When Death Stops Being an Idea: Grace, Prayer, and Walking My Dog Home

Through this slow farewell of my beloved dog, I find myself living the theology of suffering, learning how prayer, grace, and presence lead us toward peace, even in the shadow of death.

For most of my life, I avoided the thought of death altogether. Not in a superficial or dismissive way, but in a deeply visceral one. Even when someone I loved dearly passed away—my grandfather, to whom I was incredibly close—I couldn’t bring myself to attend his funeral. It wasn’t because I wasn’t grieving. I was devastated. But I simply couldn’t face the finality of his death. The idea of loss, of something ending so completely, was too much. I buried the sorrow by refusing to confront it. For years afterward, death remained something I either ignored or ran from, convinced that doing so would spare me pain.

But grace, as it often does, began working quietly in the background.

There are moments in a person’s life that pass unnoticed until they are suddenly illuminated by what follows. In the months leading up to July 2024, I had already returned to the Catholic Church—drawn first by historical inquiry, then by a growing sense that truth was not something I could construct but something I had to receive. Immersed in the writings of the early Church and the lives of medieval Christians, I found myself particularly drawn to how those in the Middle Ages and Anglo-Saxon culture prepared for death—not with avoidance, but with attentiveness. These themes stirred something in me, though at the time, prayer was still more of an idea than a lived habit.

I bought my first Rosary that week—not during a crisis, but in a time of calm. I didn’t know exactly why I felt drawn to it. I wasn’t sure how to use it, but I was certain I needed it close. It felt like a small step, almost incidental at the time. Looking back now, I see it for what it was: a preparation, a quiet prompt of grace.

A few days after I bought the Rosary, I responded to a Word on Fire community post linking to an article titled “Is My Generation Capable of a Happy Death?” I wrote:

“By abstaining from suffering, the word love is overused and becomes a feeling. (I love basketball, I love my family, I love God). Love should be an act of the will, and it is an act that combats suffering for the sake of the beloved…”

I meant those words, though they came from reflection—not from experience. At the time, life was peaceful. I had no idea what was coming.

In early August, something changed. Hurdle, my now ten-year-old pup, began to act differently. He wouldn’t sit before getting a treat. This continued for a few days, and something about it felt off. So I took him to the vet. X-rays revealed a tumor near his back hip. Surgery was required—not only to remove it but to determine if it was cancerous. I sat there holding him in the exam room, unsuccessfully fighting back tears as the doctor explained the results.

The night before the surgery, for the first time in my life, I prayed—on my own, with urgency and intent. I prayed for Hurdle, for the vet, and for a successful outcome. It wasn’t polished, but it was real. The surgery went well. When the pathology report came back—a benign tumor, no cancer—I felt something more than relief. I felt grace.

The calm that followed felt like an answered prayer. But peace, it seems, never settles for long.

A few weeks later, Hurdle became nearly completely lethargic. He would hardly move. The fear returned. The vet prescribed medication, and miraculously, it worked. He returned to his usual self. Life resumed. But something in me had changed. I had begun to pray again, and not just in emergencies. A quiet attentiveness was taking root.

By November, on Thanksgiving Day, I posted again on the Word on Fire discussion board, this time on the topic of gratitude. I wrote:

“This may sound odd at first, but I am genuinely thankful for the pain and suffering we must face in life. I do not say this out of self-pity, nor do I claim to be immune to suffering just because I have come to understand it better. Rather, I am genuinely thankful for the purpose it serves and the transformation it brings on the flip side…”

What I had once viewed as burdensome was beginning to reveal a deeper purpose. I was starting to see that suffering, when embraced with love, can shape the soul.

Then came April 8. Hurdle stopped eating. He still drank water, but something was clearly wrong. Back to the vet we went. Tests followed—bloodwork, urinalysis, ultrasound. All came back normal. Appetite stimulants were prescribed. The medications helped briefly, but the decline returned. A second round of diagnostics found fluid around one of his kidneys and a falling white blood cell count. Inconclusive. The samples were sent to a specialist.

This time, I began praying with him daily. I wrote a prayer specifically for him. I placed the Rosary around his neck. Each night, we prayed together.

By the middle of this month, the specialist still had no definitive answers. The most likely culprit was an autoimmune disease. But even that was uncertain. It was a first for the vet. Surgery, once considered, was ruled out—too risky for his age. The goal shifted to palliative care.

He still drank water. Ate very little. Moved less. His weight declined, but he showed no signs of pain. He was aware, present, still himself in the only way he could be.

As I write this on April 22, 2025, my prayer has changed. I no longer ask for healing. I ask for peace. A painless, calm passing—at home, when the time comes. I believe it will be soon. I’ve also prayed that one day, the unnamed disease that struck him will be understood so that others may benefit from what we don’t yet know. Hurdle is still alive. He is comfortable. The decline continues. But the days are peaceful. Every moment feels full.

I’ve come to see that vigil is not passive. It’s not merely waiting. Vigil is a form of love.

Looking back, I know this path wasn’t improvised. It unfolded through books, through history, through forum posts and small gestures—like buying a Rosary or uttering a first real prayer. The deeper truths of love and suffering I once wrote about in theory have now become my lived experience. I didn’t just study the theology of suffering, I stepped into it. I didn’t learn to pray from instruction—I was drawn into it by love.

Hurdle has walked with me for ten years. And now, in this sacred chapter, I walk with him—not only to his final breath, whenever it may come—but into a deeper understanding of grace.

A few closing thoughts:

First, the unceasing tears I’ve shed over the past two weeks are a tender reminder of our humanity and of how deeply we can be gifted with something—or someone—we love beyond measure.

Second, in moments like these, it’s tempting to retreat into memory before the final breath has even been drawn. But resist that urge. Instead, pray. Be present. Discern the grace of each moment, as I’ve tried to do. The time for remembering will come. Let memories become what they’re meant to be—reflections born only once the moment has passed.

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