Pete’s Story
Pete
Sweet Pete
The story of Pete begins on a scorching Florida day—the kind where the humidity makes it hard to breathe and you’re covered in sweat before your first sip of coffee. I was in the middle of bathing a cranky old Pomeranian, who had somehow managed to get poop stuck in his tail, when a frantic call came from a friend. She told me that one of her neighbors had passed away, and their 10-year-old German Shepherd was still inside the house with the body. Concerned by the emergency vehicles crowding the street, she had walked over to see if everything was okay. The police explained that the woman had died, her next of kin had been notified, and they made it clear they did not want her big, hairy, aging Shepherd. If no one stepped in, he would be taken to the shelter.
I didn’t even give her the chance to finish—before she could ask, I practically shouted, “I’ll take him!”
I arrived to a heartbreaking scene, Pete lying beside his mom, guarding her with a quiet, desperate loyalty. I had to gently—but firmly—pull him away, it was soul crushing. Pete obeyed and reluctantly boarded my truck. He was a large, dignified German Shepherd, clearly cherished; his mom had kept a neatly organized file with his vet records and even his exact birthday. Heartbreakingly, today, the day she had died was poor Pete’s 10th birthday.
I love German Shepherds. They are sensitive, deeply loyal creatures who bond with their people in a way that makes loss especially devastating. This transition was going to be rough for him but thankfully he hadn’t had the added trauma of entering the shelter system.
Healing takes time + Amos!
For nearly a year, Pete sat by the front gate every single day, waiting for his mom to come. Nothing I did—no treats, no affection, no routine—could fully pull him away from that vigil. He would sit there for hours, staring down the driveway. He would have slept out there, too, if I’d let him. Every night, I had to bring him inside, whispering that he was safe, that he wasn’t alone. And every morning, he would return to the gate.
But slowly—inch by inch—his heart began to open. It started with my other dogs quietly joining him, lying beside him in silent solidarity. And then Amos, my adorable, goofy, oversized lap dog, seemed to take it upon himself to help Pete heal.
Pete bonded with me, yes—but he absolutely adored Amos. I truly believe Amos is the one who finally mended Pete’s heart. Once those two connected, Pete’s personality began to bloom. He revealed himself to be a character—mischievous, clever, and wonderfully goofy.
His favorite game involved Amos and the endless supply of sticks Amos loved to chew. Pete decided Amos spent far too much time with those sticks and not nearly enough with him. So Pete developed a strategy: wait for Amos to get distracted (which, didn’t take much), then sneak up, snatch his stick, and slink off.
Like a seasoned thief, he didn’t stop there. He would glance over his shoulder, circle the property a few times to make sure no one was tailing him, and then slip into an empty horse stall where he buried the stick alongside who-knows-how-many others. You always knew the deed was done because he’d come back with a snout covered in sand. Watching his little heist routine was endlessly entertaining. Meanwhile, poor Amos would eventually notice his stick had vanished, search earnestly for a few minutes, and then happily grab a fresh one from his never-ending supply.
Pete loved life on the farm and he especially loved visiting my parents in Virginia. Their beautiful property gave him a break from the oppressive Florida heat. Up there, he came alive in a different way. The joy—pure, unfiltered joy—of watching him run up and down the hills, barking into the wind with his four-legged companions, splashing into the pond like a puppy again filled my cup. All the sacrifices fade in comparison to the joy of watching these deserving souls finally live the lives they always deserved.
Pete lived almost four more years, and in those years, he was loved every single day. When the time finally came, his body betrayed him—his hips could no longer carry him, and the pain had become too much. Letting him go was excruciating, but it was time, I could see it in his eyes.
I buried his ashes alongside the others who came before him. He was laid to rest with his beloved ball, the collar he had worn with his mom, his treasured peanut-butter treats, and, of course, one of Amos’s coveted sticks.
As they always do, my dogs gathered around as I laid sweet Pete to rest. They stayed quietly by my side as I sobbed and placed homegrown flowers on his resting place. “Go be with your mom,” I whispered. “Thank you for letting us love you.”
I will be forever grateful that Pete never had to face the shelter. I shudder to think what might have become of him there. What I do know is that he spent the last years of his life safe, adored, and free. Pete didn’t just live here—he was family. I can only hope he enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed him.