We lost our beloved dog, Homer, a year ago, but his memory lives on

A year has lapsed since we bid a tearful, heart-wrenching goodbye to our beloved little Havanese, Homer. Only those who have themselves felt the absolute and unconditional love of a pet will comprehend the consequent sorrow of their departure. The homage to a little dog, while written as a personal catharsis, is intended for all pet lovers who have endured the hardship of losing their own “Homer” and are struggling with the process of grieving over a little pet who made such a difference in their lives. The following is an “as told to” our good friend, Kelly Risling, who helped us edit this piece. People who have never had a pet often don’t understand how distraught a family can become upon the death of one. “Petless” people—perhaps sincerely caring, compassionate and sensitive in most regards—who are not wholeheartedly attached to an innocent “four-legger” find it difficult to fathom what an integral piece of the family puzzle they become. The resultant impact of the loss of a loving, loyal and totally devoted animal companion who had been a family mainstay for years can be devastating. It can, quite simply, break you.Indeed, we were broken, and our hearts shattered when little Homer was peacefully euthanized to assist him on his next journey. He was 20 pounds of cute, kind, shy, adorable loveliness and completely spoiled in every regard. We often mused, amusingly, how wonderful it would be if he only could talk, to let us know if he wished for anything he didn’t already have. Our playful connection was that Homer dreamed of becoming a real boy; however, unlike the wooden Pinocchio, our animated little guy never had a blue fairy to make him human. However, we did try to teach him to speak because (after all) the little guy was whip-smart. Our persistence, however, didn’t pay off. He would just affectionately look at us, probably thinking, “I can’t talk—I’m a dog.”

Homer was unique; he can’t be replaced. He was not an object, or some kind of chattel to us; rather, he was an elemental part of our family. He was Hojo, Mr. Magoo, Homer Joe and various other monikers he responded to with sheer delight.Now that Homer has crossed The Rainbow Bridge—and he most assuredly can talk—I know he would want to tell us that his best friend, Rosie, was there (tail wagging) to meet him, that he has lots of new friends and they go for walks, that someone reads our letters to him, that he is happy and has no more pain, and he is being a really good boy.In turn, we want to tell him that we love and miss him so much, and that even though he is gone in the physical sense, he lives in the memories of the love, the devotion and the loyalty he gave us every day. We want to tell him we still cry when we talk about him, but we also laugh while sharing wonderful stories. We would tell him that he changed our lives, and we became better people because of the time he spent as part of our family. We would tell him he was small in stature, but made the biggest impact on anyone who knew him. His passing cast a large, lasting shadow on those he left behind. And we would tell him “Thank you for choosing us,” your eyes longing, your tongue licking and your tiny paws reaching.If love could have kept you here, Homer, you would have been here forever.Vicky and Noel Marchand are married, retired and reside in Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada, and have spent time in Palm Desert for the past nine years.

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This article originally appeared on Palm Springs Desert Sun: We lost our beloved dog, Homer, a year ago, but his memory lives on