Tribute to a Good Girl, A Very Good Girl.

Stella Luna Swartz Pepper aka Stella Bella Luna Moona aka Stellina Puccina D’Alessandra La Regina dei Cani Molto Brava was given the birth date of May 9, 2009. This is the day of her grandparents’ (Lena and Ken Swartz) wedding anniversary.

Stella died peacefully at home in her sleep between her parents, Scott and Kenda.

Scott wrapped his arms around her body, her head securely resting in the crook of his arm. Surely, she felt the comfort, trust, and protection of her favorite human—her boy. Kenda held her head, nose-to-nose. The vet was calm, gentle, and discreet. The first shot, the sedative, must’ve been startling. Stella’s eyes widened. She didn’t move her head but directed her gaze toward Scott, as if looking for reassurance. She received it—again and again—despite the fact that reassuring her was discordantly paired with the agonizing knowledge of her impending death. She sniffed Kenda’s face as she had done many times before when sensing her mamma’s anxiety—checking that everything was going to be okay. 

Stella’s final act of love was licking the tears from Kenda’s eyes. As the life faded from her sweet soul, her parents whispered to her repeatedly what a good girl she was, a very good girl and thanked her for 15 beautiful years of unconditional love and joy. Kenda felt Stella’s last breath against her face. And she was gone. Their hearts shattered the moment hers ceased to beat. Kenda held her paw, that sweet, sweet bunny paw, and yearned for those little knuckles to wrap around her fingers just once more.

It was June 29, 2024. Stella was 15 years and 6 weeks old.

Stella is preceded in death by her grandfather (Ken), her grandfather (Alfred), her grandmother (June), her uncles (Jerry and Tony), and her aunt (Sharon). She is survived by her parents, a sister (Jaime and husband, Nate), a grandmother (Lena), two littles (Jack and Levon), her beloved backup family (Marie, Joe, Orion, and Asher), caregiving aunts (Debee & Chris), caregiving uncles (Laine & Mitch), and many other loving aunts and uncles and cousins—human and nonhuman. Her favorite fuzzy boy, Squirrel, whom she loved for 10 years, will be preserved forever despite missing a noticeable section of tail.

Stella’s Rewritten Story Begins July 10, 2009. 

Stella had a hard start to life. Abandoned in a box and left along the side of a road in Central California, she could’ve easily come to a tragic roadside demise. Fortunately, a kind-hearted person found her and ensured a safe arrival to the Santa Cruz, CA SPCA. Shortly after, her unsuspecting parents visited that same facility.

On July 9, Kenda stepped out of the San Jose airport on a warm evening with a suitcase in one hand and her heart in the other. The first thing she said to Scott, “We gotta get a dog”.  She had just returned after spending three weeks with her mom, in Pennsylvania, helping Lena sift through bits and pieces of Ken’s life on the heels of his June 15^th death. Kenda was craving the unconditional love and comfort that, for her, comes only from a dog.

The next morning Scott and Kenda found Stella. Wandering amongst crates filled with too many precious souls in need of homes, Scott spotted her first and waited for Kenda’s call, “Scott, come over here!”. Both knew, without hesitation, she was the one. At the time, she was a despondent little being, for a puppy—her cub-like face pressed against the crate, ears flat against her head. The two of them fell in love with her sweet nature and the cutest face on the planet. She was all ears and paws. Her soul called out to theirs, and they answered. She had to be spayed before leaving the facility, so they had two days to prepare and brainstorm a proper name, because Dolly (her SPCA name) wasn’t gonna fly. Kenda wanted an Italian name, and for her, Star summed up this little one’s light.

On the afternoon of July 13, 2009, they arrived at the SPCA to pick her up. A soft bundle was placed in Kenda’s arms. They were softlly told, “She’s still recovering from surgery.” They should expect a tired, lethargic puppy. She needed R&R, they said. It could be a few days before she felt better, they said. Stella was eight weeks old. Kenda, her arms wrapped around the pup on the drive back, wondered how it was possible to fall so hard in love so damn fast. 

They returned to a quiet home prepared for rehabilitation with curtains drawn, a crate lined with soft blankets and toys, and a water bowl on the floor awaiting its first slobber. The little one nestled in Kenda’s arms was gently placed on the bed. 

In a millisecond, Stella awoke to her new world and like a snake nut can exploding—BOING—she popped up then hit the ground running throughout the house. She sniffed every corner and licked every new object, including her new parents, claiming it all as her own. One could almost hear the and this is mine, and this is mine, and THIS is mine. Stella knew she was home. That’s when the tail began thumping like a teenager—jacked up on Red Bull—trying out a new drum set. This creature grew to have the enthusiasm of 150 children chasing an ice cream truck. Trying to photograph her as a pup was like capturing a hallucination—a blur of fur, a flash, and she was gone.

Stella’s Education

All the leading experts agree Stella was brilliant. She attended Puppy Preschool at the Living with Dogs school taught by Sandi Pensinger (RIP) when she was 16 weeks. There, Stella earned her Caninus Extraordinaire degree with the highest overall score, a four-paw average. (That is not a real thing.) Stella was at the top of her class and readily showed off her skills at the beginning of each session by sitting at the doorway before given the cue to come in. She had the best impulse control of any puppy on the planet (so they say) unlike one little puppy who put his wet nose in a light socket and learned a shocking lesson (note: the pooch learned a tough lesson but was fine).

Stella had Service Dog Training from Diane Lindner of Monterey, CA, where she learned how to be in any public situation (including the Costco bathroom) and was capable of picking up a cell phone with her mouth with the ultimate intent of helping her 90-year old granddad. Her parents discontinued the training after realizing her real personality—the one that sprung to life around people—had to be quelled so as to do service dog work. Not gonna happen.

Stella earned her certificate in Canine Good Citizen from the Monterey SPCA. She also received excellent training from the dog whisperer, Marco Ojeda of Vivir Con Perros in Sayulita, Mexico. Also in Mexico, Stella showed her two foster siblings the ropes—how to go potty, walk on a leash, and that, in fact, horse poop is not an approved food group. When overly rambunctious, as puppies often are, Frida and Diego obeyed Stella’s commands with her one gruff and the occasional paw on their heads as a warning to chill out. Otherwise, her annoyance for them grew into love. She searched the casa endlessly after they were adopted.

Stella was proficient in four languages—English, Italian, Spanish, and Love.

Notable Quirks

Stella was full of personality and had the quirks to go with it.
She…

• ate her own poop as a puppy. She was quick about it, too. Eventually, her folks figured out the distract-sprinkle trick. A treat distraction and a very quick sprinkle of cayenne pepper put an end to the tantalizing treat.
• quickly learned that after coming inside on a rainy day, she’d stop inside the door, lift her paws—one at a time—for a wipe down. She was crate trained in 36 hours and understood that phrases like let’s check for eye boogies meant hustling after her mamma to the bathroom to have her eyes cleaned out. She wasn’t much of a barker but would let anyone know when someone was at the house by running to the door, yelping once, and then crating herself. This, after earlier attempts to bark continuously and then jump on the person standing there. 

• liked picking bits of rubbish out of her mamma’s bathroom bin until one day, she was caught, unexpectedly, with some tissue hanging out of her mouth. She promptly dropped it and crated herself. Turns out, Stella had been engaging in this—sampling bathroom tissue—behavior for quite some time. Much later, her parents discovered she had a refined taste for Kenda’s used dental floss that she thoughtfully and lovingly regifted in curious places around the house. Slow learners, Stella’s parents figured out to buy bins with lids.
• knew many words: 
  • go (release command)
  • are you hungry
  • where’s your bone?
  • where’s your toy?
  • where’s squirrel?
  • bring it, leave it, drop it
  • come, heel (this one required more persistence), sit, stay
  • do you want to go for a walk?
  • let’s find a stick
  • stop, no licking, no licking toes
  • okay, crate, and 
  • who’s your mamma’s prettiest girl?  
  • When she heard the cue, Let’s look for fleas! Stella plopped down on her back with legs in the air. There were no fleas. She prided herself on responding quickly to cues, so her parents had to be ready for a loud thump with down or sit and a foot smacking into their palms with paw. 
• liked to lick toes—other people’s not her own (see cues above). 
• disemboweled most of her other toys, ripping out the squeakers and secretly hoarding them, but not Squirrel. She had him until the end. A special thanks to Auntie Marie for mending Squirrel and keeping him alive, well, and in one piece until the end.

• placed her head on the sofa or bed when she wanted to jump up. This was her way of asking for permission. Stella gave herself permission when no one was watching.

• up until age 14, stretched her back legs straight out behind her or in a frog position when resting, earning her the nickname Stretchy Girl.

• didn’t have any noticeable doggy “smell” until about the last 10 months of her life. 
• required a regimented routine. Her internal clock adjusted to time zones and changes. This ensured she was not thrown off her game. 
• had a smile that usually charmed but every now and then intimidated.

• did not like closed doors. While patrolling the house and walking the perimeter, Stella used her nose to bang open any closed door. She would then either come in to visit or just keep walking. This made for awkward work meetings on zoom. 
• liked the sound of Scott playing music.

• did not like the sound of roasting pumpkin seeds.
• sometimes resembled a coyote.

• when spoken to, tilted her head, sometimes one ear perked up and the other flopped over, staring intently as if trying to understand every word. She had a way of making the speaker feel special.

• liked to hold hands. 
• was silly and made her parents laugh, often.

• enjoyed yoga sessions led by her Auntie Toni, mastering downward dog.

• was given the nickname, Mauve Dog, by her Auntie Elaine in the UAE,  because of her purplish nose and undertones.

• when walking with either parent, would gently bump their knee with her muzzle every few minutes—her way of just checking in to make sure we’re heading in the right direction.
• was a brilliant light who expressed joy in wags, leaps, spins, and smooches. She was a champion wiggler, her tail setting off full-body undulations like an eel darting from a predator. 
• was easily lulled to sleep by Kenda pretending to fall asleep, herself. They’d lock eyes, and as Kenda slowly lowered her lids, Stella would follow. But if Kenda peeked through half-opened lids to check, Stella’s eyes popped open. Kenda would then yawn and softly made the nom nom sounds and again close her eyes. Stella mimicked her and drifted off.

• was vocal and had different sounds and sighs depending on her mood. When crating herself for inadvisable behavior, she gave the obstinate teen huff-sigh. It was the doggy version of an eye roll. When relaxed, it was the me-feel-content-sigh. The gruff-sigh was for teaching other dogs how to behave. The sing-songy “ahuuuu ahuuu ahuuuuuuuaa” vocalization was for going to the beach. It was also for visiting a good friend, like Saber, Raven, Sam, and Ziggy. 

• was trained out of squirrel chasing with the cue, leave it. Soon, she started training her parents. She pretended to go after squirrels with a preemptive leap but then abruptly making a U-turn to the treat bag. 
• while chillaxing outside, calmly watched flocks of turkeys strut past her and deer graze nearby—alert but unfazed.
• had two rescue chickens, Marga and Rita, and she treated them like her personal flock—herding and watching over them.

• often slept on her back with one leg straight up, pointing to the ceiling.

• had a special bond with her Granddad, Al. While living in Oregon, they’d hang out together in his downstairs apartment. She happily took care of any food scraps that happened to land her way. After Al died, Stella spent time quietly sniffing him as if trying to make sense of the loss.

• had a favorite place—the beach. Give her a tennis ball, and she’d spend hours playing keep-away with the tide. Stella never passed up a fun game of stick.

• was skunked twice, having not learned well enough the first time despite immense discomfort and very stinky mouth frothing. She was bitten by a spider or some other nocturnal venomous critter outside and had to visit to the emergency vet late one night after her snout swelled to three times its size. 
  
  Otherwise and fortunately, she was in excellent health with no major medical bills. Her parents chalked up her good health and longevity to luck, being a dog with DNA diversity (aka mutt), to an excellent diet, lots of exercise, ridiculous amounts of love and affection, and to no known exposure to toxic chemicals. Stella wasn’t allowed to walk on or near any surface that might’ve been sprayed with herbicides, and no toxic chemicals were ever used in her home environment. But mostly luck.
• was skeptical of statues, but that suspicion didn’t dissuade her from attempts at crotch-sniffing.

• always had an answer to the question, Who’s your Mamma’s prettiest (or stretchiest or best or sweetest) girl?
• had an official bather, her papa. Though she deeply disliked the ordeal, she stood still and stoic—enduring it to please him. Friskiness ignited once the drying towel came out. That’s when she’d become El Toro Perro. Curiously enough, she treated nail trims like she was the sole client at an exclusive doggy spa.

• hugged with both front legs—better than any bear.
• was a great companion in the office, garden, sofa, or garage.

• was both a cuddler, a protector, and an instinctive herder who never strayed far from her people. Whenever her pack—defined as anyone within her circle at any given time—was in the same space, she would strive to keep everyone together. She adored children but found it challenging to keep them in one place, often running in circles to corral them.

• would go anywhere as long as it was with her parents. She traveled around 6 different countries having lived in three of them: US, Mexico, Italy. She rode three times across the US (visiting about 30 states), including getting her kicks on Route 66. All totaled she traveled roughly 20,000 miles. She lived in California, Oregon, Florida, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. 

• was adaptable, smart, and quickly learned—and had frequent reinforcements—how an adorable face and sweet temperament generated a lot of attention. She was ready to dole out love whenever anyone showed even a modicum of interest—and, much to the chagrin of non-dog people, even when interest was not shown.
• had the personality and skills to work a crowd, and she used those skills whenever possible. On the plane to Portugal (for a move to Italy), she flew in the cabin as Kenda’s emotional support animal (Kenda, having had a legit almost-crashed-in-a-plane backstory). As it turned out, she was the emotional support animal for about a quarter of the plane. Strangers from different parts of the plane approached her with astounding open displays of affection—which makes one think flying requires more emotional support than we admit. In Italy, she was treated like a princess. She barely walked ten feet without someone stopping to remark on her beauty or to love on her. “Che colore!” or “Che bella!” they’d say. She’d reply in wiggles, wags, and smooches or plopping on her back—legs straight in the air—for belly rubs.

Stella’s DNA Test

Herder (51%)
30% Border Collie
7% Australian Kelpie
7% Australian Cattle Dog
2% McNab
2% German Shepherd
2% Australian Shepherd

Guarder (37%)
27% American Pit Bull Terrier
10% American Staffordshire Terrier

Companion (6%)
5% Poodle (Toy and Miniature)
1% Pekingese

Terrier (5%)
Chihuahua

Asian and Oceanian (2%)
Chow Chow

Homo Sapien (79%)
Human

Dog math.

Kenda and Scott are grateful for the loved ones from different parts of the world who have been sharing their grief. Stella touched many souls, and there’s solace in knowing the heavy burden of heartache can be lightened when carried by many.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Few Words from Me

I want to share my gratitude, again, for all the messages, calls, and cards (still hanging around the kitchen door). For those who made donations to the SPCA in Stella’s honor, thank you. We’re forever grateful for the beautiful circle of friends and family who understand that saying goodbye to a beloved furry family member can hurt just as much as losing other not-as-hairy cherished loved ones. 

I wrote Stella’s obituary last year and tried (unsuccessfully) to finish this post for the 1-year anniversary of her death, June 29. Anniversary seems like a strange word to mark someone’s death.

My first draft was a 7,000-word blathering tome of sadness. I shelved it—for being both taxing (in an emotional waterboarding sort-of-way) and, well, 7,000 words. I have since whittled it down to just a 4000-word blathering not-quite-as-sad, not-quite-a-tome. I plan to create a video compilation of pictures and videos spanning her 15-years on this planet, yet…I don’t have the courage to face the daunting task of sifting through 4000 pictures and videos. It still feels raw. I ended up in puddles of salt water just pulling the pictures for this post. I’m guessing, like everyone who’s reading this already knows, saying goodbye forever brings a pain so deep, words fall short of expressing it. It seems like there will never be enough words or photos to capture and relay Stella’s specialness—just like no amount of time with her would’ve ever felt like enough.

It feels like a part of my soul was taken on June 29, 2024. Death’s cruel grip yanked out a little piece and chucked it into the black universe where meteors shattered it into a million little bits – soul shards. I’ve been struggling to piece myself back together since. Before Stella died, I couldn’t imagine a future without her. I’d sit with her and cry about it. She always comforted me when I was feeling sad. No one comforted me like Stella. No one eased the pain. I can’t imagine anyone will ever match that special ability. Though I’ve often wondered, I still can’t answer: What happens when the one being that brings comfort during difficult times is the same being whose absence is causing the pain?

Mourning isn’t just about the loss of this beautiful individual whose presence brought comfort nearly every day for fifteen years, it’s about the loss of a part of myself, about the end of my own youth, about better, simpler times, about the loss of her unadulterated joy. And the loss of mine. It’s a resurfacing of the grief of loved ones who died during her lifetime. It’s the loss of how comfort and ease and the bitter reminder of the unconditional love—waiting to be dispensed at any second of any day—is permanently gone. One simply cannot get that from a human, because there are strings attached and often complex, unarticulated emotions, frustrations, or petty inputs that get in the way. A dog has none of that. Their frustrations are fleeting, there is no pettiness, and they thrive on one clear straightforward emotion—love.

I’ve replayed that first day in my mind so many times—too many. I held her tightly in my arms on the drive from the SPCA to our home in Santa Cruz, overwhelmed with joy. I wish I could remember every detail, but what remains vivid is the sensation of her soft body nestled against me and my heart flooded with love. Fifteen years later almost to the day, we picked up her ashes. Cradling the urn, I held it as lovingly in my arms as I had once held that sweet puppy embarking on her new life. But this time, the joy that once seemed like it would last forever had been replaced with an unrelenting sorrow.

I wonder, where does all the love go when the one we love is gone? How is it possible this sweet being was there for fifteen years of events—some great, some horrific, many mundane. She was there to celebrate the joy, to comfort during the sorrow, and to amuse during the ordinary. All of that life, those sparks and wags and kisses, gone. 

Mourning Stella has been about the loss of security—the kind that comes from trusting another being so unequivocally that you sleep at night knowing there was someone there with one eye open or one ear perked, always ready to protect. The opposite is true as well. Stella trusted us so indisputably to place her life in our hands—even at the end when we had to make the hardest choice. I have felt off-kilter in her absence.

Mourning Stella has been about losing continuity, a constant. She was the keystone connecting every important (or not) aspect of my life with structural integrity and balance. Stella’s unwavering presence was that wedge-shaped stone holding all the pieces together, helping me feel fastened to something stable even during seemingly unbearable times. 

Since Stella died, the silence was tangible in our house. The quiet was not because we weren’t hearing her anymore, because she rarely made a sound outside of some heavy breathing, sighing, slurping water (and gasping), the occasional grunting when trying to resituate herself, or the more recent yelp for help when she felt stuck. No, it was quiet, because I didn’t hear us talking to her. I didn’t realize how much we spoke or sang to her throughout the day. We were endlessly assuring her, checking in, letting her know we were there, telling her we loved her.

The morning after Stella died, I dragged myself downstairs, looked out the window, and saw the first monarch of the summer on newly blossoming milkweed. 

Is that the answer to my question: Where does all the love go when the one you love is gone?

Maybe, just maybe, that love is transformed into countless bits of energy flowing in and around us forever—and maybe that energy takes the shape of an egg, hatches into a caterpillar, magically transforms into a chrysalis, and miraculously emerges as a butterfly one month later. Just like the egg I saw being securely placed among the soft rosy florets of a milkweed flower the morning of June 30—a gentle reminder that love never truly disappears but carries on, endlessly flowing and renewing from one generation to the next.   

To care for those who once cared for us is one of the highest honors.
~Tia Walker

No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does.
~Christopher Morley

Be the person your dog thinks you are.
~C.J. Frick