Ruger Merideth

2/5/2018 - 5/10/2025

I've been trying to find the words to describe what Ruger meant to our family and the impact he made on our lives. And I think I figured it out. 

He was just so happy. He was pure happiness bottled into a little 60 pound wiggly, wrinkly, stinky hound dog. 

From the day Austin saw him at the shelter, he was happy. I watched in horror as Ruger pulled him across the lawn choking himself on our trial walk, and admittedly felt a pit in my stomach when Austin turned to me and said "this is our dog." He was crazy. Anxious. Reactive. And I was worried about how stressful he'd be. But all that completely faded away when we brought him home and he curled up on top of me, passed out, and started snoring. Content. And happy. 

Always happy. 

Happy to see us when we got home no matter how long it'd been, unable to control his wiggling and tail wagging, bringing us any toy he could find to show his joy. Happy in any situation - curling up under our blankets with us on lazy or rainy days, chasing the ball at the barn and then laying down listening to the birds, curled up next to us around a fire camping or crawling into one of our laps when he got too cold (which was inevitable - he was always cold under 50 degrees), drooling as he begged for any food we had and how wide his eyes would get when he realized he was going to get a tiny piece, him sleeping with his head on my pillow in between us as content as could be, somehow finding any soft thing on the ground he could find to lay on and making it his bed because he always wanted to be comfortable.

He was so grateful to be with us and be a part of our family. He had a terrible start to his first year and a half of life - being stuck in a shelter with no one wanting him, just passing him by. But we took a chance on him, and he gave his everything to us - bringing us so much joy and laughter every single day. Everything he did was ridiculous and over the top, and that's what made him Ruger. 

When we received his lymphoma diagnosis in January 2025 and were told we maybe had a year left with him at best, our world started crumbling. Our sweet boy, so happy and full of life, just shy of his 7th birthday, didn’t deserve this. The treatment we chose worked wonderfully and defied the odds to give us almost 5 months filled with wonderful, precious memories, and we are so grateful for that borrowed time. When he started rapidly declining and letting us know it was time to go, we made the choice to let him go on a good day. We promised we wouldn’t let him suffer. We doubled his meds, and spent the day in the sunshine doing all the things he loved to do. And as he laid there in a patch of tall grass, the breeze making his ears flap in the wind, his favorite ball between his paws, he looked into my eyes with so much love and peace. Almost as if to tell me he was at peace with how it was ending - happy, content, grateful, and that we were going to be okay, but it was time for him to go now.

His absence is heavy and palpable. There's a void that we are all feeling so immensely right now. He was such a big presence in our lives, and he has left such a huge, Ruger sized hole in our hearts and home. But I know he would want us to be happy. And I want to honor him by trying to live life the way he did - just happy to be here no matter the circumstance, surrounded by those he loved, giving his all to everything, seeing the beauty in the little things. I want to make him proud. We are forever changed by our little stinky hound dog, and miss him more than we can explain. But I believe all dogs go to heaven, and that when I get there one day he will be waiting at the gates for me with his ball. 

Mommy, Daddy, Remi, and Kimber miss you terribly, buddy. But we know you're at peace now.