🔤 A boy loses his heart
Thump-thump
December 17, 2024, 6:50 AM
“Nibbler sounds like he’s struggling, and Xena’s barking. Something’s wrong."
I got the text while I was at the gym. It was from my neighbor.
I froze. My stomach tightened, my mind raced. I grabbed my things and bolted. I drove as fast as I could.
I had a sinking feeling.
I had just adopted a new dog, Xena, 6 weeks ago.
I had been training Xena to get along with Nibbler. She was a stray shelter dog, and had lots of scarcity instincts. They were getting along really well for weeks at this point.
We’d gone on many hikes, and they had played happily together many times.
I didn’t think anything of leaving them alone together while I was at the gym.
That had become normal routine.
I didn’t realize that I was at the beginning of a tragedy.
Nibbler Taught Me Cuddle Meditation
At some point in our journey together, I picked up a practice I called Cuddle Meditation.
I would just cuddle Nibbler, and I would listen to his heartbeat.
And his heartbeat would be a symphony that sang the songs of our memories.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Every heartbeat brought back flashes of our adventures together.
Thump-thump.
Hiking around Yosemite.
Thump-thump.
Hanging at the beach with your sister Poppy.
Thump-thump.
Backpacking together in the high sierras.
Thump-thump.
Creating our own Christmas.
Thump-thump.
You staying by my side everyday after my bad near-death accident.
Thump-thump.
Puppy days learning simple things, like drinking water from the fountain at the park.
Cuddle meditation became a regular father-son bonding time for us.
His heart was my heart.
Nibbler was my heart of hearts.
I would do this nearly every day, and it kept me continuously grateful for having my wonderful boy in my life.
The Longest Seven Minutes
My car flew down the road.
When I burst through the door, my heart of hearts was broken.
Nibbler was standing in a pool of his own blood, his little chest heaving, his eyes darting around the room in terror.
My heart collapsed on itself. It fell through the floor like a stone.
My baby boy was hurt beyond belief.
Xena, pacing in the corner, scrambled into her crate as soon as I entered. She knew.
I saw an opened torn up treat bag.
I knew what happened immediately. I had flashbacks to when Nibbler’s sister, Poppy died in a similar way tragically 6 years ago.
My sinking feeling sank more.
I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hands to his wounds with trembling fingers.
Blood soaked through.
He looked up at me, desperate, scared.
His eyes were bloodshot. He was struggling to breathe.
“Hold on, buddy,” I cried. “We’re going to get you through this.”
In a flurry, I grabbed towels and I carried him down the stairs as he wheezed, his body shuddering against mine. When we got to the bottom of the stairs, he wanted to be put down so he could walk on his own.
Then he did something unexpected—he sprinted towards the car with a burst of energy.
I didn’t think he could move.
I felt immediate positive relief that maybe it’ll be okay.
My boy is tough. He’ll make it.
Even all torn up and bloodied with pain—he was strong and resilient. I have the best boy.
I lifted him into the seat, grabbed my phone, and frantically searched for an open vet hospital.
Seven minutes.
That’s how long it took to get there.
Seven excruciating minutes.
Punctuated with Nibbler’s little desperate wheezes for air.
My poor baby boy.
The entire time, I was crying and whispering to him, begging him to fight. "You’re strong buddy. You’ve got this. I love you. I’m here with you."
I parked in a no parking zone. I ran my battered boy into the hospital.
Just Like His Dad
They rushed him in as soon as I arrived.
Tubes, painkillers, oxygen, x-rays—everything was a blur of motion and sterile lights.
I clung to hope because Nibbler was a fighter, just like his dad.
He’d survived so much before—he was my rock, my mountain.
And now he was here, strapped up to tubes and drugs, on life support.
In that moment all I wanted to do was trade places with him to save him from the pain and suffering.
I thought I was losing my mind. But I also knew this was real.
I had PTSD flashbacks of Poppy, his sister, dying the same way—dog attack, trachea rupture.
It was visceral and real.
It was the second time in my life where I had the feeling that I believe any loving parent would have:
“Take me instead. Don't let my child suffer. Please don’t let them suffer anymore. Please… PLEASE. ANYONE LISTENING PLEASE TAKE ME INSTEAD.”
After 20 minutes, they stabilized him.
There was some hope. He had some hurdles to go through, but he was stable. I was optimistic.
I went to go re-park my car.
I started signing forms and paperwork.
I thought maybe—just maybe—we’d make it through.
I had a moment of reprieve. I daydreamed of us on a trail again in the mountains where we belonged.
And then, one of the assistants came rushing to the front desk where I was doing paperwork.
Nibbler was crashing.
I ran down, I saw him on the table, his little body struggling to get air.
He was trying so hard.
He looked at me one last time, his eyes bloodied but still filled with that unmistakable spark of love.
He was lucid.
He recognized me. I recognized him.
I got on my knees and sobbed into him, “YOU GOT THIS BUDDY, DAD’S HERE, C’MON. YOU’RE SO STRONG, YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU GOT THIS NIBBLER” at least 100 times.
Eventually the vet looked at me with a quiet sadness. “He’s in a lot of pain,” she said. “There’s little chance he can survive this.”
I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to scream at the world, at fate, at myself.
Why had I left him alone?
Why hadn’t I done more?
Why did I go to the gym this morning? I wasn’t even supposed to go that day—a meeting just got cancelled so I took the opportunity.
But this wasn’t about me.
And these ceaseless thoughts were not doing anything for me or Nibbler.
This was about Nibbler. And he didn’t deserve the pain anymore.
I gave the OK.
I kissed his head, cradled him as they administered the injection, and whispered through my tears:
“I’ll find you in any life, buddy. I will find you. Don’t worry. We’ll always find each other. In any life. Go be with your sister now.”
And just like that, he was gone.
No More Thumps
I spent a few hours crying over his lifeless body at the vet.
The little tail that wagged when a plastic bag was crinkled.
The little paws that had carried him to the top of countless mountain peaks.
The little face that cuddled me when I was sad.
My only objective as his dad was to give him a good life, to protect him. To make sure he had the best life any dog can have.
I couldn’t help but feel like I failed him. I couldn’t help but think about how he must’ve felt being attacked and beaten, all alone without his dad.
I cried for what felt like eternity.
I felt empty.
Hollow. Angry. Guilty. Ashamed.
Every moment of that morning replayed in my mind like a cruel joke. I couldn’t stop seeing him in pain, couldn’t stop hearing his wheezing breaths.
I put my ear to his chest.
One last cuddle meditation.
…
…
…
The only sounds that came back were my own sobs.
A Boy and His Dog
A few days ago, I lost my best friend, my son, my adventure buddy.
He was the anchor that taught me about love, resilience, and life.
Nibbler’s life was filled with adventures and lessons, moments that shaped me into who I am today.
In the next few newsletters, I’ll share those stories with you—about the love we shared, the joy he brought, and the profound lessons he taught me.
Because Nibbler deserves to be remembered.
And I will make sure he is.
I hope that our story will remind you to hold your loved ones a little closer, to be present, and to love with your whole heart.
Even when it’s hard.
Nibbler and I will see you next week on Thursday at 8:30 AM PST.
Edit: Here’s a link to Better Person Training.
P.S. Want reminders on growth, empathy, and leadership? Follow me on LinkedIn, Threads, and Twitter.
You’re a good dad, Robert. You and Nibbler are lucky to have found each other. Be gentle with yourself.
My heart goes out to you Robert.