06/20/2026
Last week, we said goodbye to our sweet Tazz.
This is one of those updates we wish we never had to write, because Tazz was the kind of little soul who found a way into everyone’s heart.
He was scruffy, goofy, snuggly, and so easy to love. Val adored him, and we all did. What makes this goodbye hurt so much is that we had just watched him become himself again.
When Tazz first came to us, he had already lost so much. He came after losing the only person he had known, and you could see that loss all over him. He was fragile, underweight, confused, and worn down, trying to make sense of a world that had changed completely.
Beneath all that Pom fluff, his little body was thin and tired. He had a painful ruptured mass on his head and neck that had broken through the skin, and it was heartbreaking to think about what he had been carrying before he got here.
We started with what he needed most: food, rest, vet care, comfort, time, and love. Once he was strong enough, that mass was removed, and from there, we got to watch him heal in ways that still feel hard to put into words. His head healed. His body started to fill out. His eyes softened. He started staying closer instead of seeming so lost. He began looking for us, leaning in for love, and settling beside us like he knew he was finally safe.
In just a few short months, Tazz changed so much.
He went from a fragile little dog who seemed unsure of everything around him to our little Razzmatazz, following along behind us, curling up nearby, soaking up kisses, and becoming part of the pack like he had always belonged here.
And somewhere along the way, he found his voice.
As his dementia progressed, Tazz became much more vocal, and we came to know those little barks well. He would bark his orders at us like he had very important things to say, especially when he decided it was time for a meal and he was not planning on asking quietly.
And we loved that for him. Because Tazz had not been wanting to eat like he used to. Some days were harder than others, and when he did eat, his little body did not always handle it well afterward. So when he was up, using that voice, and telling us exactly what he wanted, we listened.
We took every bark from him. Every demand, every little opinion, every moment where his personality pushed through everything his body and mind were going through. Dementia is hard. Getting old is hard. Watching their bodies change while their little personalities still shine through is hard in a way words do not always explain.
So we gave him the special meals, the soft beds, the extra snuggles, and all the love he wanted, whenever he wanted it. That is what we wanted for him. Not just to be cared for, but to be spoiled, known, cherished, and reminded every single day that his life still mattered.
Over the last couple of weeks, his body started telling us things were changing again. He was eating off and on, and then in his last several days, he began vomiting and refusing food completely. The medications that had helped him before were no longer giving him relief, and our sweet boy was miserable.
With the regurgitation, vomiting, weight loss, and muscle wasting, Dr. Nikki felt there was a very real possibility that something deeper was going on, possibly GI or esophageal cancer. Paired with his dementia, life had become completely unfair to him.
That is one of the hardest parts of hospice care. Loving them means paying attention to what their body is telling us, even when our hearts are not ready. Tazz had reached the point where his days were no longer comfortable, and the kindest thing we could give him was peace.
When it was time to help him go, his body showed us how tired he truly was. His blood pressure was incredibly low, and he passed so very quickly and peacefully. It felt like his body was ready, even if our hearts never could have been.
But he was not alone. He was loved through every second of it, held in Val’s arms, resting against the chest of the person who had become his safe place. In those final moments, he had her heartbeat, her hands, her love, and the comfort of knowing he was not leaving this world by himself.
Tazz’s time with us will never feel long enough. It never does. But his life here mattered so much. He came to us fragile, hurting, and lost after losing everything familiar, and he left this world as family.
He left knowing soft beds, full bellies, healed wounds, gentle hands, barking demands, and people who adored every scruffy little piece of him.
Run free, sweet Razzmatazz. We will miss your little voice, your little face, and the way you reminded us how much can change in just a few short months when a senior is given love, comfort, and a soft place to land. 🌈♥️
Today, for Five Dollar Friday, we are holding Tazz close in everything we do. If you would like to give in his honor, your $5 gift can be made to our Rainbow Fund, helping us continue giving this same love, care, comfort, and dignity to the seniors who are still here, still needing us, and still deserving to be loved through every part of their story.
For Tazz, and for every senior still counting on us. 🤍
