RIP Jasper

People let me tell you about my best friend...

People, let me tell you 'bout my best friend
He's a warm hearted person who'll love me till the end
People, let me tell you bout my best friend
He's a one boy cuddly toy, my up, my down, my pride and joy-theme song from the Courtship of Eddie’s Father

"Everyone thinks they have the best dog, and none of them are wrong."
Except…sometimes there is a dog so special, so unique, that everyone—even those who love their own dogs fiercely—falls in love with him.

That was Jasper. We lost him today, September 2, 2025. And I want to honor him by telling his story.

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After losing our first Golden, Mose, to cancer in 2014, my husband and I were shattered. We thought it would be years before we could open our hearts again. But sometimes fate, or God, or whatever you believe in, has other plans. Enter Jasper.

One month later, I began volunteering at our local animal shelter, thinking I could help other dogs while healing my own grief. That’s when I first saw him—a big golden beauty with a massive head who bounded up to the fence as I passed by. His owner, an elderly woman, confessed that she couldn’t manage him. He was wild, untrained, and had knocked her over more than once. “Do you want him?” she asked.

The next day, we met again. Jasper dragged her across the parking lot before my husband took hold of the leash. We looked at each other and knew: this dog needed us as much as we needed him.

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Jasper wasn’t easy. He was seventy pounds of energy and stubbornness, but also sweetness and possibility. I spent a year training him—structure he craved and that softened his wildness. Slowly, he grew into himself. Here is a video of Jas ten years ago, about six months after we adopted him. I trained my grandson to provide the commands.

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He was stunning: mostly Golden Retriever, with a hint of Leonberger—giant paws, a huge blocky head, a smile that lit up his whole face. Everywhere we went, people stopped me. “What a beautiful dog. Look at that big head!”

And he was a goofball. My sister taught him that if you were on the floor, he had to sit in your lap. He greeted every person he met as if they were the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved to “hold hands,” pawing at me until I wrapped my fingers around his enormous paw. He howled on command—much to the delight of every child who ever joined in, both of them howling and laughing until they collapsed in joy. His massive smile, cuddly nature, and huge head made me laugh in the midst of my darkest days.

Two years later, when we brought home another shelter dog, Jax, I worried Jasper wouldn’t accept him. But he did. They became brothers, inseparable. That bond is one of the happiest memories of my life.

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For nearly eleven years, Jasper filled our home with joy. This spring, everything changed. He had a seizure out of nowhere, then another, and another. At first, he bounced back. But over the past month, we began to lose pieces of him. He forgot where the back door was, forgot how to leap into the Jeep he had once bounded into with excitement. His smile faded. His joy dimmed.

We will never know exactly what was wrong. Our vet, Holly, who is a close friend, hypothesizes that he may have developed a brain tumor...hence the seizures, and that he wasn't going to get better. The fear was that, with the decline in his mental abilities, another seizure could worsen his brain function, or worse, kill him. She advised, and we brokenheartedly agreed, that it was time to say goodbye.

Holly came to our home this morning. Surrounded by love, Jasper slipped away peacefully, his paw in my hand.

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Why am I sharing this in a newsletter about leaving middle age? Because grief changes as we age.

When we are young, grief is sharp, bewildering, new. Later in life, it becomes layered. Each new loss awakens all the ones before it. The stack grows heavier. This is what psychologists call trauma stacking.

Research on pet loss in older adults shows just how hard this can be. The human–pet bond is profound. Our animals give us routine, companionship, even a sense of purpose. Their loss can trigger grief, guilt (especially when euthanasia is part of the decision), and sometimes a lack of social support—because society often minimizes the grief of losing “just a pet.” But for many of us, our dogs and cats are family.

In midlife and beyond, these losses accumulate. We’ve said too many goodbyes. We know too well the hollow space that follows. And yet—we keep loving. We keep opening our hearts, even knowing how it ends.

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Jasper was joy incarnate. He was beauty and comfort and laughter, wrapped in golden fur with a giant head and paws that felt like hands. He gave me more than I can ever repay.

He is gone. But not really. His paw is still in my hand.

People, let me tell you ’bout my best friend.

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If you’ve ever had a dog, cat, or any animal who left pawprints on your heart, I’d love to hear their story. Please share in the comments so we can remember them together. And, if you knew Jasper in real life, please share your favorite memories of him. It would make me happy.

Much love!

Thanks for stopping by Leaving Middle Age! If you found this interesting, please share it with friends, family, or anyone who’d appreciate the journey.

my boys

he conquered the agility course!