Sometimes, the smallest companions take up the biggest space in our stories — and our hearts. This short story is about Heidi’s dog, Moose, whose presence was anything but small.
Earlier this year, Heidi won an award for her writing, and this piece shows the kind of depth and tenderness that earned her that honor. It’s a moment in time, wrapped in fur and memory, and it reminds us how deeply we can be changed by those we love. Here’s to Moose, and here’s to always appreciating the furry companions we’re blessed to walk alongside!
My husband, Phil, and I never had children together, but we welcomed our fur-baby, a Jack Russell/rat terrier we named Moose, into our home in October 2007. He quickly wriggled into our hearts and the hearts of all who met him, especially children.
One Christmas morning, when Moose was about four years old, our nine-month-old grandson, Mason, had just finished opening presents. While Harry Connick Jr. crooned “What Child is This?” in the background, Mason discovered a well-worn rawhide hidden amongst the sea of torn wrapping paper and shiny new toys. Across the room, Moose cocked his head with concern. This delightful dog slowly crept forward and gently grasped the rawhide with his front teeth. He gingerly pulled the stick from a perplexed Mason’s hand. Moose happily trotted away with a backward glance that clearly communicated, “My Chewie.”
A few years later we hired Sarah, a sweet sixteen-year-old, to dog-sit for us when we went on vacation. Sarah and her friends loved Moose so much that they featured him prominently in many of their Facebook posts. One summer, Phil and I brought Moose to Coeur d’ Alene’s “Art on the Green” festival held at North Idaho College. As we meandered through the booths, we discovered we had a local celebrity on our leash. Moose proudly trotted ahead of us greeting his many teenaged fans who easily recognized him while we remained the anonymous handlers standing in the shadow of our majestic Moose.
That same summer, Phil, Moose and I enjoyed spending weekends on our cabin cruiser. One weekend we camped overnight at the Windy Bay Boater Park, about 16 miles south of Coeur d’ Alene. As Phil and I ate our breakfast, Moose stood on the bow of the boat surveying the passing boat traffic. All of a sudden, we heard the voice of a small child excitedly ask, “Is that Moose?” A skeptical parent quickly answered, “That can’t be Moose!” Phil and I chuckled that our little Jack/Rat had more followers than we could ever hope to acquire.
Eight years later, Moose joined us as we moved back home to Auburn and expanded his fan base to include my elderly parents and their friends. The year my father passed away, then fifteen-year-old Moose had lost his hearing and Dad’s sixteen-year-old dog, Star had lost her sight. I recall many afternoons with Dad sitting in his favorite loveseat flanked on either side by his deaf and blind protectors.
About three weeks after my dad succumbed to cancer, we scheduled his burial in Reno. The weekend before, I took some much-needed time relaxing at home with Phil and Moose. Sunday morning, we awoke to a beautiful sunny day. I could hear the birds singing through our open windows as I walked to the kitchen to make breakfast. I opened the kitchen door to let Moose outside. He trotted across our deck to his favorite patch of grass nestled between the creek that feeds our pond and the oak-filled woods behind our house.
I left the door open for Moose, as he enjoyed lingering outside in the sunshine. I snuggled back into bed as Phil and I savored our Honey Nut Cheerios and watched a re-run of the Kitchen on Food Network. A few commercial breaks later, Moose hadn’t come back inside. I asked Phil to go see what he was up to…fearing he might be munching on something he shouldn’t be eating.
Phil walked out onto the deck and within 2 seconds, he somberly called back inside, “Honey, get your clothes on.” I bolted out of bed shedding my pajamas and throwing on jeans and a t-shirt as quickly as possible. By the time I walked outside, Phil began to ascend the stairs to the deck carrying an almost lifeless Moose. I charged forward and screamed as I saw drops of blood emerging around his neck.
I began shaking as I enfolded my four-legged baby gingerly into my arms, so Phil could get ready. As he emerged from our room with shoes in hand, we began to frantically look for a vet open on a Sunday. The first three we tried didn’t answer, so we decided to get into the car and start driving the 20 minutes toward Roseville, CA, a much more populated city than our town of Auburn. I cradled Moose in my lap while I punched in searches for 24-hour vets on my phone. My frantic emotions finally settled enough for me to recall that Loomis Basin Veterinary Clinic had once cared for my stepdaughter’s dog when he became ill on a weekend. I quickly found the number and breathed a shaky sigh of relief when a chipper receptionist answered the call.
I succinctly briefed her on the situation. “Our dog wandered up into the woods behind our house. My husband saw him lying motionless under a tree. He has drops of blood around his neck. We suspect a wild animal has attacked him.”
When she stated that they could get him in to see an emergency vet, I told her we were on our way and could be there within 10 minutes. After I hung up, I glanced down at my sweet celebrity Moose, dazed with shock and limp as a rag doll. My eyes filled with tears as I began praying, “Please God, I cannot imagine burying my dad and my dog the same week. Please help Moose to be ok. Please give this vet the ability to save him.”
As we rushed into the clinic, a chorus of animal sounds met us. We charged straight to the front of the line as the owners of less critical pets looked over at Moose with empathy and concern. The veterinary technician (vet tech) gently gathered him into her arms and whisked him back to the treatment rooms, telling us to sit in the waiting room until they had an update. Phil and I clung to each other as a torrent of tears streamed down my face. I cried for the fear and confusion Moose must have been feeling. I cried for the fact that I couldn’t call my dad for comfort. I cried with disbelief that 2023, my worst year ever, had assaulted me with yet another devasting blow.
An hour later, we met the heroic Dr. Hess for the first time. She suspected a coyote had been the attacker due to multiple puncture wounds around his neck and damage to his limbs from severe shaking. With unwavering confidence, she stated, “I think he can survive this.” She outlined the procedures required and the costs. I wanted to immediately say, “Yes, save him!” However, I needed to ensure this would be in Moose’s best interest. I timidly asked, “He is fifteen. Would you do this procedure if he were your dog?” She unhesitatingly said she would but offered to let us see Moose before we decided.
I burst into tears again saying, “Yes, we would like to see him.”
The door creaked open and a vet tech placed Moose on the table. I immediately gave thanks for the skills of Dr. Hess and for the medications that eased his pain. Even though his shaved neck prominently displayed the horrific puncture wounds, Moose began excitedly licking us as if to say, “Take me home, Mom and Dad.” We knew at that moment that our baby, while banged up, still remained a bundle of energy packed with personality and love. I gently caressed the top of his head trying to reassure him that we would be back soon, as we gave the go-ahead for surgery.
We returned Monday afternoon to collect Moose, who looked reminiscent of Frankenstein with drainage tubes protruding ominously around his swollen neck. He whimpered softly as we began the 20-minute drive home. When we turned onto our street, he caught sight of our house and immediately jumped up and began prancing on my lap. I felt the joy radiating through his body, “home at last, home at last.”
For two days we cared for Moose with the same determination I had cared for Dad. We administered his anti-inflammatory and pain medications. We gently wrapped his neck with warm compresses to ease the pain and facilitate the draining of the wounds. However, it became apparent that he would not be strong enough to travel to Reno for us to attend my dad’s burial on Friday. We made the decision that Phil would stay home to nurse Moose back to health, while I would trek over the mountain alone to bury my father.
Moose blessed us with 18 additional months, never losing his contagious joy for life. When his frail 17-year-old body finally failed him, to the point of constant pain, we knew we had to bid him farewell. On November 15th, 2024, Phil and I cradled Moose on our laps, gently stroking him and showering him with love and gratitude for his profound impact on our lives while our compassionate mobile veterinarian put him to rest.
