Something terrible happened.

This isn’t the sort of thing I would usually write about, or would even think to have as Wondercade content in a newsletter. But I’m not sure how to process, not sure what to do with this, and since this is my own forum, of sorts, I’m going to write about it here.

Something terrible happened.

Late last week, David and I were visiting close friends in New Hampshire. The kids had gone away to camp for three weeks, and we were using the time apart for adult activities — lengthy car rides, meandering antique shopping, reading books in screened-in porches — things that Harper and Gideon loathe but David and I love. Well, the morning after we arrived, my calm and carefree slumber was interrupted by my phone buzzing on the nightstand. It was Michael, our closest friend/practical family member who was looking after our dogs at our house on Long Island, the aptly named Funhouse Farm. It was unusual for him to call so early, and I groggily answered.

“Ella is dead.”

He sounded quiet, stoic. “I found her in the front yard, lying in the grass. It seems like a tree branch had somehow gotten caught in her collar, and in trying to get it free, she rolled around on the ground and it wrapped around her neck.” His voice was breaking now, fighting for breath or understanding. “She must have choked or been strangled or something. Part of the branch is stuck in her mouth. But she’s dead. Ella’s dead.” He couldn’t go on.

Ella is, was, our golden retriever. Her full name was Eleanor Menopee Burtka-Harris, her first name in honor of David’s maternal grandmother (Eleanor Zajas) and her middle name chosen by my quick-witted father, who enjoyed the comedy of combining it with her nickname (say Ella Menopee out loud, it’s brilliant). She joined our family in December of 2020, a gift from Santa Claus himself, in a wrapped box under the stockings. Young Gideon and Harper lifted its lid, topped with a massive red bow and a dozen air holes, and thus welcomed the single most beautiful golden retriever puppy that has ever existed into our family. It was a morning I’ll never forget — we were almost living in a Norman Rockwell painting. I’ve rarely been happier.

And now she’s dead. And I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to make space for it. The logical side of my brain is fighting with the emotional side: it’s coping by quickly thinking about next steps and trying to untangle what happened through logic, while simultaneously wanting to collapse and wail and sob uncontrollably. I want more details, but at the same time, not. I want to process it like an escape room, to gather all the data so that I can find a solution and open the door and leave, but I’m simultaneously reeling and overwhelmed with a sadness and guttural pain that almost makes me wretch. My grief is pulling me in opposite directions — my fingers are shaking and I’m crying as I type this — and while I’m trying to honor both sides, my brain is so messy and jumbled…I’m at a loss.

It’s a massive loss.

She was barely four years old. She was absolutely brimming with life. We’ve had dogs die before, but they were old and blind and incontinent, so for them it was only a matter of time. Sad, yes, but inevitable. But Ella was so young. She lived to play. She’d start every morning by playing fetch with a tennis ball for almost an hour, happily galloping through the grass for that prized projectile, time and again, tail wagging, making sure to do an involuntary dance of pure joy before dropping the ball on command. She’d leap into our swimming pool with abandon, maybe 20 times a day, to exercise or cool off or just to have fun. She’d play with our other three dogs lovingly, and let them nestle into her to nap. She was absolutely gorgeous — I’d coo it to her constantly — and I’m fairly certain she would have won at Westminster. I’d pet her exquisite coat and she would gently put her paw on my hand, perhaps wanting me to continue or perhaps just expressing thanks. She never stopped smiling.

And now she’s gone. Just like that. It was the freakest of accidents. Self-strangulation? By a felled tree branch?? I’ve never heard of anything like it before in my life. Ella freely and confidently roamed the property every day — as do all our dogs. They’re farm dogs. So how could it happen? Why did it happen? If I were home, could I have stopped it from happening? Pointless questions, I guess. It just…happened. Sometimes things just happen. And I guess the work now is to process it as authentically and effectively as possible. And then, somehow, move on. There’s no other option, really — to somehow try and make sense of it, well, makes no sense. It’s senseless. The best I can do is just feel, ideally without judgment, and then let those feelings pass. And to try and model grief in an effective way for my family.

David is understandably very upset. Of our four amazing dogs, Ella was his “favorite.” He was the one that took her out every morning, not me. I’m not sure what to say to him, I’m just trying to give him space to grieve and to breathe, to hold him when he cries. And then there’s our kids. I have absolutely no idea what to say to the kids, or how they will respond. We pick them up from camp on Tuesday, which will be the day before you are reading this, but as I type now they still know nothing. Harper and Gideon loved Ella deeply. They’ll surely be crushed and have questions, ones I (clearly) don’t yet know how to answer. It’s a discussion that I’m dreading, but also, strangely, one I’m yearning to have. As messy as it may be, being able to process it together, as a family, will surely provide some clarity and understanding and, ideally, some strength. But they’re 13 and simultaneously awesome and hormonal, so who knows. I’d say wish me luck, but as it’s already happened, here’s hoping things went as well as could be expected.

So that’s my news. Thank you for reading this, I know it’s kind of raw and not the quirky, innocuous content we usually provide in our Wondercade newsletters. But I needed to tell someone, and since you’re a subscriber, I suppose I consider you a friend. I contemplated posting about Ella’s death on Insta media — I still may — but I really have no interest in processing the hateful, uninformed, yet inevitable comments that would ensue. It’s too soon. I also thought about not saying anything to anyone, just calling a few close friends and family members who spent time with Ella. But that seemed strange and sad and wrong, as if her life was inconsequential, her story something to forget. It wasn’t. It isn’t. So instead I sit here — numb, melancholy, on a screened-in porch, listening to birds chirp and trying to work through it. Just being able to type about it now makes me feel slightly better, a bit lighter. So thanks for that. There won’t be any interviews or ads or Emporium items to purchase this week — that would be a jarring, corporate pivot. But things should be back to normal by next week.

Well, mostly. There will still be one thing missing.

Thank you for reading. As always, you can write in at nph@wondercade.com.

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