My dog’s name was Blue. He was a big, beautiful German Shepherd.
I always loved German Shepherds, their loyalty, their intelligence, their beauty. One day, quite literally out of the blue, my friend Caleb told me about his friend Graham, who had a litter of German Shepherd puppies. Caleb knew I’d love to see them for my birthday, never imagining he’d be introducing me to my four-legged best buddy. I had been growing increasingly unwell and was coming to terms with a life-changing diagnosis. We went there to pat some beautiful puppies, and it hit me how much I needed companionship, something grounding. I needed Blue.
He was one of the last puppies available from the litter and was wearing the tiniest light blue collar. While the other puppies tumbled around, Blue chose me. He hopped toward me, chewed on my shoelaces and climbed up my legs. He was the biggest pup in the litter, cheeky; and it was very clear: he had picked me.
None of the names I’d thought of suited him. But when my sister met him, she said, “Why don’t we call him Blue?” And just like that, it fit. Over time, he became Baby Blue, Blueberry, Blue Bear, and Kanga Blue; because he had a big kangaroo tail that could clear a table with one wag, and paws the size of my hand. His ears were enormous, he had the longest snoot, and the warmest eyes. When he stood on his back legs, his front paws could rest on my shoulders, and his nose easily cleared the top of my head.
He was a total marshmallow, really. My gentle giant was secretly a big dingus. He’d snort like a pig when he was outside sniffing flowers or wandering through the yard, soaking in the breeze and watching the birds. You could tell he appreciated life. And through him, I learned how to take a moment to stop and be still. To just breathe and be in the moment.
Blue didn’t just come into my life – he saved it.
Blue wasn’t a pet. He was my first dog, my soul dog, my best bud, my baby boy, my quiet comfort, my protector. He moved through life with me; steady, loyal, and full of heart. Through long days at home and even longer nights, he was always there. Not needing anything. Just present. Just with me. Always.
Some of our most treasured moments were at home in the yard around the bonfire. Winter to spring, I’d light one night after night, just so we could sit outside together for hours on end, sometimes all night long. He’d watch the yard, sniff the flowers, and look up at the birds flying home before dark and the bats making their way out after. I’d watch him, and the stars as they came out, both of us content in the quiet crackle of the fire, wrapped in a cool breeze, bothered by nothing in the world.
Blue gave me comfort in a way no one else could. He stayed by my side, all day and all night, even when I couldn’t get out of bed. He bore witness to it all. And in doing so, he made everything feel a little lighter. A little more possible.
These memories linger in the stillness, in the space he once filled… and in the cold nights, which are just a little colder without him.
Little did I know, hearing about Reterniti via a Facebook ad just a few months before Blue passed was meant to be. I’d never really thought about what happens after your pet passes, but having that in my mind gave me peace when the time came.
We wanted to do something special with Blue’s ashes, so my sister and I made what we called a “puppy pilgrimage” to Christchurch for what should have been his 8th birthday; May the 4th be with Blue. 🐾 . Handing his ashes over to Caitlin at Reterniti brought me a deep sense of peace. I could tell she would treat Blues ashes with respect, dignity, compassion, and care.
Throughout the process, they kept me updated, and now Blue is home on a beautiful display shelf with his paw castings, photos, and seven stems of blueberries; one for every year of his beautiful life. I keep his pebble always by my side. Either in my hands or on his side of the bed at night. It’s nice he can be with me at my desk during the day. I talk about him often and think of him every day and night.
I try to honour the way he lived, with a generous heaping of love and a healthy dose of silly.
With grief and gratitude,
Rach
