Joy Fades with Charlie
(Relentless Resilience Training Blog Series 1 of 6)
“ Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives. ”
Our Charlie was known as the Ambassador of Little Dogs at Bergen Bark Inn. He contributed his welcoming and assuring energy to each new canine that joined the group. It was said he also played with and was sure to seek out, the more timid pups in the yard.
Twice a week for over 10 years, our mini chocolate labradoodle, made the scene on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the Little Dog day camp at BBI.
He loved his buddies at camp. He loved the staff and the vibrant energy that pulsed through his days there. And he loved receiving the love he felt in return.
Charlie came to us from Texas. He was 12 weeks old and about the size of a small gerbil when he arrived in his crate at the cargo building of DIA. My daughter and I felt anxious and excited as we drove out to pick him up.
It was February. Clear and frosty. I remember putting the crate down on the rough stubbly ground just outside the pickup area. I opened his gate so he could stretch his legs and pee.
Oh my gosh! He was all fluff with big brown eyes that popped from his face. His expression was one of curiosity and concern over his new surroundings. Then the sweet expression he directed up toward us, melted our hearts.
My husband was in Mexico for a “boys getaway” with his Dad and brother. He knew our puppy was arriving while he was gone. What he couldn’t know, was the huge Life transformation and unconditional love we would experience, because of him.
That was the beginning of our cherished 11-year adventure with our Charlie. He had many nicknames over the years: Sir Charles, Charlie Brown, Charlie Boy, Prince Charles and occasionally Chuck. Our neighbor sometimes called him that. (Though to me, our Charlie was never a Chuck.)
Charlie transformed our quiet, orderly, humdrum, home routine into a lively, spontaneous, energetic, entertainment/learning center.
He had so much to teach us. He came to challenge our patience, our compassion and our kindness. He taught us how to be present, selfless and spontaneous.
Charlie opened up our hearts in a new way that made us better people.
He loved to hike and sniff around trails and rivers’ edge. He moved as fast as his legs and lungs would take him before dropping down to pant and rest. Then up again and off we went.
A favorite for Charlie was the snow paths my husband created in the back yard. The deeper the snow, the more creative the maze. Charlie would tear around the paths; ears flopping, tongue out, head nodding in momentum. Sometimes he’d plunge face first where he thought the path should continue. He was so proud of the full white beard he sported afterwards.
I never took for granted, the joy Charlie brought to our lives. I learned to love his antics and the euphoric laughter he coaxed from each of us. It is a good Life when we can laugh.
Every Wednesday morning for over 10 years, Bryan took Charlie up to visit with his brother who lived 8 miles back off the highway near Bailey, CO. Jim’s small A-Frame sits nestled in trees on 5 acres. The property butts up to National forest land and has an unobstructed view of the mountain range. It is a pristine quiet retreat where animals and birds provide company and companionship to my brother-in-law.
Charlie loved these visits. The three of them hiked all around the property and down to the creek. Charlie found these adventures to be “a slice of heaven” as he ran freely and sampled tasty treats he’d scoop up from the ground.
Afterward, the three of them would rest on the North deck to enjoy conversation, their company, and the view. And if Charlie was lucky, he’d grab a special treat that was hiding in Uncle Jim’s beard.
Charlie was my fun companion and hiking partner. He kept me moving and pretended to need a break when I lagged behind. Sometimes we’d take a nap together. Our favorite was laying out in the backyard on the patio cushions, feeling the warmth of the summer sun while partially in the shade.
He was also the angel God sent to me. He helped me be strong and comforted during our daughter’s tumultuous twenties. He’d run and hide in the other room when we argued. Yet when I lay on the floor in front of the wood burning stove, he quietly joined me. He allowed me to stroke his soft coat. Or perhaps spill my tears into his fur.
In July 2022, our daughter and her family sold our family ranch and abruptly moved across country to Maine. So deep was my shock and grief, that for weeks, I was unable to leave the house or share with anyone, what was going on.
My dreams of a relationship with my grandson were shattered. My excited anticipation of sharing Life’s milestones together; squelched. My heart was broken. I felt powerless and carried within me, a deep sadness that shadowed my waking moments for months.
Charlie sustained me through this trauma. He snuggled close to me while I lay stunned and sobbing on the living room floor. He stayed by my side and followed me from room to room. He lingered longer with his gentle affection and patient love.
Charlie’s unconditional love and the sheer furry presence soothed my heart and gave me something to look forward to each day.
Ironically that same summer, Charlie’s on-going gastrointestinal issues seemed to worsen. Frustrated and concerned, we took him to Wheat Ridge Animal Hospital where Dr Jessica Villm, became his Internal Medicine Specialist. Charlie underwent every test possible including extensive blood work and a heart ultrasound.
The results revealed a tumor on each of his adrenal glands. Inoperable. Still Dr Villm assured us that with careful monitoring of Charlie’s diet and new meds, we had a good chance to slow the growth of the tumors.
Charlie seemed to rally under this regime. Perhaps his friskiness became a bit subdued, yet he continued to show up as the great ambassador and demonstrate his personal enthusiasm for a walk or romp in the snow.
He gifted us with 3 more years.
He provided “laid back” companionship for Bryan. They snoozed and snored in unison at the boring parts of a TV show. He brought a smile and joy to the visits at the cabin, either venturing out on shorter hikes, or resting with Uncle Jim to watch Bryan work.
Every time Charlie heard the garage door open, he ran to be in position. He’d sit just inside the sliding glass door so he could see my car pull in. He’d fixate on my face in the drivers seat through two windows. If I looked up, I could see him anxiously waiting for me. Staring me down.
When I opened the door to the kitchen, Charlie charged forward - always excited to see me and to share his version of hugs and kisses.
Our dog Charlie, seemed to bring joy to each moment and deeper meaning to our every experience.
It was in August of 2025, when we noticed a real drag in Charlie’s movements. He’d rally with us for a few minutes, then separate himself to go lay down.
We knew his health was deteriorating. We didn’t know to what degree or the level of his suffering.
It was Tuesday afternoon when Bryan and I took Charlie in to see Dr Jason Kutz, at Elk Meadow Animal Hospital. When Dr Jason called us back into the lab to review Charlie’s x-rays, we weren’t prepared for what he showed us.
Charlie now had a growth, a mass in his spleen, easy to see and undeniable. He told us that Charlie was in pain, that he’d probably been masking it for a while. Dr Jason advised us to take Charlie down to Wheat Ridge Animal Hospital immediately.
Bryan and I dropped into silence and disbelief. We alerted WRAH we were headed down the mountain with Charlie. Other than the low murmurings from the radio, the car was quiet. Both of us were in our heads, arguing with the reality of the moment, fighting the bile that had begun to billow up from our guts.
For over two hours, we sat in the cramped ER patient room waiting to hear results from various tests, ultrasounds, blood labs. There were calls made to specialist and surgeons, inquiring as to their assessment and availability. And then we waited some more, for the report on 2nd and 3rd opinions regarding any options that might be offered.
The ER doctor said Charlie was a candidate for surgery. That the specialist surgeon had agreed to come in the next morning. He talked with us about the surgery procedure and the probable details of Charlies recovery process.
As we listened, Charlie sat on my lap and looked up at us, trusting.
The other option offered was to let him go. Like tonight? Like now? Bryan and I were dazed at the speed in which our day, our lives really, had spun out from usual to devastating.
In shock, we scheduled Charlie for the surgery in the morning and drove home without him. We felt lost. Numb. Unbelieving, Sick. The ache in our hearts silenced any conversation we might have had that evening.
It was around 3 am Wednesday morning when I woke up, startled and panicky. I wandered out to the sunroom where I found Bryan sitting in the dark in his chair. We sat there together for a while. Finally I blurted out that we just couldn’t put Charlie through this. It wasn’t fair to him. The surgery, his recovery. We were desperately grasping at last attempts to hold on to our dearest companion. Bryan had been thinking the same.
I called WRAH at 6 am when the ER opened. The tech I spoke to was so kind. She agreed to alert the staff to cancel Charlie’s surgery and cancelled the additional tests that were to be done that morning.
For a moment, I felt myself being held on the phone, as if I was there, right in front of her. Through my stifled sobs, I questioned, what do we do now?
Often when we feel despondent and are void of any direction, there seems to be someone who catches us, right before we fall. They show up to support us or guide us to find our next right step. These Earth Angels remind us of our courage and of our ability to see a ray of light even in the deepest darkness.
“Come pick up Charlie and take him home. Give him all the treats he loves and spend beautiful moments together. Take him on walks if he wants to go. But only as far as you can carry him home. We have a list of compassionate Vets who will come to your home. They will help you and Charlie let go, in a peaceful way.”
We brought Charlie home. He was definitely grateful to be home and with us, hanging out in the living room. He made it clear to Bryan and me that he was ready to go, that his body was done, that his ability to rally had left.
We scheduled Dr. Christine Daigler to come Friday afternoon. We chose her because of the name of her service, A Peaceful Passage. It was also the tone and nature of her voice on her message. It gave us reassurance even before actually talking with her.
Thursday, Bryan was gone most of the day working with clients. Charlie and I stayed home. I kept the shades down in the sunroom. It kept the house cool and guarded us from the bright glare of the August sun.
I’d occasionally carry Charlie outside to the back yard or coax him to drink water. But most of the time we just laid together on the floor, napping, resting. He let me stroke his fur and fondle his paws. It was quiet, peaceful. The day passed, our day.
Friday morning started out like any normal summer day at our house. Except it wasn’t. Dr Daigler was coming at noon. This was to be our last day with Charlie. Over eleven and half months of memories and love flooded through the morning. Charlie seemed to be very chill, laying around and uninterested in breakfast.
When Dr Daigler pulled into the driveway, I felt my heart plummet. A new pressure squeezed in hard, the reality of the day. Gone was the subliminal hope that had keep Bryan and me afloat.
Charlie greeted her gingerly and sniffed the big bag of treats through the cloth of her satchel. He laid back down while we talked about the process and dealt with business.
It was surreal. To be talking about the process of ending a Life and having the subject of that procedure. . . be our Charlie. I felt nauseous and a bit detached from the energy in the room.
And then I experienced something surprising. I was filled with a gentle compassion and strength. An acceptance that gave me peace. I could sense a powerful love surrounding all of us.
I know God and our angels were with us there. Charlie seemed to give us the proverbial - go ahead. . .
The actual release of Charlie’s body was a two-part sedative. Bryan and I sat on the floor with him, generously feeding him rich treats his health had denied him.
Dr Daigler explained the first injection would ease Charlie into a deep sleep, not unlike the sedation given before surgeries. As we watched Charlie begin to slow down and then rest is head, both Bryan & I cried.
We took turns stroking him, chanting our gratitude for the joy and love he had given us. He was there sleeping on his blanket in the sunroom. So peaceful. So familiar. Such a good boy.
Our time together, was not rushed. There was so much we wanted to say. To be sure that he knew how much we treasured him. Thank you Charlie Boy for the ways you brought light to our world. We are so grateful for the way you helped us heal, made us laugh, and filled our home and our lives, with joy!
When we were ready I nodded to Dr Daigler. She explained the next injection would increase the current sleep state until he was gone.
We sat there for a long time, reverently. She asked us if we needed anything more. Did one of us want to carry Charlie out to her car?
In the days before, I had thought about how this day would be. My heart searched for guidance and peace. I wondered how I would feel when Charlie had taken his last breath.
At the end, I saw only beauty in this furry little body that carried the bright light and spirit of our Charlie. I scooped him up and carried him in his blanket out the front door and down to the driveway for the last time.
There was a beautiful white alter arranged for him in the back. I laid him gently into the cozy bed waiting for him.
As Dr Daigler drove off, I turned to go back into the house.
I stopped to stand on the front porch to take in several deep breaths.
It was August 29th 2025. Twenty years since Hurricane Katrina. The twenty year anniversary of my sister Lynne surviving the horrendous accident caused by a drunk driver.
And it was the last day we had Charlie. We had celebrated his Life. But we couldn’t hold onto the joy that went with him. . .
“The power of a bond with a being that loves us unconditionally, asking very little in return, should never be underestimated. It can be incomprehensible to lose this source of comfort and joy.”
-Author Unknown
