Abby and Me

April 10, 2025

Abby and I rescued each other on April 22, 2014. We met in the courtyard of an apartment complex in northeast San Diego, an introduction arranged by a kind-hearted foster volunteer named Reyna. Abby wasn’t sold on me, but she adored Reyna, and as we strolled a slow lap through the courtyard, Reyna told me all about the little dog trotting just ahead of us.

Her name was Celta. She was a Mexican street dog found dying on the side of the road with a deep gash on her head, parasites crawling across her frail body, and the puppies she had just birthed nowhere to be found. The rescue group—Animal Advocates of the United States—scooped her up and brought her to a veterinary clinic, where she was nursed her back to life. The clinic specializes in rehabilitating strays, giving them the paperwork and vaccinations they need to cross into the U.S., where they’re placed into a network of foster homes across San Diego County. Reyna took in Celta.

Truth be told, I’d had my eye on another dog. His name was Ringo, and he looked uncannily like Lola—my first rescue, who had passed just three weeks earlier, leaving behind me and Cabo, my ten-year-old golden retriever. But Reyna had other plans. She gently told me Ringo was a bit of a wild card, not the right fit. Instead, she said, there was a sweet little pup named Celta who might be perfect for Cabo and me. What she didn’t say—not then—was that Celta’s deep-rooted trauma and skittishness had placed her on the edge of being labeled “unadoptable.” But Reyna believed there was still a chance.

Amazingly, the original adoption video that Reyna sent me is still on YouTube.

The sun had nearly dipped below the rooftops when we finished our lap with little Celta. Reyna turned to me and handed me the leash. “This is where the magic happens,” she said with a smile. Celta blinked up at us, unconvinced. She wasn’t here for magic. She wanted Reyna. But Reyna gently insisted we walk together to bond. Celta trudged alongside me, glancing back at her foster mom the entire time, relieved when the loop was over and her person reappeared.

Despite the frosty reception, I told Reyna I was ready to adopt her. And that her new name would be Abby.

*April 22, 2014. Abby, née Celta, on the night we met, with her freshly-signed adoption papers in the envelope on the right.*

I’d love to tell you it was love at first sight. But whatever traumas had been poured into Abby’s nervous system during her time on the streets had left wounds that went bone-deep—and for reasons I may never understand, I seemed to personify every one of them. She scurried away if I so much as entered the room. Sometimes, she’d relocate to an entirely different floor just to avoid being near me. It ate at me like battery acid.

Having lost my beloved Lola just three weeks earlier. I was aching to love and be loved by another little soul. But Abby had no interest in that arrangement. “It’s not you—it’s all men,” people said, trying to reassure me that I need not take the unrelenting rebukes personally. But that theory died a quick death when Abby trotted up to every man in the neighborhood wagging her tail. No, it wasn’t men. It was me.

Thankfully, Cabo soaked up affection like a sponge and instantly became Abby’s security blanket and best friend. Where Cabo walked, Abby followed. Where Cabo napped, so did Abby. Despite Abby’s crippling fear of yours truly, I knew she was in good hands, even if she didn’t.

The lessons came hard and fast. The first: I had welcomed this beautiful, battered little soul into my life with a head full of expectations. I expected her to be like Lola—warm, affectionate, instinctively trusting. But Abby was a mirror turned against the grain. I had to drop everything I thought I knew about rescue dogs—and more painfully, everything I thought I knew about myself. To hold Abby to an impossible standard—to expect her to act like a wholly different dog—wasn’t just unfair, but completely delusional. Abby taught me that unless I could meet every living being exactly as they are, not as I wished them to be, I was doomed to resentment and disappointment. Real love is accepting and celebrating another living soul for being exactly the way they are in that moment.

Then came the advanced coursework: right action. With Abby, the right thing was to treat her as if we were each other’s sun and moon—even though we weren’t. I fed her, walked her, spoke gently to her, and offered affection that was met, more often than not, with suspicion or withdrawal. There was zero appreciation, zero validation. It annoyed me. I felt entitled to some sort of reward for taking care of her. Eventually, however, the revelation hit: doing the right thing is the reward. Somewhere along the line, I’d acquired the belief that doing the right thing only mattered when it came with some credit This was my big shift: never hesitate to do the right thing because you don’t see a payoff. You don’t know where it leads. You never really do.

One evening, while I sat on the couch watching TV, Abby crept crept into the room, padded warily to the dog bed in the corner, curled up and stared at me. It was, I instantly understood, an act of profound courage, showcased by a tiny Mexican street dog. On some level, I still terrified her, but she was ready to give me a chance. My heart damn near exploded, but I played it cool. From that day forward, she was mine. And I was hers.

Over the years, Abby bloomed. With each passing day, her personality seemed to unfold a little more. Her DNA test pegged her as half Swiss German Shepherd, half Toy Fox Terrier—an unlikely mix, though whichever side accounted for her obsession with chasing tennis balls, it never let up. She patrolled the canyon behind our house like it was her sacred duty—a living buffet of smells, sights, and sounds that lit her up like a shot of espresso. She made a legion of dog friends, and an even larger circle of human ones—neighbours, visitors, passersby from all corners of the globe. She played with rockstars, napped with wayward houseguests, amused wide-eyed children, and brought tidal waves of joy in the simplest way imaginable: curling up beside someone on the couch and falling asleep.

Cabo passed away in 2016, and for a while it was just Abby and me. I don’t remember those months clearly. But I do remember bringing Zoe home that fall, and Jacques in the summer of 2024. We became a proper little pack. A noisy, messy, joyful family. And as we all eventually learn—nothing lasts forever.

Abby’s decline started a few years ago, when her kidneys began to fail. I braced for a quick farewell. When the vet told me, “Some dogs hang on for two more years,” I remember nodding politely and thinking, Thanks for that wildly unhelpful guess. It turned out that her estimate was conservative. Abby gave me three more years. Prescription food, a buffet of treats, and the glue of our little tribe kept her going.

I returned from a trip to London last Monday, and the dog sitter confirmed what I’d been fearing: Abby’s appetite was fading. She’d become more finicky over the preceding month, but things moved quickly. First she stopped finishing her meals. Then began the food roulette—adding peanut butter to her special food worked until it didn’t. Cold cuts, beef broth, ground turkey… all rejected. Even her favorite treats got the cold shoulder. The appetite stimulant did nothing. Neither did the anti-nausea meds.

We visited the vet twice this past week. IV fluids, more meds, Pepcid, antibiotics—none of it touched the problem. She’d lick a dab of peanut butter here and there, but she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days. Sitting with the vet on Thursday morning, failing miserably at maintaining composure, I finally admitted it—Abby was ready to go. “Is there some sort of sign, so I can be sure?” I asked through tears. “Her not eating is the sign,” the doctor gently replied.

And so began the fragile dance of timing—giving her every remaining day of peace and dignity, while guarding her from suffering. The fact that she had stopped eating told me time was running short, but her gentle energy, her willingness to follow the others on walks, gave me hope that a few more beautiful days might still be ours.

But this morning, Abby let me know. After a slow walk with the others, over to the field across the street, she turned back early. I grabbed the leashes, and we headed home. She followed me into the sunroom, and I picked her up. She settled into my lap as I swaddled her in a fluffy blanket and, after a few moments, let out a soft, pained whimper. The first and only time she ever let me hear that sound. And that was it. She told me everything I needed to know. I called the clinic and made the appointment for tomorrow morning.

*2025 A hungry pack waiting for a treat. Abby always went first.*

“Attachment is the root of all suffering,” says the Buddha. And right now, I believe it with every atom in my body. The past 24 hours have been a graduate seminar in that truth. I’ve taken hundreds of photos—Abby sitting, napping, standing, staring at me, or gazing into nowhere. I clipped tufts of her hair. I look around the house and think, That tube of toothpaste will outlive Abby. Those flowers will still be here tomorrow. Abby won’t. It’s a dull, cosmic cruelty.

I cry just looking at her. And as word trickles out, the texts and phone calls roll in. Every one of them splits me open. I’ve tried to keep it private, but when your inner circle is as solid and loving as mine, word travels fast. So does support.

Tonight, as the sun melted into the Pacific, I carried Abby outside and we sat on the patio together. We watched her final sunset. I told her stories—so many stories. I whispered a prayer into her ear, that we are spiritually connected in this world and the next. That she need never be afraid because we will always be together. And I believe that.

She’s asleep now, curled up in that same corner bed where, all those years ago, she first took a chance on me. Jacques is curled beside her. Zoe’s on the couch. This is as close to perfection as I’ll ever get. I wouldn’t change a thing—except maybe to give them all another forty years.

*April 8, 2014, on a playdate with our pal Bodie and his immensely kind and loving pack of humans.*

Tomorrow morning, my friend—my anchor—is coming with me to the vet. I always imagined Abby would pass at home. But with two other dogs and a house full of noise and distraction, it didn’t feel right. I want this to be peaceful. The vet assured me we could have a quiet, sacred moment at the clinic—the same place where Cabo passed, nine years ago. It feels right that Abby should follow her from there.

I’m already a wreck. It’s 7:47 p.m. now. Maybe she’s got thirteen hours left. I want to pack them with treats and whispered promises that I’ll never forget her. That our spirits are knotted together forever. But she’s sleeping. And I’m just grateful that, for a little longer, I can reach out and stroke her soft fur.

*April 11, 2025. My final photo with Abby.*

Post Script
Abby passed peacefully in my arms at 8:45 a.m. on April 12, 2025. Even as the grief pours forth in a hundred excruciating forms, it’s worth every soul-crushing second. Because out of all the dogs in the world and all the people who could have found her—I’m the one who got Abby, that scared, tiny, “unadoptable” street dog from Mexico who cracked my heart like a vase—and through those fractures, revealed a depth of love I never knew was possible.