Saying goodbye to Skylar Grey

After 12 beautiful years together, I’ve lost my best friend

Many of you know my love and advocacy for animal rescue, particularly pit bulls. Some of you read my column “Jasmine Blue’s Tails of the Dog Park,” and, after Jazzy passed away from a rare cancer at barely six, you continued reading “The Adventures of Skylar Grey.” On October 29 — one month ago today — I lost my beloved Skylar at the age of 12. While I’m not ready to write her memorial, I did want to share with you the story of how I came to adopt her from San Francisco Animal Care and Control.

I am in shock; I still look for her everywhere and my heart aches because a huge part is missing. Over the past month, I have watched this video — Skylar at 10 weeks old, doing her signature twirling move in my backyard in San Francisco — because it brings me such joy. Skylar was not only beautiful, she helped me heal after losing Jazzy. Like all dogs, it took so little to make her happy. Humans could learn a lot from dogs.

Currently, shelters and rescues are overflowing with puppies and dogs, leaving them no choice but to kill healthy animals to make space. Some of the surrendered dogs are “Pandemic Puppies” who have outgrown their cuteness; others are hybreeds like Doodles, or purebreds like French bulldogs (currently the most overbred dog on the planet; most come from puppy mills and backyard breeders). So before you buy a puppy, please visit your local shelters and rescue organizations (you can see adoptable animals on their websites and on their social media pages).

They always need foster homes, too, even temporary ones, which I have done many times. Being a foster is rewarding — you watch them blossom and find their forever homes, which also frees up space so that other dogs don’t lose their lives.

If you are looking for a certain breed, keep in mind that approximately 40% of shelter animals are purebreds. Search online for breed-specific rescue organizations. I found Jazzy on PetFinder.com, where you can search for exactly the pet you want. I know you’ll find the perfect match waiting for you at a rescue or a shelter. And if you’re not ready to foster or adopt, please consider grassroots animal rescue groups for your end-of-year tax deductible donations. They are always desperate for funds to help save more animals, not only through rescuing, but for equally important education and spay and neuter programs.

I also wanted to take this moment to give thanks to all of you for supporting for work throughout the years. This Thanksgiving will be tough for me — it has always been my favorite holiday, and Skylar’s, too.

I’ll be back at the beginning of December. Until then, hold your loved ones close — furry and otherwise.

Coming Home, Part II

Still far away
From where I belong
But it’s always darkest
Before the dawn …
I’m coming home,
I’m coming home
Tell the world I’m coming home
Let the rain wash away
All the pain of yesterday …
— Coming Home, Part II, by Skylar Grey

My dear friends Bill and Elizabeth decided we should make a memory box — Elizabeth is a photographer and an artist; Bill is creative, too, and good at building things. “We’ll construct a wooden box for Jazzy,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll decorate the outside with photos and art, and inside we’ll put all of the things that remind you of her and of your time together.” I loved the idea.

“Will you adopt another dog?” Elizabeth asked. Without hesitation I told her I would. “It doesn’t bring Jazzy back or honor her memory to let another pit bull die in a shelter,” I said.

The next day I slowly began gathering things for the memory box and storing them in the spare closet: There was Mr. Froggy, the toy Jazzy came with from the foster home — she used to suck his blond wispy hair when she was nervous; and her beloved “girducken,” a strange-looking stuffed duck with giraffe spots. When I got to her “Mommy’s Little Girl” collar and leash, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I sat on my bedroom floor, clutched them to my heart, and sobbed. Moments later the phone rang.

“I’m so sorry about Jazzy …” It was Rebecca Katz, director of San Francisco Animal Care and Control. We spent a long time talking about how wonderful Jazzy was and the special bond we shared.

“I can’t imagine my life without Jazzy, but now that she’s gone, I also can’t imagine my life without a dog at all,” I told Rebecca.

“I know what you mean,” she said, and she actually got me to laugh with stories of her two adorable but sometimes unruly mutts.

“Just like with Jazzy, I’ll know when the right dog comes along,” I said. “I’m sure at some point you will have the perfect pit bull at ACC.”

“Well, actually…” Rebecca said, her voice lilting up a notch. “A kid surrendered this sweet, shy little blue nose puppy; we called her Baby Girl. Do you want me to send you a picture?”

I was quiet, and Rebecca quickly added, “No pressure.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll look at a picture.”

Seconds after we hung up, Rebecca sent a photo of Baby Girl being surrendered at the front desk. She was grey and white and so small, about two months old, with a perfect patch over one eye just like Jazzy. I called Rebecca back.

“She’s adorable,” I said. “I’m just so lost without Jazzy. I feel like crawling under the covers with a bottle of vodka, a bag of Doritos, and a Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon, and staying there for a month.”

“That’s not healthy,”

Rebecca said without missing a beat. “I’ll go to her kennel and take a few more pictures.”

The next three photos were even cuter than the first one. There was just something about her sweet little face; something about the way her big green eyes looked right into the camera as if to say, “I need you, and you know you need me, too.”

I called Rebecca back.

“Do you want me to hold her?” she asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

“Yes,” I said, “please hold her.”

“Done,” Rebecca said. “I know she’s not Jazzy. No one can ever be.”

“Those are big paws to fill,” I said, and I started to cry.

“You’ll learn to love Baby Girl for who she is,” Rebecca said.

I knew she was right. I would learn to love Baby Girl for who she is, not for who she isn’t.

The itty-bitty pittie

People who love dogs often talk about a “lifetime” dog. I’d heard the phrase a dozen times before I came to recognize its significance. Lifetime dogs are dogs we love in especially powerful, sometimes inexplicable ways.

— Jon Katz, A Good Dog

Jasmine Blue was my lifetime dog. As I drove to San Francisco Animal Care and Control to pick up a puppy I hadn’t met, my mind flashed back to the first time I saw Jazzy’s sweet face staring back at me from Petfinder.com. I knew she was The One. I had similar feelings when I saw Baby Girl’s sweet face. I also trusted ACC director Rebecca Katz, whose entire job revolves around pairing the right animals with the right humans. Rebecca told me Baby Girl was very special. Sweet and good-natured, she passed her behavior test with flying colors. She got along with other dogs and with people. Her only negative was that she could be a bit shy and submissive.

Jazzy, having spent her first six months in a backyard, was a tough, independent thinker from day one. For a month she slept alone on her dog bed in the guest room. “Do you want to come to bed, Jazzy?” I would ask hopefully, but she would just clutch Mr. Froggy and suck on his wisp of blonde hair, staring off into space with those beautiful eyes, bluer than the Adriatic Sea. Then one night I heard the clickety-click of her nails coming tentatively down the hallway. In the soft glow of the harvest moon, I could see Mr. Froggy’s blonde wisp sticking up at the foot of the bed. “Jazzy, is that you?” I asked, then Mr. Froggy disappeared as I heard the clickety-click of Jazzy’s nails go back down the hallway. I went to sleep disappointed as usual, but when I awoke the next morning Jazzy was curled up beside me with Mr. Froggy safely snuggled between her front paws.

As Jazzy began to trust me, that independent streak lessened, but it never went away. At the beach she would take off like a bolt of lightning and come back when she felt like it, despite me screaming her name and waving her treats. When I had friends over she would greet them with a stuffed toy, and in one fell swoop head back downstairs to our bedroom by the garden. Periodically she would appear at the top of the stairs and flash what my friend Sara called the “whiskey eye,” letting my guests know it was time for them to go home..

I wondered if Baby Girl would be distant at first like Jazzy, or have her independent streak. I wondered if I could ever stop comparing her to Jazzy… my lifetime dog … The One.

Rebecca was waiting on a bench in front of ACC with an itty-bitty grey and white pit bull puppy in her lap. As I approached, my eyes filled with tears. I missed Jazzy so much, yet Baby Girl was looking at me with those pale hazel green eyes as if she knew I was The One. ACC volunteers and Capt. Vicky Guldbech soon joined us, and Rebecca placed the itty-bitty pittie in my lap. “You’re so small,” I said, holding Baby Girl to my chest.

“She was spayed this morning so she’s a little quieter than usual,” Rebecca explained. “But she’s always pretty quiet.”

“And super sweet,” a volunteer added.

“What are you going to name her?” Vicky asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “It all happened so fast I haven’t had time …”

Rebecca threw Macy Gray out there, which reminded me more of the department store than the musician. “What about Skylar Grey?” Vicky asked. “She’s a really cool singer-songwriter.” It fit her perfectly. “Skylar Grey it is,” I said.

As I gently laid Skylar Grey in the passenger seat of my car, her hazel eyes were staring up at me, but only for a moment; she fell fast asleep before we left the parking lot. “You’re coming home, Skylar Grey,” I said as I scratched the top of her soft, smooth itty-bitty head. “You’re coming home.”

Here in my car
I feel safest of all
I can lock all my doors
It’s the only way to live
In cars
— “Cars,” by Gary Numan

Skylar Grey slept all the way home. She was exhausted from being spayed that morning, but it still seemed strange to me how comfortable she was — most puppies hate the car; they’re anxious and confused, and they often throw up. The first time I took Jazzy for a ride, she made what I called “the throw-up face,” where the corners of her mouth curled up like The Joker in Batman. After a few gut-wrenching heaves, with me trying to watch the road and Jazzy looking guilty and helpless at the same time, she projectile vomited all over the dashboard of my Mini Cooper.

As I pulled into my driveway, I laid my hand softly on Skylar’s little head; she opened one hazel eye, then shut both eyes tightly, took a big stretch, and went back to sleep. “Let’s go, Sky,” I said as I got out of the car and patted the driver’s seat. She opened both eyes this time and squinted at me suspiciously. I tugged gently at her leash, but she was having none of it. She only weighed 19 pounds, so it was easy to reach in and scoop her up, but she squirted out of my arms like a greased pig and scrambled into the backseat, pressing her body tightly into the furthermost corner.

No amount of begging, whistling, tongue clucking, sweet talking, or treat offering could convince Skylar to come out of the car, so I tried a different tactic: I closed the door and hid just inside the garage. Within seconds I heard her whining; when I peeked she was sitting in the driver’s seat, but she was so small that all I could see was the tops of her ears. “Here I am, Sky,” I said, heading back toward the car. I assumed she would jump into my arms, but instead she darted right back to that furthermost backseat corner.

Again, I hid; again, Skylar whined. This time when I peeked, she had figured out how to place her front paws on the door ledge, and those hazel eyes were staring right back at me. Slowly, I approached, and then stood there for a moment, letting her whine. “Are you ready now, little missy?” I asked. She grew quiet, her grey nose steaming up the window as the white tip of her tail wagged ever so slightly. When I opened the door, like clockwork, Sky headed for the backseat, but like a professional greased pig wrangler, this time I was ready and grabbed her around the waist. I pulled her out and she twisted her body toward mine, wrapped her paws around my neck, and dug her head into the hoodie of my sweatshirt. She was shaking, and I could feel her heart pounding like a gazelle that had been chased by a cheetah. “It’s O.K., Baby Girl,” I said, using my right hand to support her bottom and rubbing her neck with my left, “you’re safe now.” I leaned against the car and hugged her tightly until she stopped shaking, and her heart slowed down a bit.

All I knew about Skylar Grey’s background was that a young man had surrendered her at San Francisco Animal Care and Control on Aug. 30, just two days before Jazzy passed away. Judging from her reaction to the car — the way she loved to get in but hated to get out; how she slept so peacefully as we traversed the city streets and had no tummy problems — I surmised that perhaps she had spent some of her first two months living with that young man in a car. “Baby Girl,” I said as I carried her into the house, “your life is about to change. …”

To read more of my columns on Skylar, please visit: https://jasminebluestails.com/category/the-adventures-of-skylar-grey/