Grieving the loss of Cora, my first dog
At age sixty-six, I became a dog owner, and at age seventy-one, my dog passed away. I dedicate this blog to my joyful, soulful Cora, to support my grieving process and help other animal lovers with theirs. In the end, Cora gave me one more lasting gift: she reconnected me with the nature of impermanence. It is always with us, but so is Cora’s spirit.
In September of 2021, Chuck, my husband, and I moved to Mexico, drawn by a desire to live in another culture. Before our arrival, we knew we wanted to adopt a dog.
We settled into our new home in March 2022. Just a month later, Cora entered our lives. We named her Corazón—Spanish for "heart"—but affectionately shortened it to Cora. A friend first saw her photo in a Facebook group of young Mexican women who volunteered to help adopt street dogs into loving homes, and immediately sent it to us.
When we first saw Cora, it was almost impossible to imagine her surviving on the streets for long, even a week. She was a petite mix, part poodle, part cocker spaniel, and a tiny part chihuahua, with a coffee-colored coat. She had a strikingly slender frame. Her delicate, angular face featured soulful brown eyes. She weighed barely eleven pounds. Her age was questionable; the volunteers estimated she was about two years old. After taking Cora to several veterinarians, we learned her puppy-like face fooled us. Cora was about six or seven.
From the beginning, as much joy as Cora exuded over having a new home, we also witnessed her fear and anxiety overcome by the possibility of being left on the street again, but we also saw her hope. More than anything, we wanted to give her the love and security she deserved. And - we did just that.
For the next four and a half years, we bonded intrinsically with Cora, often using the phrase “good girl.” The phrase was meant to honor Cora affectionately, understanding she must have come from a loving, caring person or family. She was well-trained and truly wanted to please. She even peed and pooped in the street rather than on the sidewalk. She fancied playing with her bone or toys after coming in from a morning or afternoon walk, enjoyed being brushed, desired as much lap time with me as possible, and loved snuggling at night close by my side. I was her primary connection, but Chuck was not far from Cora’s attention.
The first true sign of Cora’s trust in us was rolling on her back and opening her small, smooth white chest to our hands for loving rubs, that is, until there was an itch to attend to. With Cora between us, we did this every night on our loveseat.
For all three of us, those four and a half years were also consumed with Cora’s health challenges. It is now apparent to us that the previous owner could not afford to properly care for their beloved animal and was forced to abandon Cora by leaving her in a marketplace, hoping she would be well fed and that someone would soon take her into their home.
Aside from the joy Cora routinely expressed to us were many visits to her veterinarian. These visits included exploratory bloodwork that changed her existing diet to low-protein for better organ function and several X-rays to determine treatment for her back right leg and eventually for all the bones in her body. She had chronic osteoarthritis with degeneration that may have been genetic. More so, her anxious nature (she also had severe reactions to firecrackers, thunder, and other intrusive sounds) and difficulty self-soothing were stressful and contributed to her physical decline.
Cora passed peacefully on Friday, June 26, at 9:06 a.m. after a rough week; her beautiful, slender frame literally fell apart. She tried to keep moving, but her body said no more.
At the time of her passing, the number six was clearly noticeable. I felt Cora wanted me to learn more about its symbolism, and I was curious too. The number six represents harmony, nurturing, and unconditional love. For Chuck and me, this made total sense.
Cora contributed to the harmony of our household simply by relaxing in her dog bed, chin resting on its edge, eyes open or closed. She needed nurturing - to be cared for, protected, and given reassurance, and I had an endless capacity, not having children, to nurture Cora.
It was a two-way street for us, because Cora nurtured me too. Her short, fluffy tail was like a metronome when we greeted each other. She barked protectively when she felt danger. Who knew that the loving attention I never received as a child would be given freely by a Mexican perrita? She was more like a baby than a dog. She had little interest in other people aside from Chuck and cared little about other dogs, aside from initially smelling them.
Unconditional love came freely from Cora. That is one of the most special gifts dogs give to humans. Once she trusted us, there was no stopping her.
On June 28th, we received Cora’s ashes. Our veterinarian worked with a crematory that was as compassionate and sensitive as he was. My tears went on autopilot as I held Cora’s little wooden urn in my hands. I felt the impermanence once again, as I had so many times; however, this time felt different than losing my cats, or even losing a family member or close friend.
Every day, Cora gave me unconditional love and loyalty. Looking into her soulful eyes and watching her wag her tail gave me emotional support on days when I felt low, and on other days, her joy at seeing me was infectious. Cora helped Chuck and me keep to a routine that included three short-distance walks, which could take much longer because of her need to smell. She taught me to have more patience during our walks and to appreciate her need to honor her gift of smell. Best of all, Cora loved to be held in my arms, on my lap, or to snuggle up to my body.
I continued to cry as I picked up the material story of Cora’s life - her leash, harness, water and feeding bowls, precious winter/rain jacket, toys, and blankets. Each item was full of Cora’s being, and there were endless rituals. Helping Cora slip on her red harness and attach her leash was a memory closest to me. She would reach out her small right front paw and put it through the hole. Seeing the harness and leash was a huge thrill for Cora. Her joy in connecting with the outside world of endless smells was unbounded. Once the harness and leash were connected, she would purposely trot down the stairs and out the front door, continuing until it was time to smell, pee, or poop. Her walks lasted five or ten minutes. Cora was not interested in long walks. Her little legs, especially the hind right one, were not meant for distance, even when we first adopted her.
Bigger than the material story was living in the house without Cora. Her presence was felt from the time I entered the house. Cora would greet me with her tiny, fluffy tail wagging in the entryway, and follow me into the open living/dining/kitchen. She had a dog bed that we moved around that room depending on where we were. As I type this tribute to Cora, I look down and can feel her presence. She would be in her dog bed right by my chair, curled up with her head on the edge of the bed. Or she would reach up on her hind legs and lift her front legs onto my legs to ask for lap time. Her energy is everywhere. Chuck and I understand it is as it should be. Cora was a huge part of our life. We catered to her all the time because she deserved just that. The love, joy, and companionship she gave us were priceless.
Chuck and I did our best to keep Cora going with a quality of life that did not compromise her to the degree that the last week of her life did. She wanted to stay because she was wired to my heart and soul, my psyche, but the nature of impermanence spoke up, loud and clear.
Grief blinded me to the fact that impermanence is part of life, and it is important to honor that fact. I believe, on a subconscious level, I knew that Cora would not be with us for many years, but the days I lived with her will remain with me until it is my time to say goodbye.
I welcome your feedback, and please share about the loss of your beloved dog. Sharing our stories helps us through the healing process. sherry@sherryrhynard.com
