If you follow me on Instagram, you might already know this, but if not, my beloved Bitzy passed away last week, and I haven’t been doing well since. That’s why I’ve been so quiet.
If you’re not a dog person, that’s okay, but it might be hard to understand the words I’m about to share. Many people see dogs as “just dogs” and can’t grasp the deep heartache that comes when one dies. Some people say things like, “At least it wasn’t a family member,” or “just get a new one,” or “at least you still have your other dog,” or even, “they were very old.” For anyone who’s lost a dog, these aren’t the best things to say.
A pet can be a family member. They can’t be replaced, even if you have more than one. I know Bitzy was old, but thank you very much. If you’ve ever said any of these things to me, it’s okay. There’s really no perfect thing to say when someone is grieving. People in pain often can’t answer the question, “What can I do to help?” You just have to take actions like bringing food, gifting them a stuffed animal that resembles their lost pet, a weighted blanket with lavender, or sending flowers or succulents.
Now back to my sweet Bitzy. It’s been a week since she passed and two weeks since her first seizure. A dog’s seizure is traumatic, and though vets might not seem too concerned since they’re relatively common in dogs, I knew something was seriously wrong.
I’ve been worried about something happening to Bitzy since I got her, especially after losing a previous Chihuahua as a puppy to rat poison. That loss made me extremely protective of Bitzy for her entire life. She had some serious challenges—collapsed trachea, dislocating knees, eating things she shouldn’t, a cancer scare, and even a dog attack—but she was tough and always pulled through. So, when she had that seizure, I hoped it would be the same this time too.
We went to the vet, who did blood work. It came back normal, which wasn’t a great sign because it likely meant something was wrong in her brain. They suggested monitoring her to see if it happened again, hoping it might have been a fluke. I left the vet, hoping for the best but fearing the worst.
A few nights later, she might have had another small seizure, but Zack saw it and wasn’t sure. She seemed okay, and we didn’t go back to the vet. I stayed by her side 24/7, barely sleeping, watching her every move, ready with a plan if she seized again. We had everything: medication, cold towels, new supplements, strong CBD capsules, and turmeric paste.
By Thursday, after a few days without an episode, I dared to relax a bit. But on Friday, she had two more seizures. The vet was closed, so we thought we could wait until morning, but then at 11 pm, she had another large one. This time it was different. She was having cluster seizures, which meant she couldn’t recover from one before another hit. We rushed to the emergency vet.
They started her on an anti-seizure medication called Keppra, which she would need regularly for the rest of her life. The next day, at our regular vet’s office, she seemed calmer. The vet believed Keppra would manage her seizures, so we took her home. She was tired and anxious, a normal side effect of the meds, but it was heartbreaking to see her like that. We fed her doggy ice cream, tried to calm her, and spent the next day enjoying some fresh air, hoping she’d improve.
But Sunday night, she got worse. I spoke to a vet who suggested medication adjustment and steroids. Although semi-hopeful, I couldn’t calm her down that night. She wouldn’t eat, which was unlike her. I laid with her, and when I asked if she was ready to go, she stopped panting and licked my face, something she hadn’t done much in those days. Then she went to her bed and slept.
The next morning, her condition deteriorated, and at the vet, her blood pressure was too high—it was clear she was in pain. We didn’t want her suffering further. The vet advised it might be her time. We wanted to take her home for a last goodbye, but she couldn’t handle leaving the oxygen at the vet’s. As her breathing worsened, Zack rushed home to bring her favorite teepee so we could make her comfortable. We spent those last moments with her, telling her how much we loved her, and it was peaceful.
Bitzy passed quickly. The vet said this meant she was ready, and whether she said it to comfort me or not, I believe that she was. It’s a painful part of loving a pet—they leave before we do, but they fill our lives with such joy that it’s worth it. The words of a six-year-old have stuck with me: dogs already know how to love and be kind, so they don’t need as much time as we do to learn.
That night, I wrote a letter to Bitzy, which was a way for me to express the depth of my love for her. She taught me so much—responsibility, selfless love, calm in the face of stress, and most importantly, strength. I hope she stays with me in spirit and finds her way back to me someday.
Thank you for listening to my story about Bitzy. I’m grateful to have this to look back on in the years to come.