10/19/2026
On Friday, I said goodbye to my Macho. My little man. My wrecking ball bully baby. The boy whose care, whose needs, and whose love have been woven into every part of my life for the last nine years.
He was my whole heart, and I want to tell you his story.
Nine years ago, a breeder brought Macho to a veterinarian after he had reportedly “accidentally fell down the stairs.” When the veterinarian explained that he might never walk again, the breeder said he had no use for him if he couldn’t reproduce. He walked out, leaving Macho and his bill behind.
I received a call from BARCS. I saw his face, and I came running. I picked him up from the veterinarian in Baltimore that same night.
I had never cared for a paralyzed dog before. I had an entirely new world to learn, and we learned it together. With physical therapy, time, and so much love wrapped around him, Macho slowly regained his ability to walk.
He never walked quite right. He moved through life like a little drunken sailor, but he got wherever he needed to go. And if you knew Macho, you know there was usually somewhere he felt he needed to be. Preferably right in the middle of whatever was happening.
For nine years, I cared for that precious, complicated body. I learned his movements, his limits, his ways of asking for help. We made adjustments, found our routines, and built our life together around what he needed.
Being his mom has been a journey, a lesson, the biggest blessing, and one of the greatest honors of my life. Macho was my very best teacher.
Over the last year and a half, we fought our hardest and most heartbreaking battle. His legs were failing him. After so many years of compensating for the way his body moved, his joints were severely struggling. He was in pain, and his kidney disease limited our options for traditional pain medication.
But every day, that boy got up and gave life everything he had.
Dr. Galloway said it best: Macho was “all front wheel drive.” This dude would muscle his way wherever he wanted to go with those front legs, and the back legs would follow however they needed to come. He worked so hard to do things other dogs could do without a thought. I saw that effort every day. I knew what it took.
Trying to ease his pain led us into integrative medicine. Swim therapy, acupuncture, chiropractic care, Traditional Chinese Medicine support with herbs, changes in how we supported him, and an entirely raw diet.
My sweet boy, you ate better than every other dog and human in this house.
I spent so much time trying to find ways to support him, and watching him regain strength and comfort with holistic support changed me. I wanted to understand more. I wanted to know what else might help, what his body was telling us, and how to listen more closely.
I thought I already knew my calling, but because of Macho, I began to understand something much deeper about it. The journey I took to care for him changed the direction of my life.
And somewhere in all that searching for ways to help him find comfort, I found a place of peace, too. Nature was our best place.
We spent so much time at the farm and with Diane Mayer, taking gentle hikes and sitting beside the stream. In the woods, with nothing being asked of him, Macho softened. My tenacious little warrior, who worked so hard to move through the world, could finally settle into it.
I loved being there with him. I loved having that time to watch him, to sit beside him, to let the afternoon belong to whatever he felt like smelling or exploring, or swimming, however slowly we needed to go.
Macho, we had so many adventures. You were so cute in your special car seat, so your back could be supported. I loved having you beside me. I loved every minute of taking you to all of your appointments and everywhere I could, feeling your joy with the windows down and the sunshine on your face.
You could be such a crazy pain in the ass sometimes. You had opinions, you wanted to be included in everything, and you had a fragile body you needed to protect. I knew all those parts of you. I loved the whole complicated, stubborn, tender little boy.
One of my fondest memories from this last part of your life was Mother’s Day at the farm. A loving, very special University of Delaware student named Ethan had asked me to bring you for a visit. We sat with him, his lovely friend, and Diane, and for about an hour and a half, you were fully the center of attention of everyone. We talked about all the things you loved, how cool you were, and how you most certainly should have been a mascot.
For a forever memorable afternoon, I got to hear other people talk about my boy with such affection. I knew how deeply I loved you, but to sit there and see how much you meant to other people is something I will always carry with me.
You had found a way to keep going so many times. You got up, you tried, and you gave it everything you had. You are the strongest soul I have ever known.
Then came the morning you didn’t get up for breakfast. I walked over to you, looked into your eyes, and knew you were tired. Mommy understood.
I knew you would keep trying. But I could see what it was asking of you, and I couldn’t ask you to keep doing it. I had listened to you through so much of our life together. When you told me you had had enough, I listened then, too.
Making the decision to end your suffering broke my heart. I still wanted more time to love you here. More afternoons in the woods. More rides with you beside me. More nights snuggled up on the couch holding you close until the sun came up.
But you had worked so hard, my baby. You had given it everything you had. You did so good.
This house is so quiet without you.
There is a gaping hole in my heart, in my day, and in my night. Your care was around the clock. So much of my day was spent tending to you, helping you, knowing where you were and what you needed. I knew how to be your mom. I am struggling to know what to do without all those moments now.
I miss caring for you. I miss your huge presence. I miss your stubbornness and your softness and the way you looked at me.
I miss my little boy.
Yet even in this heartbreak, I have peace knowing I did everything in my power to help you. I kept learning because you needed me to. I cared for you through every change and I listened when the kindest thing I could do was to let you go.
To Dr. Galloway, Dr. McKinstry, Dr. Rose DiLeva and staff, Dr. Fries, Dr. Teti, the staff and rehab team at Middletown Vet, and everyone who helped care for Macho throughout his life: thank you. Thank you for every bit of care, knowledge, patience, encouragement, love and support you gave him.
To everyone who loved him, asked about him, cheered him on, or made him feel special, thank you. It means so much to know that other people will remember him, too.
And if you have read this far, thank you for taking the time to know Macho’s story. He was loved more than all these words could ever say.
Macho, thank you for getting up every day and giving it all you had. Thank you for the years I got to spend learning you and loving you. You taught me about pain, about determination, about listening, and about a love that became part of everything I did.
You helped me find a deeper understanding of why I am here. I will carry what you taught me into every dog I care for, every broken body that comes through this rescue, I will try to help heal and understand, every moment I will try to remember to slow down and listen.
But tonight, I just wish I could sit beside you again. Put my hand on you. Tell you how much Mommy loves you. It was an honor to be the person you needed. I would see that face and come running for you all over again.
I love you endlessly, my little man. Thank you for letting me be your mom.
