My Son Was Three Years Old When Our Family Dog Died

Read an excerpt from my parenting memoir's death chapter

I’m currently writing a parenting memoir about all of the interesting, difficult, and uncomfortable conversations or scenarios we’ve faced together as a family. It includes topics like death, faith, racism, and mental health, among others. For a little while, I’m using this newsletter to help me focus on finishing the first draft. You can read other posts about writing my book HERE.

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Hi, it’s me.

Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate! I’ll keep this short because I have pies to bake and sausage stuffing to prep!

Last week I wrote about going to my first writing retreat.¹ In the communications leading up to the event I found out we had an assignment. According to tradition, retreat attendees each bring a used mug from our home collection to gift another attendee, and on a note inside the mug we were to “write the mug’s story.” I would later recognize this as a fun writing prompt to get the weekend started, but in my crazy week leading up to the retreat I felt irritated by homework.

I grabbed a mug from my cabinet and threw it in my bag. The afternoon we arrived on the island, my friend and I got settled into our cabin and I stepped outside to enjoy the view and our warm-for-November weather. I tried to read my book, then I tried to write in my journal, then I tried to write my mug’s story. Very much wound up by being in the middle of so many things — a job deadline, Bryan’s cancer status — I couldn’t settle my mind to write.

I look irritated in all the selfies I took that afternoon.

Through the afternoon, evening, and the following morning, my confidence spiraled, and my this-is-stupid levels rose. Like it often happens, I was stuck on one idea, one mug, and I couldn’t find a story within that mug that felt right. Felt like me. Oh! In a moment of clarity, I remembered how years ago when I was running my small business, I struggled to write like a Very Important Person. It wasn’t until I let my own voice enter the brand that I began to feel like I was alive in my work.

With this small epiphany boosting my attitude, I stepped into the resort gift shop, bought a new mug, and wrote a story that felt more me in less than an hour. Here it is:

Surprise! I bought you a mug from the Doe Bay gift shop! I’m excited that you chose this mug - it was obviously meant for you. I’m sorry to say that having just met this mug myself, I don’t know much about their story. As we’ve been getting to know each other, though, I can tell that they have LOVED sitting on a shelf with a view of the most beautiful place in the world. I mean, I’ve taken 42 pictures of this view already and I just got here yesterday. 

In our brief conversation, Mug (they said I could call them Mug) expressed their readiness to leave the only shelf they’ve ever known to write a new story with a new view from your shelf. They also mentioned they’re totally open to holding wine, pens, paper clips, or ice cream in addition to the more traditional coffee and tea. In fact, they kind of got excited when I mentioned this possibility, since all they had ever imagined was limited to the purpose they were given in the beginning: that mugs were for coffee and tea. 

I will leave you to discover the rest of Mug’s story as you get to know each other. 

All the best,

Jen Zug

Here is Mug, prior to being wrapped in a small box with yellow shoe strings as a bow, its story written in a Thank You card because it’s all I had available.

The next morning, I set my wrapped mug on the shelf for another attendee to choose at random, no longer feeling like it was a stupid homework exercise.

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Memoir Excerpt

On Saturday night of the writing retreat, we had an open mic night (without the actual mic) of reading and listening to each others’ poetry, essays, and song lyrics. I read out loud the story below, which currently anchors my chapter on death. It was thrilling to read this in a room full of people who laughed and awwwww’d at the appropriate moments. I’ve shared this story in my newsletter before, but online I don’t get to hear your response, so that was a new and exciting thing to experience.

Open Mic night at Write Doe Bay.

(Photos by Chase Anderson)

In my book, this story is interwoven with a story about my parents dying, but for the sake of time and simplicity, I spun this one out on its own. After you read, I have some questions below.

When I was about five months pregnant with my first kid, we got a puppy. If someone tried to stop me from doing this, I don’t remember. If nobody tried to stop me, HOW DARE YOU. 

Scout was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever (or Chessie), a well trained bird dog. One day I realized I’d accidentally taught Scout a new command. Whenever Bryan came through the door after work, I would squeal “Daddy’s Home!” so the kids would rush him like youths to a punk rock mosh pit. Every time this happened, Scout would bark and rush the door with the kids. Eventually, I could say “Daddy’s Home!” at any time and she would run to the door barking. Even if Bryan was standing right next to me. Even if Bryan himself said the words. It was a fun party trick.

Both of our kids were born into Scout’s life, and they were her people. As toddlers they would play on her and tug at her face and drool on her, and if she’d had enough she simply got up and walked away. She never got into the trash or ate food off the counter or chewed my favorite shoes. Later we would get other dogs who did those things and I wondered if Scout was even a dog at all. Maybe she was my soul sister who supported me through childbirth, postpartum depression, and those feverish first years of parenting.

Scout got sick, and at the end of her life, she was surrounded by me and the kids all day as she grew weaker. She passed away peacefully around 6pm one evening, just after Bryan came home from work. He walked in the door and bent down to give her a scratch behind the ears. She smiled and wagged her tail at him while he took off his backpack and coat. A few minutes later she was gone, as if she was waiting for him to come home one last time before she left us.

We gathered the kids to say goodbye to Scout one last time – we cried, gave her pets, and told her we would miss her. Then, while I put the kids to bed, Bryan carefully wrapped her in a black plastic garbage bag and placed her on the bottom shelf of our upright freezer in the basement.

Yes, I said that. We put our dead dog in the spare freezer.

Time never stops for us to mourn the dead. 

It was the night before Thanksgiving, and we were expecting about 20 friends – some for dinner, and some later for dessert and board games. It was too late in the evening to figure out where to take her, and our veterinarian’s office was closed for the holiday weekend. So my husband handled it. The next day we had a full house, and I had a job to do that kept me busy from falling apart in my grief. 

Loved ones die, life goes on.

My son Thomas loves to include people and make them feel welcome. When he tastes something good he wants to give everyone a bite. Saying “Cheers!” and clinking glasses together was one of the first motor skills he developed as a toddler. 

On that Thanksgiving, the day after Scout died, Thomas was only three and a half years old, and yet, he appointed himself the official greeter at the door. Whenever someone new arrived, he asked them if they wanted to see our dog, Scout. 

Sure! They said, Of course we’ll see your dog! 

(They had no idea what they were agreeing to).

Thomas led each guest downstairs to the basement, opened the freezer door, patted the black plastic bag, and said, “She’s here. You can touch it. It’s okay, it’s just her body.” Except he was only three years old and couldn’t say his Rs yet, so it was more like, “She’s hee-oh. It’s okay, it’s just hoh body.”

Kids have a funny way of showing us how to act without the overthinking that comes with adulthood. 

For instance, I didn’t have time to overthink about how I should talk to my kids about death or what might be age appropriate. I had a pumpkin pie in the oven! 

I couldn’t even hide it, because there she was on the living room floor, and then she was in our freezer. So I tried my best to normalize the death experience for our kids, and as it turns out, Thomas reflected that experience outward to our community.

He honored Scout’s place in our lives, and he invited our community to grieve with us. People Die. Life goes on. But we’re not alone in our grief. 

I’m so thankful I didn’t hide this from my kids.

UPDATE: A few days after I posted/emailed this story about Scout, I came across a photo of us with Scout as a puppy, our cat Simon, and our oldest (now 20 years old) in my belly. 🥰

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Your Turn

I welcome any critical feedback you have on this story, understanding that it’s generous of you to chime in. Thank you. If it helps, you can use these prompts:

1. How does this story make you feel? Are there particular moments in it that sparked a reaction?

2. What is your own first memory of someone close to you dying? If you were a child, how did your family talk about it? Or if they didn’t talk about it, how was that for you?

3. If you’re a parent, have your kids experienced a loss? How did you handle that?

Would love to hear from you in the comments. If you’d rather comment to me privately, simply reply to this email — it goes to jenzug@substack.com.

1. If you need to catch up last week’s post, you can read it here: