Letter To Star 🌟💫✨

Cancer didn’t win. We won.

It was National Dog Day a few days ago, and while it didn’t feel quite the same because we knew we would have to say goodbye. Star has been my first dog for almost 9.5 years, and it has been an experience I’ve loved and appreciated. I never knew if I was truly a dog person, but I know I—and we—became “Star people.”

From living with my parents to getting a new car, moving into a condo, dating, growing the business, receiving accolades, podcasting, getting married, moving to a townhouse, becoming a bonus dad, and expecting another son—through all those things, she was there. I now realize I was “Pops” to her and laid the foundation for so much in my life. Hearing “dog dad” and seeing “Star Harkless” for the first time made it so real.

When we first got her, she was scared of everything. After moving, I remember taking her to the dog park for the first time; she would take a few steps out toward the other dogs and then literally run back behind my legs or the bench. Each week, she would come out a little more until she felt like the park was hers. Looking back, it was amazing to see how she evolved, grew, and developed her self-confidence, transforming from a runt mentality just hoping to survive into our vocal leader, thriving in our “pack.”

Most nights, when she didn’t call it early, she would make sure each of us made it upstairs safely to sleep. I often found, upon waking her up for her morning walk and her breakfast, that she was never in the same place she laid down to start the night. I imagine it was a full-time job protecting our house, but she also needed to protect my parents’ house. As soon as we pulled up, she knew where she was, peeked her head out, and leaped out of the car to greet my parents. I often had to stop her to take off her leash before she took off with it still on. She would run out back to bark and let all the other dogs, deer, or anyone or anything know she was back. After, of course, greeting my parents—literally squealing—both she and my dad’s tails wagging, barking to share “all the tea” and tell him that it was time to play ball. She always loved those trips because she was almost always guaranteed a good home-cooked meal (sometimes better than ours) from my mom and lots and lots and lots of treats from my dad.

So, as we prepared and eventually said goodbye, as Christian–mijito–my son (who even offered to give her his kidney during her final days) said, “This is hard.”

Star, as I joked with my wife, wanted to do things her own way, and she let us know. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She had a rare form of lymphoma called T-cell lymphoma. She didn’t get “regular” lymphoma; it had to be a unique kind. The prognosis wasn’t what we wanted, and by the time we found out, she was likely at Stage 5. We only even knew she was ill because of her labored breathing. We later found out that dogs will hide their illness to stay a part of their “pack.” I wish I could tell her that ill, happy, sad, sick, or healthy–it didn’t matter she would always be part of our “pack.” It was the unconditional love she showed us.  And she and we fought back, getting 6 to 7 more months with her. I’ve read and learned so much about cancer in dogs and even in humans and didn’t realize how rampant it was for dogs. But thanks to our dog insurance (which I just happened to keep because she used to chew and swallow rocks at the dog park as a puppy), chemo and improved diet we had some more time. She even reached remission or possibly a very strong remission.

It’s so hard to put into words the impact she had, and while I know she’s no longer in pain, no longer struggling with her breathing, the masses, or the fluid in her chest, it still hurts. The chemo stopped being effective after about four months, and she had setbacks. She even looked so tired at times. It was an uphill battle, but we battled and prayed.

I’m not sure if she knows how much impact she had on us, but she was, and is, family. Even though I know it was the “right decision,” it still hurts. Even before we HAD to say goodbye, we started saying goodbye by giving her foods she had never tried before and taking trips to some of her favorite places. We couldn’t even think of anything more to check off on her “bucket list,” and we believe she had lived a really blessed life.

It’s so difficult to watch loved ones struggle and not do the things that made them who they were. My heart would break every time she couldn’t do the things that made her who she was. When she wanted to go out for a walk but struggled to get out the door and just stood there, seemingly sad that she couldn’t go further no matter how much we tried. It hurt. She no longer chased the ball and sometimes didn’t even want to go outside. She never really even had accidents in the house but even that too started to happen (having to put dog diapers on her again and again broke my heart). Even her constant sleeping and napping was no longer peaceful because of her heavy breathing, wheezing and even hacking coughs at times. During her last few days, the thing she ALWAYS did she stopped–she uncharacteristically didn’t even want to eat all of her food. The cancer was fighting back.

You have that sinking feeling in your chest, throat, and stomach because you knew there was nothing more you could do, and you knew what was happening. We prayed harder, asked for more and more from God. At some point, you realize you don’t want to continue to push because you knew she wasn’t comfortable, and you knew deep down if she wasn’t comfortable, you weren’t either. This all hurt, and it’s hard.

So as we’ve said our goodbyes, we do feel that she is in heaven without pain. As difficult as it is to think about and even write this, I know we did what we could. I now know why so many people say “you’re a good dog dad” or “dog mom” during times like this. It’s because you hurt so much. You may even blame yourself or ask yourself what you could’ve done better. The reality is, I and everyone with this feeling probably did everything we could and even if we couldn’t, we still did so much.

It’s not as if you have nothing, although it might feel that way at times. It’s that you feel a part of you is missing, and that’s because it is. It’s different. As I walk into rooms where she used to follow me, look to pet her, give her a treat, or just say “hey pup,” “come on pup,” or “ready pup,” she’s not here anymore, and that hurts. Those routines and habits have been entrenched over days and years to the point they are a part of your identity. I even turned to my son to say “ready pup” before taking him to school yesterday.

But the reason I say cancer didn’t win is because we got almost 9.5 years. I sat down and calculated that it was 488 weeks, approximately 3,416 days. Of course, I wanted more and more, but that wasn’t Star’s journey. As the runt, she outlived her siblings and was certainly a “star” in our lives.

I watched a video a few days ago that said dogs come to teach us lessons, and after they know we have learned it, they leave us. Even how they leave us is part of the lesson. So maybe that’s the case here. I don’t know, but I do believe that God brought us into her life and hers into ours. She was a few months old and super tiny, but we found each other not looking for each other in South Carolina, and I thought we rescued her (as my friend said when we first brought Star home, “who rescued who?”), but the reality is that I now realize God rescued all of us.

We all have so many stories to share and will continue to for some time. I truly believe that the impact is felt only if we do something with it, and I fully intend to do a lot with what Star has done for me and my life. She was and is God’s gift.

So, as I type that cancer didn’t win, it’s because of what I’ve seen but also my faith in the unseen, and that’s what I hold on to—the memories, the lessons, and the impact.

As I go back and forth between feeling like a piece of me is missing, I also feel at peace and immense gratitude. I know that cancer did not win. Star’s impact, and the relationship and lessons I’ve learned, show that.

As I/we continue to say goodbye day after day, I know it’s not really goodbye because she still lives with us. Her impact lives with us, from the walks that led us to a stranger who had just lost their dog, and Star would lean next to them as if to say it’s “okay,” to bringing laughs to us as she found random bones and even a baguette in a field, to running into rooms and hiding under beds to play hide and seek (her tail excitedly wagging hitting the floor and loudly giving away her location), to her full-out sprints to get the ball after we threw or kicked it (and even the times when she was tired and looked at us as if to say, “you go get it”), to her inspiring fight with cancer where she made an impact on everyone, even at the doctor’s office, to her “leadership” in reminding us that she wanted more treats, to her barks letting us know before Google that someone was at the door, to the impact she had on all of us—and there’s so much more. To knowing that no matter what nickname we called her that we were speaking to her, to her excitement when Amazon packages were being opened, to her beating Guinness World Records in how fast she ate her food, to even her strength and courage with each vet visit.

There’s no way that cancer won. There’s too much that shows that we won.

As our tears continue, hugs and kisses, and we celebrate her life we feel more and more that our “Star puzzle piece/peace” is missing. I just have to remember that it’s not missing; the puzzle has just transformed. The puzzle I thought we were putting in place wasn’t the one she was working on.

For every “sit,” “stay,” “give me 5,” “bang bang” command I gave her and rewarded her with a treat, she was really the one training us. I know that she, in some ways, did teach and lead us.

As much as I would give to hear another neighbor say, as she dragged me to the dog park, “who’s walking who?,” or to see her drag us to a specific spot for something she wanted to smell or even eat from a previous walk, or to walk in the house and hear her bark and see her wag her tail, or to have her find and devour bones and other things she shouldn’t have been eating outside, or to cuddle with her and hear her snore, or to play dog relaxation music, or to give her another treat or to even see her napping in the sunshine…I know that won’t happen anymore.

So, as Christian said, “this is hard,” but I am glad that we had the time we had, the life we shared, and as I say thank you, I do so with tears of sadness but also immense gratitude.

We say thank you to Star, Poota, Poopa Scoopa, Mammas, Big Sis, Superstar, Rockstar, Cowboys Star, Preciosa, BlueStar, Starry, Pup, Girl, Girly…

We just have to remember it’s not goodbye. It’s the same Star story because it’s within us, it’s just a new chapter.

With faith, love, gratitude and peace,

Gresh

PS – We put a page together for her that we will continue to update for Star, things we work on in her memory, pictures, and a memorial for her. We also will add resources we’ve found to help dog parents prevent cancer but also some of the things we’ve found for those that might be dealing with cancer. Check it out Starfought.com