Things Come in Threes

The proverb “good things come in threes“ traces back 500 years to German folklore, rooted in the expression “aller guten Dinge sind drei”— “all good things are three”. This whimsical notion has evolved into a mantra of resilience, encouraging a third attempt when the first two tries have faltered. A darker variant followed: that bad things also come in threes, a framework we apply to celebrity deaths or personal tragedies that occur in triplicate, revealing our innate drive to find patterns and predictability in pain. In my case, I lost both parents and now my little pup in quick succession. Grief is universally familiar. Yet this triad of losses has sharpened my focus on love’s shadowed side: the deep heartache when it slips away. It’s challenging to find positivity in loss and mourning, even as we weave those memories into something beautiful and cherished.

The Magic of Dogs

For dog lovers, the enchantment is visceral: eyes sparkling at our return, tails wagging ecstatically, bodies leaping and spinning in joyful whirlwinds, intuiting our mood even before we recognize how we feel. No other creature, human or animal, rivals this magnetic pull. Dogs transcend mere pets; they embody loyalty and playfulness, pure empathy and quiet majesty wrapped in fur. Human ingenuity has crafted over 300 breeds from their wolfish ancestors, transforming predators into perfect partners worthy of the adage “man’s best friend“. Their tragic flaw? Short lifespans, leaving a trail of grief for our four-legged companions. Yet each one— from potty training to tearful farewells— proves the pain worthwhile, filling our homes with effervescent joy. 

My life is bookmarked by them. My first dog was my favorite childhood birthday gift, announcing himself with a gleeful ambush into my bath, splashing around without a care. I saved every penny from my paper route to buy my next pup, after months of researching breeds for the ideal match. Dogs have marked every life chapter. Their bonds are as fulfilling as any human ties. Their loss feels like losing family— irreplaceable, etched now in memories.  

When I Needed a Hand, I Found your Paw

On the day I called to arrange putting him down, a flier arrived in the mail advertising a shirt with the emblem “When I needed a hand, I found your paw”. Nothing could be truer. Kupp was the first dog that was solely my decision to purchase and exclusively my responsibility. I alone trained him and shaped the home where his life unfolded—at least for his first 18 months. I was a single parent during those months, and I loved it. Getting Kupp was partly practical: his “big brother” and I were creating a new home and life, just the two of us. But I couldn’t bear leaving Boomer alone during work, as he was going through a tough transition. So we went to work together. His presence at the office delighted many. He greeted everyone, then hopped onto my lap on a pillow to quietly savor being with me. Yet this wasn’t sustainable. He needed a little brother to keep him company. Enter Kupper.

The Charm of Lil Kupper

I found a breeder two hours away, specializing in an intriguing new breed—a biewer terrier. I placed a deposit for their next litter. A tiny blueberry Merle male was my choice. I arranged to drive the two hours every weekend with Boomer, experiencing every stage of his growth and letting him imprint on my scent before his eyes even opened. We brought him home as soon as the breeder allowed. At first, Boomer wanted none of it. He wasn’t keen on sharing my attention. But Kupp was determined to win him over, trailing his big brother everywhere, constantly shoving toys in Boom’s face to spark tug-o-war. Though Boomer was twice his size, Kupp held on for dear life as Boom whirled him around. With chew treats, neither simply chewed. Kupp, like a squirrel, dashed upstairs to hide his rawhide in a secret spot, then schemed for hours to steal Boomer’s. Boomer growled perpetual warnings as he maintained a watchful eye on his devious little brother. But Kupper was unphased. His sly ploys to claim more than his share were hilarious. Boom would ultimately become distracted, and Kupp would make off with the loot, turning every nook into his private cache.

He was, without doubt, the most fun-loving dog of my life. He lived to play. Each day, I took them to an off-leash area where Kupper started play-fights with Boom, like two bear cubs tussling. After riling him up, Kupp bolted like the wind, Boomer hot in pursuit— a fox chasing a hare. When Boom snagged his tail, they’d whirl in a dervish of feigned ferocity. Kupp had zero tolerance for fire truck sirens, throwing his head back to howl like a wolf in agony at the sound. He was equally averse to my piano playing, yowling for me to quiet down lest I desired his accompaniment. Every person was his instant friend in his mind, and he expected reciprocity. He was endlessly sociable with humans, yet terrified of nearly every other dog. His true favorite? His toy stuffed moose. Despite being neutered, he’d grab it and sneak to a private room for a blissful interlude. These and countless other idiosyncrasies formed his endearing charm. 

So Much Fight in Such a Little Body

My plan was to parent these two furballs alone. Yet fate introduced a co-parent. For Kupp’s final 2 ½ years, he had a mother who loved him as deeply as I did. On the day of his passing, she sent this to me: Today, I have to say thank you, Kupper, and goodbye. I tried to give him the love he gave— with his joy and motivation, so fun and vital, intelligent and playful. Always close to the two of us in any enthusiastic project, exploring in such a small body that lit up our home. That’s why, even though my soul hurts, I must say goodbye. It wouldn’t be fair to him to let him fade away each day. Sometimes proof of love is letting go and carrying it always in our hearts.

The first sign of trouble hit after work one day. Kupp’s legs buckled like spaghetti, his control over limbs and body clearly altered. We researched possibilities as his condition worsened that evening. One emergency vet clinic served the valley. I arrived there at midnight. Bloodwork ruled out some causes, but nothing definitive emerged. I scheduled a more thorough work up with my vet for an overnight assessment. The next day was my father’s funeral. Driving home, we discussed distasteful options on an already overwhelming day. The exam showed one side was worse than the other, suggesting a bulged disc in his neck. Steroids would test the theory. Sure enough, he improved markedly, enough for surgery on his patellar luxation. Recovery from surgery was swift. He returned to normal after so much scare. Seeing him run and prance around again was pure joy.

But stopping steroids brought symptoms roaring back, worse than before. One eye lost function. His legs slipped constantly. He spun in circles for a panoramic view. We escalated to a veterinary neurologist in Park City. A CT scan confirmed meningioencephalitis. His immune system was attacking his central nervous system. 

Treatment involved daily steroids, as well as Park City trips every third week for 8 hour IV immunosuppressant sessions. For months we made the trek. Sometimes I went alone and returned to do some work at home, making the trip twice in the same day. Other times we went together, spending the day with Boomer in Park City. We vowed to pursue remission, possible in ⅓ of cases. After a year of doing all we could—willing it not to be so— his little body gave out, and the illness claimed our lil Kupper.

In the Wake of Loss & Grief

On the day of his departure, I carried him into the clinic while my wife waited outside with Boomer. In the quiet wait, I whispered my love, thanks for the joy he brought, pride in his strength and resilience, and my wish that it were not so. His head snuggled into my chin as the doctor administered the injections. My hand felt his rapid heartbeat slow, then stop. Seconds later, his head and body slumped onto my shoulder, the same shoulder he’d nestled into as a newborn pup. Sobs overtook me. The ride home was silent. My wife tried speaking but was too choked with emotion. We held hands instead, letting the moment unfold. 

We walked the Logan River. I sat on the bank, in the same spot as two months earlier after my mom’s passing. It’s been an intense stretch of loss and grief. Loss temporarily eases life’s daily worries, making them seem insignificant. The mind sinks into the memories and the intimacies. There’s clarity that the pain is only felt by those having been close enough to the deceased to experience the beauty that is gone. In a way I’m grateful to be feeling the hurt, as the privilege was mine to be his person. And I feel a certain peace, as I gave him a beautiful life, loving home, and adoring eyes from birth to last breath. In grief, we become hypersensitive to the exquisiteness of pain, more touched by the suffering of others, and more resolute—almost incapable—to not seek or celebrate harm on anyone—or anything. Amid pain blooms a desire for peacefulness, a reverence for life, a call to kindness and gentleness, and a hypersensitivity that makes cruelty or desire to wish suffering on others seem barbaric. I hope these sensitivities never fade and only grow, even as Kupper joins all others I’ve loved until they were ultimately lost to me.