Goodbye, Summerlin Place

It’s the anniversary of losing my sweet Rudy.

Rudy was the kind of dog who ruined you for all other dogs. I like to say he was the best dog to ever dog. If you ever met him even once you know this to be true.

Two years later my heart still hurts, aches, over the loss. I try to find comfort in the good years we had, to let the warmth of gratitude that I ever had him at all fill me, but I feel robbed. He was stolen from me too soon.

I remember the way his curly black fur felt in my fingers as I mindlessly stroked his head, can hear his excited howls in the backyard, can see him sitting patiently (sometimes) at the backdoor, looking out at the yard and enjoying the sun on his face.

There was nowhere Rudy loved to be more than next to me, but he also loved exploring the backyard. He’d tear off as soon as the door opened, sniffing at the scent of whatever wildlife had recently occupied his space. Nose flat to the ground — when he looked up it would be covered with a brown layer of dirt — tail high in the air, wiggling wildly. His tail would wag so ferociously it would wiggle his entire body, sometimes resulting in a little hop as he wiggled himself off balance.

Rudy in the backyard on Summerlin Place

Many times, I watched him through the kitchen window as he did this, running to his favorite sniffing spot in the center of the yard between two tall, skinny pine trees.

It’s been more than two years since I watched him play in that yard, but I still find myself pausing to look out that window, picturing that small, black fluff ball shaking across the yard.

Monday will be my last opportunity to look out that window, to be in the last space Rudy breathed.

We’re closing on the sale of our old home and, while I know it is irrational, I’m feeling big feelings. Anger. Jealousy. Sadness.

Our new home is beautiful and perfect and what we’ve wanted for so long. Aside from a bigger closet (🙃), it checks all the boxes. And more than that, it feels like home.

But yet, Summerlin is hard to say goodbye to.

We hosted friends and family for holidays, parties, birthdays, game nights and random Tuesdays within those beautifully detailed walls. Justin and I celebrated ten years of marriage, milestone birthdays, career successes in that kitchen. Our kids grew from toddlers into big kids during our five years on Summerlin.

Alex’s first steps were in that house.

Lillian lost her first tooth there.

But there was pain there, too.

Rudy took his last breaths in my lap, on the floor of my office. A blessing to be sure, to say goodbye to him in such a way, but always painful to glance upon that space in the front by the window, where his bed once was. Where he stayed through hours and hours of work, patiently waiting for rubs and ball throws.

I learned of my cancer diagnosis in that house — also in my office.

The house has been empty for a few months now. It’s been a transition time I didn’t know I needed. The space, which was so full, vibrant, alive, is now quiet and cold.

I’ve been able to walk the halls, explore the empty rooms, and reflect on the countless memories made, the life we gave to the house. It doesn’t look the same as it did when we moved in – both because of changes and additions we made, and because of the life we gave it. Like a pair of boots that needed to be broken in, it’s a bit more worn now, but in the best, most comfortable way.

The next owners have so much potential ahead of them. So many firsts to experience, so many ways to make this beautiful home their own. They’ll have their own happy memories and sad setbacks to add to the house’s story. They’ll paint over the background of our memories, hang their own curtains, throw their own parties.

I hope they feel as much love and joy there as we did. I hope they avoid the heartache.

Meanwhile, we’re settling into our new home. Putting up new pictures and using the space in the way it works for us, rewriting the script developed by past occupants.  

Rudy’s ashes now sit on a bookcase in the entryway of our new house. Rudy never missed a chance to greet me when I came home — whether from a week-long work trip or a walk to the mailbox — so this is the perfect place for him.

Rudy would have loved this house. I wish I could see him here.

But, I always feel him.