Remembering Kelsey: A Cherished Companion
Kelsey was my heart, my joy, my beloved companion. He came into my life on January 14, 2022, a tiny, fragile dog with more love in his little body than I ever thought possible. He passed away on December 25, 2023, and though it has been nearly ten months since he left, I still think about him every single day. He was born with some birth defects, but none of that mattered to me—I loved him with everything I had.
Kelsey had an unnatural curve in his spine, and I did my best to help him. For nearly a year, I gently stretched him every day, hoping to ease his discomfort and prevent him from becoming lame. He eventually let me know when he didn’t need the stretching anymore. I’ve had pets my whole life, but none were like Kelsey. He was special, and the bond we shared was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. He was the most loving dog I’ve ever known.
For the first eight months of his life, Kelsey didn’t bark, which worried me. I tried to coax some sound out of him, and one day, before giving him and his sister Chelsea a treat, I barked at him playfully. To my surprise and utter joy, he barked back. I hugged and kissed him, overjoyed that he had finally found his voice. From that moment on, he didn’t stop. It felt like we had discovered a new way to communicate, and it made me so happy to hear him express himself.
The Love We Shared with Kelsey
There was something about the way Kelsey looked at me—he had this soulful gaze, as if he was trying to tell me something. I always felt like he wanted to say that he loved me, and even though dogs can’t speak, Kelsey showed me his love in every way he could. He was always by my side, my little shadow. He followed me everywhere, even into the bathroom, and I didn’t mind one bit. They say dogs see their owners as the leaders of their pack, and Kelsey certainly did. He watched my every move, always wanting to be close.
One funny habit Kelsey had was how he would come into the bathroom with me and hike up his leg to use the bathroom right by the toilet. I tried my best to correct him, letting him know that’s not where he was supposed to go. But no matter how much I tried to show him, he kept doing it, as if he was just mimicking what he saw me doing. I couldn’t help but laugh at his stubbornness and determination, even though I knew it wasn’t quite right. It’s moments like those that made him so endearing to me, little quirks that I’ll never forget.
Kelsey had his quirks, and one of them was his nervousness about going outside. While Chelsea loved being outdoors, Kelsey would freeze up, whimper, and refuse to move. Eventually, I stopped trying to force him to go outside, knowing he was more comfortable indoors where he felt safe.
When it was time for us to move from Dallas back to Detroit, I decided to drive with both Kelsey and Chelsea. Kelsey rode quietly with me, while Chelsea was in another car. The trip marked a heartbreaking shift in Kelsey’s health. He was unusually quiet during the drive, resting peacefully the whole way. At the time, I thought he was just tired from the long journey, but once we arrived in Michigan, I realized something was wrong.
The next morning, my sister found Kelsey on the floor, lying in a swimming position. He couldn’t walk or stand, and my heart shattered. I was devastated, but I knew I had to stay strong for him. He was rushed to the vet, where he was diagnosed with seizures and given medication. The vet didn’t seem overly concerned, and I rushed to get his prescription filled, not wanting to wait for days for a delivery. When we brought him home, Kelsey seemed to be doing better. He walked around in circles, trying to find his balance, and I held onto hope that he was on the mend.
For a short while, it looked like things were improving. But the next day, I got the call I had been dreading. Kelsey had taken a turn for the worse—he was back in that swimming position, unable to move, crying out in distress. It was heartbreaking. His little body wasn’t responding, and I could see the fear in his eyes. He couldn’t hear me, couldn’t see me—my baby was slipping away. I gave him his medicine, prayed it would help, but deep down, I feared the inevitable.
It was Christmas Day, and Kelsey had stabilized somewhat. He still couldn’t move, but I fed him through a syringe, gave him water, and even tried CBD oil to ease his discomfort. He was calm, but I knew he wasn’t well. What crushed me even more was seeing how his brother, sisters, and even Chelsea began avoiding him. They knew. Dogs have an instinct about these things, and it broke my heart to see Kelsey so isolated when he needed love the most.
That night, I came home from work, warmed some holiday food, and sat down near Kelsey. He was still breathing, and I picked him up, held him close, kissed him, and told him how much I loved him. I put him down gently and sat in a chair facing him, watching over him. He was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. I knew in that moment what was happening, but I didn’t want to accept it. It was as if he had waited for me to come home, to say goodbye in his own way. I softly asked him, “What are you looking at, boy? What are you looking at?” But I started to cry, because deep down, I knew. My sweet boy was leaving me.
At ten minutes to 10:00 p.m., on Christmas night, Kelsey took his last breath. I had tried so hard to keep him going, to make it to the next day in hopes the vet could do more, but it wasn’t enough. He was gone, and a part of me went with him.
The next day, I shared my grief on social media. Most people were kind, offering condolences, but a few comments were hurtful. Some said things like, “You’ll find another dog,” as if Kelsey could ever be replaced. I didn’t respond—I couldn’t. Kelsey was irreplaceable. He was my baby, and no one could understand how much he meant to me.
A few days after he passed, I had a dream about Kelsey. He came running up to me, happy as ever, but then he left with a couple. I called for him, begged him to come back, but he was content. He was happy. When I woke up, I cried, wishing it had all just been a terrible dream.
Kelsey died just 20 days before his second birthday. On January 14, 2024, I had planned to release a candle lantern in his honor, but it was illegal, so I opted for balloons. I went to the park, said a prayer, and released them, watching them rise into the sky, carrying my love for him. It has been 302 days since he left, and I miss him every single day. Sometimes the pain is overwhelming, and I find myself crying, still grieving my precious boy.
I still have Chelsea and Kelsey’s litter sister, Coco. They bring me comfort, but it’s not the same. Kelsey was one of a kind, and there will never be another like him. He was more than a pet—he was my heart, my soul, and the greatest love I’ve ever known. I will carry him with me forever.
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