Jacob Tender

This week our beloved Jazz passed away. She was our best friend and companion for 10 years. Mae and I are completely lost without her.

I met Jazz the day she entered her foster home in Nashville, where I happened to be staying for a week. During that time we bonded very quickly. I had every intention of adopting her and taking her back across state lines to Ohio. Things didn’t pan out then but I kept up with her and, when the opportunity arose to take her in, I brought her here to stay.

Her adoption came with some struggles. She tore up my dad’s laundry room in her first weeks. ^[1] I was cut out of her previous owner’s lives when they decided they wanted to take her back 8 months later and I refused. Worst of all, it delayed Mae and I moving in together for another year due to a changing policy in her apartment complex.

While Mae was skeptical at first, I knew from the moment I met Jazz that we were meant to be. It didn’t take long for my girls to fall head-over-heels for each other too. Jazz was a uniquely special friend and once she opened herself up to you, it was impossible to not love her completely.

These past few days have been extremely trying. On Monday we went to bed together as normal. Jazz burrowed under the covers as we watched TV before slinking out to sleep in the hallway to cool down. It was the same routine we’ve had for a decade. But within an hour, as I turned off the tube and went to find her, I noticed something was very wrong.

A long night and emergency morning vet visit revealed that Jazz had a large mass on her liver. Before we could return for a biopsy, lab results and radiology revealed the unbelievable truth. It was her time. As unready as we were for this, we did what we knew was best for our sweet girl. She was released from pain at home the next day.

I’m writing this days later through fits of sobs. It’s out of our deep devotion to her that we’re grieving so hard. We had 10 incredible years with her and she had a tremendous life of adventure and love. As we ping pong between disbelief and constant reminders of her absence, we have been recalling an endless stream of fond memories.

As a puppy, she had boundless amounts of energy. She loved to run and play. She brought a side out of my aging family dog Snickers that we hadn’t seen in years. She adored walks and rides in the car. As she grew, so did her adventures. Hiking, camping, and plenty of off-leash time at the college kept her active and excited to explore.

She was highly adaptable and intensely loyal. From day one, there was no need for a lead when she was let outside. Her devotion was an invisible tether between us on every trail we ever hiked. She had a level of emotional intelligence that I’ve never experienced with an animal of a different species. It’s impossible to describe, but was felt so deeply on a day to day basis.

Jazz loved laying in the sun. She would chase the sunlight throughout the house to warm her face and stomach. Until her joints began to deteriorate, she lived for fetch. She was a fast and reckless runner. And she loved to climb. Boulders and stumps beckoned her for reasons I never understood. She’d jump up onto the tallest platforms without any thought as to how she could get back down. Watching her not only overcome her fear of water, but find a deep love for swimming made me endlessly proud. She was not a breed built for that activity, but she took to it with so much joy after finally diving in to “rescue” her favorite ball.

I miss her more than anything. Every room, sound, and part of our routine reminds me of her. These first few days without her physically here with us are full of reoccurring stabs to the heart. It’s impossible not expect her around the corner in every room. To go to bed without giving her the same words of affirmation and tummy rubs she’s always received. To come home and not be greeted with such a level of overexcitement that she can’t contain herself or wiggly butt. When someone buries themselves so deeply into your soul, their absence feels like a major part of you has been ripped out by the roots. I know that the long tail of our grief is only beginning.

It helps to talk about her. It makes me feel closer to her when I’m so desperate to be so. Throughout my adult life, she’s been my most trusted confidant. She was affectionate and ever-present. As someone who has predominantly worked from home for the last 6 years, I spent 80% of my waking hours in the same room as her. Her toe clicks across the hardwood floor and her little huffs as she readjusted in her many distributed beds reverberate through my head like a painful echo.

She was the perfect compliment to our lives and enriched us in every possible way. Pit Shepherds have a life expectancy of 10-12 years, but I’ve lived with under a willful naivety that she had many more years with us. That makes her sudden departure at 10-and-a-half all that much more unbearable. Even after a year of loss and heartbreak, I’m broken inside in a way I never thought possible. But I know that she’s at peace and that she’ll never feel pain again.

Jazz perked up that morning. We’d spent the last 24 hours comforting her, sleeping with her, and letting her know how much of an impact she made on our lives. She ate lots of treats and returned our love with plenty of her trademark kisses. It was overcast for the duration of the morning, but the sun came out to shine through the window on to her bed as she went, surrounded by those that love her best and miss her most.

Jazz. Jazzaroo. Roo. Bubba. My sweet baby of many names. I love her so much it hurts. I always have. It's in a testament to that love that I miss her more than these paltry words can express, but I will carry her with me for the rest of my life. It is one of life’s great cruelties that we have to outlive our companions, but we have more positive memories with our best friend than we could have ever hoped for. I feel very fortunate to have had her in my life and to have been a part of hers. I know we’re better for it.

In loving memory of Jazz Tender
February 7, 2014 — September 25, 2024