Goodbye, Marley
On July 5, 2012, our lives changed forever when a little ball of fur came running into it — literally. Some friends found her wandering alone, likely scared from the fireworks the night before. We searched for her family, but no one came forward. So, we became her family. Or maybe, she chose us.
She started out as Kyndal’s dog, but it didn’t take long for Marley — or “Mar,” “Marshall,” “Mar-Smell-o” (especially when she needed a bath), “Me-and-Mar, ” and Linda — to become everyone’s dog. (She had more nicknames than any other family member.) I told myself I wouldn’t get too attached. I had plans. But Marley had her own, and winning me over was high on her list.
Marley loved life — and she loved chasing sun reflections or the little dot of a pen light like a cat, earning her the nickname “Kitty.” She had the best little Ewok face when her hair grew long, with those bug eyes that could melt even the toughest heart. She was a good dog. She didn’t mess in the house, but she did have a sixth sense for sniffing out chocolate (despite all our efforts) and collecting a beef jerky tax any time a bag was opened. She didn’t miss a thing.
She moved three times with us. She camped with us. She joined countless road trips. She beat valley fever (most pets don’t). Little Mrs. Upington adapted to her special Urinary Care dog food as long as it had some steak juice on it. She lived every moment at our side.
And oh, did she love her walks. Morning and evening, like clockwork. When we lived in Surprise, we’d walk down the street, around the corner, and every time, she’d turn at the same sign without me saying a word. “Marley, there’s your sign,” I’d tell her. She had the route memorized — and me too, it seems.
Marley was sweet and social to people — especially little kids — but with other dogs on a leash, she had a mischievous streak. She’d act all polite and friendly until the perfect moment to launch a surprise attack.
At home, Marley was the greeter, the sentry, the one who welcomed every guest at the door before retreating to her bed. She had two beds — one in the living room and one tucked into our closet. Now both of those spaces sit empty, and I’m shocked by how often my eyes still search for her there.
Coming home is just… different now. No excited barks. No wagging tail. No “you’re in trouble for coming home late” scolding with happy paws and wiggling hips. Just silence where there used to be joy.
She was my playmate too. I loved getting down on the floor with her, tossing her toys, riling her up into the zoomies, watching her spin around like a little rocket. And when we packed for trips, Mushy (another of her nicknames) would find the nearest open suitcase and turn it into a bed. We never quite knew if she was trying to stow away or just making a statement: You’re not leaving without me.
In the last year, Marley’s body started to fail her. Her hearing faded. Then her sight. Her beautiful, bug-eyed gaze became swollen and painful. She became disoriented, uncomfortable. And we knew — as much as we hated it — it was time.
Angie and I sat on the floor of the vet’s office with her on Thursday. We held her as they gave her a shot that helped her fall peacefully asleep. Her almost instant snoring was soothing. One more injection, and our sweet old lady baby — our Marshy, our Baby, our Marley — slipped away from this world and into a place without suffering.
She left the suffering with us.
My heart hurts. I miss her every time I walk through the door. I missed her this morning when I walked our old route without her. I miss her when I open a bag of beef jerky and instinctively glance at my feet, expecting to see her nose twitching in the air. I miss her when I see the empty beds. I miss her always.
But I wouldn’t trade it.
The twelve years of joy, laughter, comfort, and love she gave us are more than I could ever have asked for.
Thank you, Marley — for choosing us, for loving us, for making our home — and my heart — fuller than I ever thought possible.
We miss you, sweet girl.
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