We want to honor and remember those loved ones that have passed on before us. This page is for family to share photos and words about their beloved pets whom they’ve lost.
Cricket, December 2004 – November 2020
Quite appropriately, the morning Cricket passed we saw a “rainbow bridge” develop over the ocean:
The story of the “Rainbow Bridge”
When an animal dies, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. The following is the story of the Rainbow Bridge:
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet,
so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….
We will miss our little guy but are sure he is in doggy heaven now and many years from now we hope to meet up with him on the “rainbow bridge”. After this was over we took Cricket’s favorite walk alongside the ocean in Shore Acres state park. He will always be with us.
Macaroni, April 2007 – April 2019
It has taken me nearly two years to write about you, Macaroni. You were no ordinary dog and I don’t think I’ll ever meet another like you, one who knew my soul better than I did. I met you the day you were born, my senior year of high school. You were one of two survivors from a litter of six. I told my parents that I would buy the laptop I needed for college, if they would buy me you for graduation. After college, Corin and I moved to Japan, leaving you with my parents. When we came back to the States, we loaded up all of our possessions, and you, in my Ford Focus and moved west to Seattle. You immediately adapted to the city, transitioning from a Wyoming cow dog to a city coffee shop dog with ease. You became known in our Cap Hill neighborhood for being the doggy in the window, sitting on the arm of the chair in the bay window, waiting for us to come home each day.
You were Best Dog at our wedding, given free rein of Golden Gardens’ Bathhouse during our small wedding reception. And when we had our first dance, spinning on the small dance floor, your instincts kicked in and you started to herd us, barking and circling until I picked you up and we ended the dance with you cradled in my arms, Corin holding onto your front paws. You became a working dog for a time, while I managed a law firm, greeting clients and demanding snacks from the UPS driver.
You made everyone smile, all time. You weren’t particularly interested in cuddling so when you did, it felt like a special privilege. You lived for fetch and soccer and ended up losing some front teeth to an unfortunately aimed soccer kick. You made Corin a Mac person, and maybe a corgi person, but allowed him to maintain his dislike for “dog people” by growling at overly friendly dogs on neighborhood walks.
In December 2017, we noticed blood in your urine when you peed in the snow and by January we had a cancer diagnosis. Transitional cell carcinoma, a rare and terminal form of bladder cancer. Dr. Anderson helped us formulate a treatment plan and we hoped we’d get six more months with you. And because you were the best dog, you gave us over a year. We bought a house up north, with corgi height front windows for you to look out of and there we got to celebrate your 12th birthday. But by that point you wore diapers and had no interest in fetch and shortly after your hot dog birthday feast, you lost interest in even ground beef and cooked rice and we knew that you were no longer the dog you wanted to be. So we made a call and set a date. The day before the last day, we went to all of your favorite places: Fuel for morning coffee, where you used to lick the floors clean of croissant crumbs, Hello Robin for an ice cream, and Miller Park for a sit in the grass where you used to rip after a tennis ball until we made you stop and take a break. And then, we spent the next morning telling you we loved you and listening to all of your favorite songs and you died with a belly full of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, because of course you would still eat those. Then the house was empty and our hearts were shattered.
We didn’t think we could replace you, and we haven’t, but you sent us a really good friend to patch the hole in our hearts. His name is Nori and he came into our lives serendipitously, almost exactly a year to the day of your death. And he is nothing like you, and a little bit like you, and just what we needed. Thanks, Mac, for always taking care of us, making us laugh, and being the very best one.
Lucy, March 2008 – September 2018
Dear Lucy: I remember the first time we met. I wasn’t looking for a pet and in fact am to this day allergic to cats. My mom found you, a stray living near a garage and subsisting on pizza crusts and scraps of garbage. You were tiny little thing, no more than 5 pounds soaking wet. Your fur was matted and bloody, with big patches missing all of your body and especially on your back. You had scratched off your fur from a flea infestation and had infected cuts all over your body. They said you were too broken to be saved, that it would be too expensive and too difficult to bring you back. But you were a scrappy little thing. A real fighter. My mom had been telling me about you on the phone for about a week. She had taken you in with her other pets but would not be able to commit to another. You were in the basement bathroom when I came over that day, hiding in a cabinet under the sink in the dark. I slowly opened the cupboard and found these two big blue eyes looking back up at me. With the smallest, quietest mew, it was love at first sight. You came home with me the next day with your blanket and medications, a new litter box, food and water bowls, and a cardboard carrier. I set you up in an extra bedroom, applied your ointments and sat on the floor. I put a baby’s onesie on you to keep you from scratching your wounds. This little white, tiny baby tee shirt that would barely stay on you and would be soaked in blood each day. Whenever I sat down, you’d jump in my lap. You’d purr and purr and try to stop me from getting up. There was barely any fur on you back then and the only place I could pet you was on a tiny spot on the top of your head. Over time you got stronger. You gained weight. Your wounds healed. Your fur grew back full and thick and fluffy. You were playful and energetic and really loud. You loved to talk to me. You insisted on participating in tasks, following me around, jumping in the laundry as I folded piles of clothes. When I moved to Seattle I knew you had to come, too. Travis flew you out on an airplane. You went further than most kitties ever go. You lived in 7 different apartments in 2 different states with me. You hated moving; as soon as you got accustomed to a place we’d pick up and go. I’ll never forget the day we moved from Tacoma to Seattle. I had the last batch of stuff in my white VW, said goodbye to Travis, and got in the car with you. I had broken up our family. I cried and cried as we drove up I-5 to our new home. In my new apartment I didn’t have a bed yet. I slept on the floor on clothes and towels. You would come into the room and comfort me while I cried. You didn’t judge when I drank too much, threw up, cried, or yelled. You just sat with me, purring. When I met Sarith, you took to him immediately. He didn’t quite know what to make of you. You became his first pet, and he became your person. You’d sleep next to him every night, sit next to him on the couch, and follow him around the apartment.
When we came home with Zephyr, I could tell you thought it was the ultimate betrayal. But you were a champ; you claimed and defended your territory, and eventually you would lay close to each other in front of the fireplace. If Zephyr got to close to you, you’d just swat at her with a clawless paw to give her a warning that you meant business. You’ve always been a sweet cat: affectionate, talkative, playful, and kind, even though you lacerated Adam-Jon that one time. I didn’t mind that you threw up on the floor all the time; it was a small price to pay to have you around. You loved shoelaces and boxes and bunched up paper. You didn’t need expensive toys; you were a simple lady, but I bought them anyway. I thought we would have you for another five years. After you initial illness you were generally a pretty healthy and happy cat. After our last move and your last grooming appointment, I could tell something was wrong. You stopped eating and stopped talking. You didn’t want to play and you only wanted to sleep on your spot on the chair. We took you to the vet and learned the worst news: cancer.
We both cried and worried and vowed to do whatever we could to save you, money be damned. We hated the night you spent at the emergency vet. I couldn’t remember a night that I had slept at home when you weren’t there. I waited to feel you jump up on the bed and walk across my legs, and to lay down next to Sarith and go to sleep, but you didn’t come. We got to take you home the next day. I was so grateful because after we left you at the emergency vet I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. Now as I write this, you are sleeping in your chair. Your breathing is fast and heavy. I’ve counted your breaths over and over to make sure they’re not too fast. You have an appointment with an oncologist on Tuesday, but I don’t know if you are going to make it. I don’t want you to suffer. If we are nearing the end, I want you to know that I am so thankful for your unconditional love, that we did everything we could to save you, and that our hearts are breaking because we can’t help you. I want you to know that you were and will always be part of our family. It may seem strange to people, but as a gay man, my pets are like my kids. I’ve been responsible for you for almost ten years. I’ve taken care of you, and worried constantly about you, and kept you safe and happy. You don’t deserve what’s happening to you. You are the sweetest, best kitty I could have asked for. I hope you pull through but if this is the end, then just know that I love you and will miss you and will always remember how kind and sweet you were to me over these very difficult ten years of my life. It’s okay if you have to go. Cross the rainbow bridge and we’ll see you again someday.
Gracie, July 2005 – April 2019
Gracie.
Her given name is Sera Sian which means God’s Gracious Gift.
Favorite activity: Diving for rocks, fully submerged!
Favorite place to be: Next to her 2 leg-mom.
Our Gracie held our hearts from the moment we held our fur-bundle at 10 weeks old until we held her as she became our heavenly angel 13 years later. Her tenderness and humor made us smile. Her vocabulary and communication were amazing. Car rides… oh car rides made any day great and riding elevators was something she ran to catch and ride and smile with great delight. But, diving for rocks in the lake was her favorite thing to do. Being next to her 2-leg mom was her special place and her mom’s too. And being with the entire family was the best.
No greater love exists when 2 souls love and care so preciously and tenderly. Her kindness and love touched so many of us. Our family and all her friends hold her close and look to the heavens.
We are so thankful and grateful for each person at Jet City and especially Dr. Anderson
Aku, March 2011 – March 2019
Aku came into our lives, one rainy September evening when my partner and I dipped into a pet store to buy food for our other recently adopted cat. On this particular evening, they were having a kitten adoption event. Upon realizing this, my partner said without any trace of deception, this now infamous phrase:
“We can just look at the kittens.”
We could not “just look” at the kittens.
From the day we brought him home, we knew he would be a very central part of our lives. He was brash, opinionated, playful, sweet, and VERY food motivated. No unguarded plate or glass was ever safe. He once stole a Buffalo wing out of a mans mouth. He was also one of the sweetest, and affectionate cats I’ve ever had the fortune to live with, and we miss him every day.
If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’ve had an “Aku” of your own pass, recently. To you, I say simply this: Pets leave paw prints in our hearts. I sometimes think that the worst thing about them is that they don’t live forever…but the love I felt for him while he was alive will carry me for the rest of my days. And for that time, I will always be grateful. To live is to know death. But to know such sorrow means to also have known great love. So remember the love that they gave you. Cherish the time you have with them while they’re here. They are family. And when you are done grieving, there are plenty of other wonderful animals, waiting to meet experienced pet owners who might just have a hole in their heart, about the size and shape of a little black cat.
Rest in peace, buddy.
Luna, June 1995 – December 2018
Luna was my best friend for 23 years, and for most of her life she slept in my arm with me spooning her. She was the smartest and best cat friend a person could have. She enriched my life and those of all the humans who came in contact with her. She is very much missed.
Simone, 12.2016 – 03.22.2018
“Simone came to me as a small, 8 month old kitten, rescued from a couple who didn’t want her anymore, and I instantly fell in love. Although she wandered around my home without a problem, I discovered later she was totally blind. I also discovered she had dysfunctional kidneys, anemia and a heart murmur. But you wouldn’t have known any of that because she was so bright, lively and energetic.
She ferociously ran after her favorite stuffed animals without missing a beat. She noticed everything with her highly sensitive hearing. She loved to sit on the window sill, following birds and cars and people. In my kitchen, she would to crawl up my legs and shirt until she found herself on my shoulders, making herself comfortable while I cleaned dishes.
She loved the sound of running water. She loved to be groomed. She loved sleeping on my chest, unable to snuggle close enough to the crook of my neck. She was curious about everything, but very polite, softly meowing when she needed attention or was hungry, always patiently waiting for her favorite food.
The last month of her life was difficult, her body broke down much too quickly. I comforted her as she took her last breath. The short time I had her felt like she has been with me all my life. I still feel her sweet and kind soul around my home, and her unconditional love will never be forgotten. She was so dearly loved, and she will be missed so, so much.”
Bigg-E Small, 2002 – March 3, 2018
“Bigg-E Small came to me in 2002 with a furry black slipper as a toy. He was so pretty and shiny and sweet, always such a good boy from Day 1. I took him to training and he earned “best in class” and was always healthy, happy and sweet as can be. His name was derived from not knowing if he would be big or small as a puppy. Turned out he was perfect. He lived 16 long wonderful years, he brought me comfort and security, joy, happiness and lots of love and laughter over the years. He died March 10th in my arms and by his best friend’s side. With love and grace. xox”
Kya, 2005 – February 24, 2018
“Kya muffin was 7 years old when I adopted her. She immediately made it clear to me that I was her human – that weekend, I jumped into a lake, and lo and behold she came jumping in after me. She spread her love around with a smile and kiss for everyone she met, and she easily bonded with my friends and loved ones.
For 5 years, this beautiful doggo snuggled with me every night and greeted every activity with excitement – be that a road trip, hike, or hanging out on the couch. Our activities together changed as she got older, as we traded in trails for neighborhood sidewalks, but she supported me and I supported her.
Always I miss her, my best friend, and I look for her by my side daily. She was a good dog, my dog, and I was so lucky to be her human.”
Francis, 2002-2017
“Francis, a champion snuggler, fighter of poodles, meow maestro, ace biscuit-maker, over-eater, newspaper-napper, and the grumpiest, most protective, opinionated and stubborn kitten we had the pleasure of sharing a home with, passed away in February 2017. He left this world from his favorite sleeping spot and in the arms of his mom and dad. We miss him terribly.”
Marley, 2002 – 2017
“I met Marley when he was about 6 months old in 2002 and it was love at first sight. He was timid and particularly afraid of garbage cans, cats and waves at the beach. However, over the course of the next few years, Marley conquered his fears of all the above and diving off a dock into a lake (waves or not!) became one of his greatest joys. His passions included tennis balls, romping in the snow, being a car copilot, and bacon. He was a tender soul, who settled into the role of ‘grumpy old man,’ but never wavered in displaying his devotion to his humans. He crossed the rainbow bridge on February 16, 2017. Anytime I jump into a lake, I’ll be thinking of my sweet Marley next to me.”
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Persephone: a long and loved life, 1998 – 2016
“Persephone and I met at a rescue shelter in Columbus, OH. I knew the moment we met (and think she did, too) that we would enjoy each other’s company. Over our 18 years together, she moved all over the country with me. She was the concierge of our home, always greeting visitors at the door as well as being the life of every party. Each night, she slept above my head. I still reach for her there and miss her furry little face in the mornings. I’d say rest in peace, but I’m sure she’s not resting—wherever she is, she’s greeting everyone she meets and exploring her new world fearlessly. We miss you, kitty.”
Guinness, 2004 – 2016
“On the evening of Tuesday, August 23, 2016, under blue skies, we lost ourGuinness, comfortably at home, aided by the capable and compassionate hands of our bonafide saint of a vet Dr. Anderson.
Guinness and I came together in 2005. I was finishing my degree and, worried that Sid, my other sheltie, wasn’t getting enough attention, I got him a younger brother. They took on a wild playing style which I would soundtrack with the Kirk v. Spock fight music from Amok Time.
There was also always a timid side to Guinness. I called him my Guinny-scare for his propensity to run to my side at the slightest loud noise. He hated fireworks, skateboards, the Blue Angels and above all: solo wheels, for which I would tell him, “It’s okay, baby. They *are* stupid.”
My boys followed me to Philadelphia then to Seattle. He and Sid made the grueling four-day crawl across the country in a small Subaru with me, two other people and a cat. Initially, it was tough to adjust—for me, not them—but eventually we settled in and nothing would tear us apart.
Then I met Zack Marley. From that first night, Guinness favored Zack. I would joke about feeling betrayed, that I was “chopped liver”. But Zack called them, “my sons” and I felt the joy of having my own family at last.
Guinness cheated death once. Diagnosed with melanoma in spring of 2015, we opted for extreme surgery, which removed half of his upper jaw. He bounced back with super-canine-like strength and, soon, was back to his same-old weird self; endlessly energetic and playful, annoying his now-old-man brother with his wild play.
We take solace knowing that he was like this until almost his last day. We thank everyone who was part of what would become his last weekend. We went to parties, met new dog friends, ate treats and pizza (and, because I’m not proud, butter), and cuddled watching Star Trek. We wandered the streets of Capitol Hill as far as his strength would take him. And when he could walk no more, we carried him.
I’ve managed to write all this without a single tear. Because he only ever made me supremely happy with his soft ears (especially the one with the wisp), uncannily clean smell, toothy-smile, Kabuki eyebrows and singular personality.
We’ll miss you and love you forever guinny sue, ginsu, guinea pig, guinny goose, gee-noose, guinny fresh, risky business, oh-so-emo, derpasaurus—our Guinness.
Wait for mummy.
I’ll be back soon.”
Lou—fierce forever—June 2016
“Lou wasn’t that nice.
He had other things going for him. He was smart, empathetic, and more spirited than was good for him. In other words, he was a handful.
But he was our handful. He came into our lives as a tiny kitten living in an auto repair shop in the International District. He was around 8 weeks old and hanging out with pit bulls. He was lousy with fleas. We fell in love with him immediately.
We knew right away he was something special. He was adept at hijacking food from the dinner table. He learned tricks easily. He was intense and bonded with us right away. He understood his people.
It was a 2-way street of respect. As a member of the family, Lou more than pulled his weight. If anyone was sick, he was glued to their side. His piercing blue eyes keeping watch. He absolutely guarded his people.
On the flipside, he could be a real menace to visitors. People don’t really take “don’t pet the cat” seriously. In this case, that was a huge mistake. Lou would cut a bitch in a second. He didn’t put up with anyone taking liberties with him.
It only made us love him more.
Lou took better care of me than I ever could’ve taken care of him. I miss him terribly. I look back on the years we had together and I know I got the better deal. Would I do it again? Without hesitation. That Siamese boy made my life immeasurably richer. I hope I did the same for him.”
Princess Minnie, 9/24/05 – 3/21/16
“She came into our lives as a six month old Boxer pup that needed a home and she was adorable. Six months old, a whopping 30lbs of tiny Boxer goodness. She has always had impeccable manners and came to us fully house trained, like an insta-dog. She fit in well with the pack and really cemented my love of Boxers. Those awful Boxer habits that the breed frequently has that you either love or hate? You know the ones I’m talking about – the energy of a perpetual toddler, the unexpected gut punts, the general bounciness…well, Minnie was always more on the dignified side so she was good at ‘converting’ people to the Boxer side.
Of course, Minnie was a grand dame, like her name sake, Minerva McGonagall. This poster was used for a charity cabaret show benefiting some orphaned bear cubs and this is by our good friend, MTP Studios. Over $6,000 was raised by this show! Always one to extend an altruistic paw, Minnie also appeared in a benefit calendar. Sure, sure…..it was supposed to be a Pit Bull calendar but she was an honorary Pit Bull just by association.
In September of 2015 Minnie was diagnosed with large cell lymphoma. We started chemotherapy and she was never sick a day, she really sailed through the treatments like a champ. Minnie let us know when it was time to say good-bye. With lots of tears, and a couple of cheeseburgers we ushered our girl from this life to the next. I hope everybody has the joy of sharing their life with a special dog like Minnie.”