sister and I had always been close, but she lived in Nashville and I lived in North Carolina, and I didn't see her nearly as much as I wanted. A chance to adopt one of her pups as a 'sibling' to ours felt fun and special.
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'Okay,' my husband said. 'But,' he continued with his eyes on the kids, 'you need to show us you can handle a puppy by taking more responsibility for Turtle now.'
The kids promised to walk, brush and clean up after Turtle, then erupted into squeals.
I smiled at Paul. 'Guess we're adding one to our family of six.'
To celebrate, Paul took the kids out for dinner. I was tired (and grateful for Paul's willingness to fly solo), so I plopped onto the couch, grabbed the remote and called Turtle.
But he didn't come.
I went searching and found him leaning against the wall at the top of the steps.
He let out a soft growl and gingerly sat, as if in pain. I scooped him up as gently as I could and called Paul to let him know I was heading to the emergency clinic. There, a vet diagnosed Turtle with a spinal condition called intervertebral disc disease, prescribed some pain medications and sent us home.
But overnight, Turtle's condition worsened. Back at the animal hospital, I learned his spine wasn't just aching, his nerves were severely compressed with no injury to explain it, and with little hope for recovery. How? I wondered. My young, healthy dog, who 24 hours earlier had trotted alongside my 10-year-old and me on our routine walk for coffee, leaped on and off the couch like a gazelle, chased squirrels from the yard, rolled over for belly rubs if anyone neared. Now surgery was the only option. Even then, the vet said, he may not walk again.
I looked at Turtle, whom my son wanted to make the ring bearer at his wedding one day. 'Do it,' I said, handing over a credit card. Paul brought the kids to see Turtle before the anesthesia knocked him out. His tail wasn't moving, but his eyes beamed up at them.
We drove home to await the 'all clear' call.
Instead, with almost no warning, Turtle died.
Not even a day had passed since we had agreed to a 'sibling' puppy.
At home, we walked around the house, unsure what to do with our bodies that ached to hold our good boy. My son put on Turtle's collar like a necklace. My youngest, who couldn't stop crying, asked if my sister could send videos of the puppies. We watched the sleeping puppies' bellies move up and down.
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All three kids piled into our bed that night. In the dark, my 7-year-old asked, 'Is the Rainbow Bridge real, or something people say to make kids feel better?'
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I didn't have an answer about the Rainbow Bridge — the so-called heavenly place where dogs who've passed run free while they wait to reunite with their families — except to say I hoped it was real.
The next morning, I stared at Turtle's water bowl. The house was too quiet without his jingling collar, his dramatic yawns. I dried my eyes and woke everyone for school, knowing the first morning without Turtle would be hard.
He was always the one they wanted to snuggle when they were sad. And now, in the darkest days of their young lives, that source of comfort was gone.
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Meanwhile, my sister's puppies started opening their eyes. Tiny white and black creatures who were changing, it seemed, by the hour.
Our neighbor's dog, Bertie, became a welcome distraction. My kids borrowed the orange and white spaniel for snuggles at our house several nights in a row.
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'Mom,' my son said one night with Bertie in his lap. 'Could we invite a bunch of dogs over to play? Like a party in Turtle's honor?'
I understood the desire. I'd asked to pet every dog I passed and looked forward to Bertie's visits as much as the kids.
'Turtle would want us to do this,' he pleaded.
I didn't know what Turtle would want, or whether such a thing was worth considering, but I couldn't deny that it was taking a village (of dogs) to move us through the sludge of grief.
And so, the idea for a celebration of life for Turtle was born.
The kids designed invitations with pictures of Turtle and his best chocolate Lab buddy, Rivers, that read, 'Come Celebrate Turtle's Life' and 'Dogs welcome, humans tolerated.' They made a list of nearby dogs and stuffed yellow envelopes with invitations and Milk-Bones, then biked around the neighborhood to deliver them.
The morning of the party, we baked cookies for humans and picked up doggy doughnuts at a local pet bakery. The kids hung signs from our fence and scattered dog toys throughout the yard. They Scotch-taped paper paw prints to the patio leading to a display of treats and a photo clothesline of Turtle.
Our yard looked party-worthy, but I wasn't sure what to expect. Would people and dogs actually show up? Would the dogs get along? And would my kids feel better or worse surrounded by other people's pets?
To my surprise, 13 dogs and 40 people showed up that day. Some dogs chased each other, while others relaxed with a chew toy. They all wanted belly scratches. I looked around my yard, sopping up the joyful energy.
In the delightful chaos, my kids seemed happy.
We gathered the crowd for a slideshow, and my son read a eulogy, a word he'd learned that week in preparation for the party. 'Turtle was more than just a pet. He was my brother,' he said to the silent crowd, his voice shaking. I saw a few people wipe their eyes.
Later, when the crowd had dispersed, a second-grader from down the street showed back up at our door with a homemade card for my son. 'Your speech was AMAZING,' he'd written in blue marker.
'I want to do that again,' my 7-year-old daughter said before we'd even finished pulling bone-shaped bunting from our trees.
In the weeks that followed, we told more funny stories and fewer sad ones. We framed our favorite pictures. We awaited new puppy videos from my sister.
I'm not sure if we would've been ready for a new puppy so soon after losing Turtle if we hadn't committed to one before he died. Or if we hadn't allowed the kids to throw a party for Turtle, and leaned into the comfort we found in our neighbors' and friends' dogs. But now, my sister's puppy — who we're calling Codie — feels like an adorable balm, and one that was orchestrated from somewhere beyond here, maybe over the Rainbow Bridge.