Farewell, Sulley – My Healer, Protector, And Silent Witness

My Healer

Purchased to heal my broken heart from the trauma of losing Linus, you were blue collar boy.  

“Happiness is a warm puppy,” says Charlie Brown.

Fearful that I would make the same mistakes I made with Linus, I resolved to not fail you.  

Your breeder met me with love and understanding, sharing every moment of your early weeks with me to set my mind and heart at ease.  

We flew to Ohio, your girl and I, to meet you and bring you home.  It was love at first sight, as you licked my broken-hearted tears away. 

As would be the case for the rest of your life, you touched the lives of everyone on that Southwest flight, earning you a Sherpa-free middle seat from Ohio to Arizona. 

With a custom-made vest for you waiting at home; “Therapy Dog In Training. Please Pet Me! Sulley,” your future as a Canine Good Citizen was set in motion.  

Your AKC name was Devincourt’s Monstrocity.  The big blue monster from Monsters, Inc. – “Sulley”

You approached your new world without fear or hesitation, like your monster namesake, but with a silly, sensitive spirit and deep connection to me, your watchful guide.

You were my first STAR Puppy.  And my first Canine Good Citizen.  You humored me as I embarked on the adventure of obedience classes.  

We were a team limited only by my inadequacies as your trainer. Your timing was impeccable – mine, not so much. 

With full-time employment and two small children to raise, I tried to make the most of our time together and to give you every opportunity money could afford while I was apart from you. 

You turned two in December, 2016.  

Time for the surgery we delayed until your growth plates were closed.

With stoicism and grace, you recovered from both the first surgery and the second (to fix the first).  

You didn’t miss a beat, or your manhood. 

While Linus still holds a special place in my heart, your sweet soul and unconditional love healed the brokenness that consumed me. 

You were mine, and I was yours.  Bonded forever. 

My Protector

It struck me as funny and unfitting to call you a guard dog.  You were my silly, ball-crazy, and empathetic friend-to-everyone (human or not) Mastiff.  Not the least bit skeptical of strangers or new experiences. 

That is until you were about a year old and unknowingly tasked with watching over your kids and their babysitter one evening during a rare date night out. 

As the dramatic tale was retold to me that night, you went from a carefree puppy to a formidable defender of our home and your people in an instant. 

Around 9 pm, with your kids and the babysitter upstairs reading, there was a sound at the front door. 

Without missing a beat, you bravely pounded down the stairs.  Hearing the front door handle jiggle, then jiggle some more, in an unfamiliar, odd, and unexpected manner. 

You stiffly cemented your position at the bottom of the stairs, hackles raised, letting out the most threatening low growl.  You growled at the door for nearly a full minute until you were certain the evil intruder was gone.  

Your kids, now a teen and young adult, still love to retell the story about the night Sulley saved them.  

You became our protector that night and every night after that, until your last. 

I never worried with you by my side. Not once. 

My Silent Witness

As my healer and my protector, you faithfully devoted your life to being at my side.

Sadly, this provided you with a front seat to the reality behind closed doors.  

You were a silent witness to it all. 

Often, as is the case with emotional abuse, there were good times sprinkled in.  Just enough, it is said, to keep me.  

For me, this love bombing came in the form of gaslighting, not an apology.

But, honestly, we both know that those “good times” were not why I stayed.

I was THEIR protector.  That is my mission.

For years, you heard me make excuses for him.  

Until the day I said no more. Not one more excuse.  Not one more apology. 

Despite being instructed that my job as a Christ-follower and wife was to “suffer for the Lord” unless he was unfaithful, after nearly 20 years, you were the witness who heard me give the ultimatum. 

Through it all, you were by my side. And you were there for your kids when they needed you most. 

You loved without judgment. You loved without ceasing. 

Heaven At Home

On May 13, 2024, we tragically lost our best friend, Junior. 

My reality without Junior was bleak, but somehow you found a way to help me heal once again.

You and I tackled new sports like agility and Fit Dog.  We walked together every day; rain or shine. 

We traveled. We cuddled. We laughed and cried in the private moments we shared memories of our deceased companion. 

Nearly 13 months after losing Junior, we welcomed baby Gilmore to your family.

You never had a say in this decision.  I thought it would bring out the puppy in you.  Bring back the youthfulness and desire for play that disappeared with Junior. 

Gilmore, from the beginning, was almost too much for you. He was loving, sweet, and playful.  He adored the potential of you being his playmate and best friend. 

He’s 100% Mastiff by genetics, however, it’s almost as if he were raised by a Malinois family.  He’s wild!

Jumping up at your face (despite you telling him under no uncertain terms to cut it out), pouncing around you, darting away in his most enticing way, were some of the many antics of this hyperactive puppy. 

GILMORE: “Hey, big friend!  Wanna play!  Let’s run in circles, play with a ball, jump up and down, steal towels from mom… let’s go have some fun! Woo hoo!!”

SULLEY (woof, woof): “Get out of my face, kid!”

GILMORE (zoomies around the room): “YES!! YES!!  Let’s go! Let’s go have some fun!”

SULLEY (WOOF, WOOF): “I said cut it out, kid!”

I protected you.  Blocked Gilmore. Placed more runners down for you so you could walk unencumbered. 

As time went on, our floor became your lava.  More runners. 

I remember the last time you got in the Navigator.  Your last trip, bye-bye. 

It was your first acupuncture appointment. The steps in and out of the car were too much for you. 

I promised I would find another way to get you the help you needed. 

New diet. Strengthening exercises for mobility. A curated environment catered to your needs and comfort. 

No more movies downstairs for you and me. Neither the stairs inside nor the hill outside were a reasonable ask for you, and I refused to leave your side. 

It was the least I could do for you. 

As a Hail Mary pass, we tried a few more sessions of acupuncture.  New pain medicine and anti-inflammatories. Chiropractic adjustments and massage. 

You powered through your last winter in Michigan on spirit alone. As the weather started to warm up, and the back patio cleared of ice and snow, I could see that your back legs had given all they could. 

I tried everything.  Help Em Up Harness.  More runners. 

We worked together, you and I, to help you stand up… 

“Ready, Sulley?  1 – 2 – 3,  Up, up, up”

But in the end, I knew the truth.  I started to see what your kids and others could see months earlier.  

It was time for me to let you go. Relief from the pain and discomfort you endured for so long. 

With you on your Big Barker atop the warmth of your favorite Dusty blanket, head on my lap, Heaven at Home came and, with so much love and gentleness, helped you pass. 

The guilt I feel for failing you is unrelenting right now, but I know in my heart that God has you.  

In Heaven, you are in no more pain. You have been healed. You are in Peace. 

You blessed me beyond measure as my healer, protector, and silent witness.

Rest in so much peace, my sweet Sulley Bug.  I love you more. 

12/4/2014 – 3/18/26